AUNT AGATHA’S cottage was very different from Earlston. It was a woman’s house, and bore that character written all over it. The Psyche¹ and the Venus would have been dreadfully out of place in it, it is true, but yet there was not a spot left vacant where an ornament³ could be; little fanciful shelves nestled in all the corners—which it was a great comfort to Mary’s mind to see were just above her boys’ range—bearing little vases, and old teacups and curiosities of all kinds, not valuable like Francis Ochterlony’s, nor chosen with such refined taste, but yet dear to Aunt Agatha’s heart. Nothing so precious as the ware⁴ of Henri II. had ever come in Miss Seton’s way; but she had one or two trifling⁵ articles that were real Wedgewood, and she had some bits of genuine Sèvres, and a great deal of pretty rubbish, which answered the purpose quite as well as if it had been worth countless⁶ sums of money; and then there were flowers, wherever flowers could find a place. The rooms all opened out with liberal windows upon the garden, and the doors stood open, and sun and air, sound and fragrance⁷, went through and through the little house. It was the same house as that in which Mary had felt the English leaves rustling⁸, and the English breezes blowing, as she read Aunt Agatha’s letter in India, ages ago, before any of those great events had happened which had thrown such a shadow on her life. The two ladies of the cottage went to the railway to meet their visitors, and it was Peggy, the real head of the establishment, who stood in her best cap, in a flutter of black ribbons and white apron¹⁰, to receive “Miss Mary.” And the glowing colour of the flowers, and the sunshine and the open house, and the flutter of womanish welcome, made the difference still more marked. When Mrs. Ochterlony was placed in the easiest chair in the brightest corner in that atmosphere of sunshine and sweetness, and saw her forlorn little boys take their place in the foreground of the picture, elected autocrats¹¹ over the household in general, the sense of relief and difference was so sweet to her that she no longer felt that yearning¹² for some place of her own. The greatest infidel, the most hard-hearted cynic could not have felt otherwise than at home under such circumstances. The children were taken out of Mary’s hands on the instant, she whose time had been entirely¹³ devoted¹⁴ to keeping them invisible and inaudible, and out of the way—and Peggy took possession of the baby, and pretty Winnie flashed away into the garden with the two boys, with floating curls and flying ribbons, and all the gay freedom of a country girl, taking the hearts of her little companions by storm. Her sister, who had not “taken to her” at first, sat in Aunt Agatha’s chair, in the first moment of conscious repose¹⁵ she had known in England, and looked out at the fair young figure moving about among the flowers, and began to be in love with Winnie. Here she was safe at last, she and her fatherless children. Life might be over for her in its fullest sense—but still she was here at peace among her own people, and again some meaning seemed to come back to the word home. She was lingering upon this thought in the unusual repose of the moment, and wiping some quiet tears from her cheeks, when Aunt Agatha came and sat down beside her and took Mary’s hand. She had been partially¹⁶ incoherent with satisfaction and delight until now, but by this time any little tendency to hysterics which might be in Aunt Agatha’s nature, had been calmed down by the awe-inspiring presence of Peggy, and the comfort of perceiving nothing but satisfaction in that difficult woman’s countenance¹⁷. The baby had behaved himself like an angel, and had made no objections whatever to the cap or features of his new guardian¹⁸; and Peggy, too, was visible from the open windows walking up and down the garden with little Wilfrid in her arms, in all the glory of content. This sight brought Miss Seton’s comfort to a climax¹⁹, as it did Mary’s. She came and took her niece’s hand, and sat down beside her with a tearful joy.
 
“Ah, Mary, this is what ought to have been from the very first,” she said; “this is different from Francis Ochterlony and his dreary²⁰ house. The dear children will be happy here.”
 
“Yes, it is very different,” said Mary, returning the pressure of the soft little white hand; but her heart was full, and she could not find much more to say.
 
“And you, too, my dear love,” Aunt Agatha went on, who was not a wise woman, looking into the new-comer’s face—“you, too Mary, my darling—you will try to be happy in your old home? Well, dear, never mind answering me—I ought to know it is not the same for you as for us. I can’t help feeling so happy to have you and the dear children. Look at Winnie, how delighted she is—she is so fond of children, though you would not think so just at first. Doesn’t it make you feel the difference, Mary, to think you left her a baby, as one may say, and find her grown up into such a great girl?”
 
“I have so many things to make me feel the difference,” said Mary—for Miss Seton was not one of those people who can do without an answer; and then Aunt Agatha was very sorry, and kissed her, with tears in her eyes.
 
“Yes, my love—yes, my dear love;” she said, as if she were soothing²¹ a child. “It was very foolish of me to use that expression; but you must try not to mind me, Mary. Cry, my dear, or don’t answer me, or do just as you please. I never mean to say anything to recall—— Look at the dear boys, how delighted they are. I know they will be fond of Winnie—she has such a nice way with children. Don’t you think she has a very nice way?”
 
