But a mushroom hat trimmed with daisies appeased her, and even at that early age she saw the incongruity of that hat and those nether garments.  They were packed, Hugh, Betty, Sara, and the nursery-maid, into the donkey-cart.  Betty was supposed to drive, but Hugh and Sara had so large a share in the stage direction of that donkey, that I wonder we ever arrived.  We did.  Our approach was not dignified.  The donkey would eat the lawn at the critical moment, and neither the stern rebukes of Sara, nor the gentle persuasion of Betty, had any effect; neither, to tell the truth, had the chastisements of Hugh.  Of Diana’s efforts and mine it is unnecessary to speak; they only made us very hot.  As to Nannie, she said she would rather have ten children to deal with.

There were horribly tidy and beautifully dressed people walking about on the lawn, people who had never, I felt sure, been called upon to speak unkindly to a donkey.  It was a little tactless of them, I thought, in view of our flushed cheeks, to appear so calm and cool, but they were quite kind, and I noticed that Diana as usual held a little court of her own, not entirely as the mother of Sara, either.  Hugh and Betty too made friends, and hearing shouts of laughter coming from Hugh’s audience, I went, aunt-like, to see what was happening, and I heard Hugh saying:  —­

“I’ve got another!  What did the skeleton —­”

“Hugh,” I said, “I want you!”

“I’m asking riddles, Aunt Woggles.”

“Yes, but have you seen the tortoise?”

The situation was saved.

I look back to the rest of that afternoon, and it is all blur and confusion.  I remember the loveliness of the gardens, the peeps of distant moorland through arches of pink ramblers.  I remember how the sun shone and how beautiful everything was, and above all and through all those confused memories I hear the quiet, gentle voice of Lady Mary as she talked to me of things of which I had thought no one knew anything.  She asked me, I remember, if I would like to see the garden, and I loved her for her graciousness, her affection, and for her love for my mother.  I could see even in the way she looked at me that it was of my mother he was thinking, and I remember, in answer to her question whether I liked the garden, saying I thought it was quite beautiful and so peaceful!

She said, “That is what I feel, the peace of it all.  But you, dear Betty, are too young to feel that.  It is as we grow older that the promise of peace holds out so much.  But to the young, life is before them!”

All that, I remember quite clearly, and a little more.  I can still see Lady Mary, so beautiful, so calm, so confident in the peace which the future held for her.  Then all of a sudden came these words, “Betty, I liked your hero so much; what happened?”

It was a too sudden opening of prison doors.  I was blinded by the light.  I could say nothing.  My secret, I felt, was wrested from me.  I had ceased almost to try to hide it, it seemed so safe.  What —­ could I say?