st where she might be at this time, nor how far the Plassy
letters might have to travel in order to reach her; for communication
was not frequent between the two families. And till her answer came,
Eleanor could not forget that the question of her life was undecided;
nor Mrs. Caxton, that the decision might take away from her, probably
for ever, the only living thing that was very dear to her. That was
Eleanor now. They were very affectionate to each other those days, very
tender and thoughtful for each other; not given to much talking.
Eleanor was a good deal out of the house; partly busy with her errands
of kindness, partly stilling her troublesome and impatient thoughts
with long roamings on foot or on horseback over the mountains and moors.

"The spring has come, aunt Caxton," she said, coming in herself one
day, fresh enough to be spring's impersonation. "I heard a blackbird
and a wheat-ear; and I have found a violet for you."

"You must have heard blackbirds before. And you have got more than
violets there."

"Yes, ma'am--not much. I found the Nepeta and the ivy-leaved Veronica
under the hedge; and whitlow grass near the old tower. That's the
willow catkin you know of course--and sloe. That's all--but it's
spring."

A shade came over the faces of both. Where might another spring find
her.

"I have got something more for you," said Mrs. Caxton.

"My letter, ma'am!--Had you one, aunt Caxton?"

"Yes."

Eleanor could not tell from her aunt's answer what the letter might be.
She went off with her own, having parted suddenly with all the colour
she had brought in with her. It returned again however soon.

Mrs. Powle declared that according to all _her_ experience and power of
judging of the world, her daughter and her sister Mrs. Caxton were both
entirely crazy. She had never, in her life, heard of anything so
utterly absurd and ridiculous as the proposition upon which they had
required her to give an opinion. Her opinion found no words in the
English language strong enough in which to give it. That Eleanor should
be willing to forego every earthly prospect of good or pleasure, was
like Eleanor; that is, it was like the present Eleanor; an entirely
infatuated, blind, fanatical, unreasonable thing. Mrs. Powle had given
up the expectation of anything wiser or better from her, until years
and the consequences of her folly should have taught her when it would
be too late. Why Eleanor, if she wished to throw herse