“She is very handsome,” said Mary, looking out wistfully upon the young imperious creature, whose stage of existence seemed the very antipodes of her own.
 
“My dear love, she is beautiful,” said Aunt Agatha. “Sir Edward told me he had never, even at court—and you know he was a great deal about the court in his young days—seen any one that promised to be such a beautiful woman. And to think she should just be our Winnie all the same! And so simple and sweet—such a perfect child with it all! You may wonder how I have kept her so long,” continued Winnie’s adoring guardian, “when you were married, Mary, before you were her age.”
 
Mrs. Ochterlony tried hard to look up with the look of inquiry²² and interest which was expected of her in Aunt Agatha’s face; but she could not. It was difficult enough to struggle with the recollections that hung about this place, without having them thrust continually in her face in this affectionately heartless way. Thus the wheel turned softly round again, and the reality of the situation crept out in bare outline from under the cloak of flowers and tenderness, as hard and clear as at Earlston. Mary’s grief was her own concern, and not of very much consequence to anybody else in the world. She had no right to forget that fact, and yet she did forget it, not being used yet to stand alone. While Aunt Agatha, on her side, could not but think it was rather hard-hearted of Mary to show so little interest in her own sister, and such a sister as Winnie.
 
“It is not because she is not appreciated,” Miss Seton went on, feeling all the more bound to celebrate her favourite’s praises, “but I am so anxious she should make a good choice. She is not a girl that could marry anybody, you know. She has her own little ways, and such a great deal of character. I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to me, Mary, my dear love, to think that now we shall have your experience to guide us,” Aunt Agatha added, melting into tenderness again.
 
“I am afraid experience is good for very little in such cases,” said Mary, “but I hope there will be no guidance needed—she seems very happy now.”
 
“To tell the truth, there is somebody at the Hall——” said Aunt Agatha, “and I want to have your opinion, my dear. Oh, Mary, you must not talk of no guidance being needed. I have watched over her ever since she was born. The wind has never blown roughly on her; and if my darling was to marry just an ordinary man, and be unhappy, perhaps—or no happier than the rest of us——” said Aunt Agatha, with a sigh. This last touch of nature went to Mary’s heart.
 
“She is rich in having such love, whatever may happen to her,” said Mrs. Ochterlony, “and she looks as if, after all, she might yet have the perfect life. She is very, very handsome—and good, I am sure, and sweet—or she would not be your child, Aunt Agatha; but we must not be too ready with our guidance. She would not be happy if her choice did not come spontaneously, and of itself.”
 
“But oh, my dear love, the risk of marrying!” said Miss Seton, with a little sob—and she gave again a nervous pressure to Mary’s hand, and did not restrain her tears. They sat thus in the twilight²³ together, looking out upon the young little creatures for whom life was all brightly uncertain—one of them regarding with a pitiful flutter of dread² and anxiety the world she had never ventured to enter into for herself. Perhaps a vision of Francis Ochterlony mingled²⁴ with Miss Seton’s thoughts, and a wistful backward glance at the life which might have been, but had not. The other sat very still, holding Aunt Agatha’s soft little fluttering hand in her own, which was steady, and did not tremble, with a strange pang²⁵ of anguish²⁶ and pity in her heart. Mary looked at life through no such fanciful mists—she knew, as she thought, its deepest depth and profoundest calamity²⁷; but the fountain of her tears was all sealed up and closed, because nobody but herself had any longer anything to do with it. And she, too, yearned²⁸ over the young creature whose existence was all to come, and felt that it was had to think that she might be “no happier than the rest of us.” It was these words which had arrested Mary, who, perhaps, might have otherwise thought that her own unquestionable sorrows demanded more sympathy than Winnie’s problematical future. Thus the two elder ladies sat, until Winnie and the children came in, bring life and commotion²⁹ with them. The blackbird was still singing in the bushes, the soft northern twilight lingering, and the dew falling, and all the sweet evening odours coming in. As for Aunt Agatha, her heart, though it was old, fluttered with all the agitation³⁰ and disturbance³¹ of a girl’s—while Mary, in the calm and silence of her loneliness, felt herself put back as it were into history, along with Ruth and Rachel, and her own mother, and all the women whose lives had been and were over. This was how it felt to her in the presence of Aunt Agatha’s soft agitation—so that she half smiled at herself sitting there composed and tranquil³², and soothing her companion into her usual calm.
 
“Mary agrees with me that this is better than Earlston, Winnie,” said Aunt Agatha, when the children were all disposed of for the night, and the three who were so near to each other in blood, and who were henceforward to be close companions, yet who knew so little of each other in deed and truth, were left alone. The lamp was lighted, but the windows were still open, and the twilight still lingered, and a wistful blue-green sky looked in and put itself in swift comparison with the yellow lamplight. Winnie stood in one of the open windows, half in and half out, looking across the garden, as if expecting some one, and with a little contraction³³ in her forehead that marred³⁴ her fine profile slightly—giving a kind of careless half-attention to what was said.
 
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