for had she been seventy, she could
not have been more unlikely to marry. It was not her vocation. She had
plenty to do in the world without that, and was satisfied with her life.
The sad reflection that the children whom she tended were not her own,
did not visit her mind, as, perhaps, it had visited Sophy's, making her
angry through the very yearning of nature. Anne was of a different
temperament, she said a little prayer softly in her heart for the
children and for her sister as she stooped over the small beds. "God
bless the children--and, oh, make my Sophy happy!" she said. She had
never asked for nor thought of happiness to herself. It had come to her
unconsciously, in her occupations, in her duties, as natural as the soft
daylight, and as little sought after. But Sophy was different. Sophy
wanted material for happiness--something to make her glad; she did not
possess it, like her sister, in the quiet of her own heart. And from the
children's room Anne went to Ursula's, where the girl, tired with her
packing, was brushing her pretty hair out before she went to bed.
Everything was ready, the drawers all empty, the box full to
overflowing, and supplemented by a large parcel in brown paper; and what
with the fatigue and the tumult of feeling in her simple soul, Ursula
was ready to cry when her cousin came in and sat down beside her.

"I have been so happy, Cousin Anne. You have been so good to me," she
said.

"My dear, everybody will be good to you," said Miss Dorset, "so long as
you trust everybody, Ursula. People are more good than bad. I hope when
you come to Easton you will be still happier."

Ursula demurred a little to this, though she was too shy to say much.
"Town is so cheerful," she said. It was not Sir Robert's way of looking
at affairs.

"There is very little difference in places," said Anne, "when your heart
is light you are happy everywhere." Ursula felt that it was somewhat
derogatory to her dignity to have her enjoyment set down to the score of
a light heart. But against such an assertion what could she say?

CHAPTER IX.

COMING HOME.

The party which set out from Suffolk Street next morning was a mighty
one; there were the children, the ayah, the new nurse whom Anne had
engaged in town, to take charge of her little nephews as soon as they
got accustomed to their new life; and Seton, the ancient serving-woman,
whom the sisters shared between them; and Sir Robert's man, not to speak
of