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“I’ve two hours free,” he called out cheerfully, as he came in. “I only want a scrap of luncheon, Rose; I won’t be two minutes. Run and get your hat, Connie. Wrap up well, though it is a fine day, for you’ve not been out lately.”

Chapter Three.
The Yew Trees

When I said “a pleasant day for November,” I think I should have left out the two last words. For they rather sound as if November was rarely pleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of England it is certainly not so with us. Our Novembers are generally this way: there are some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; not heavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds and tell them to be quick about it. And then for a day or two, everything and everywhere are just sopping; it’s almost worse than the rain, for the sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thought of beginning again. But then– there comes sometimes a little wind, and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller, and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for pleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamy days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little melancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child that can’t leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days make me feel much gooder (“better” doesn’t do so well) than even the brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think more of Heaven – and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish thoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something about them I can’t put in words, though once – I will come to that “once” later on – some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.

And this day – the day we went to the Yew Trees – it was the first time mamma and I had been there for very long – was one of those days. It was not late in November, so though it had been raining tremendously only the day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much more expeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strength still with which to help.

“The wind has been pretty busy in the night,” said papa. “He must have sent out all his elves to work. I scarcely remember ever seeing the roads dry up so quickly.”

“But they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa,” I replied – I do like when papa says these funny kinds of things – “just look what a lot of their brushes and dusters they have left about.”

We were driving along Crook’s Lane as I spoke – the road to the Yew Trees goes that way, right through Crook’s Wood, and I pointed to lots of boughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that had been blown off in the night.

“Yes,” said papa, laughing.

We were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage, though it is much too big for Hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove a rather small horse, a cob, of papa’s in it. I did feel so happy and nice. Papa was driving and I was beautifully wrapped up in the seat behind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. It seemed to me I had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, nor heard the birds’ mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender.

The Yew Trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it is still nearer. We were soon there, and old Martha, knowing we were coming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. It did not look at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in a plain sort of way. The trees which give their name to the house make a short avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, I believe, though I always think them rather gloomy.

Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had never thoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large it was. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all over while papa was speaking to a man – a builder, who had come by appointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between the two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma’s great pleasure, papa decided on this.

“It will make such a nice bright schoolroom,” she said, as we went upstairs. “And here,” she went on, “is the room Bessie and I used to have. Isn’t it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used to fancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live here some day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls.”

Mamma’s voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feeling cross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I am afraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and sister.

“Well, mamma dear,” I said, “if you do it up very prettily now it will be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you, and also to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that if Eva knew about it, she would be pleased. And perhaps she does.”

“Darling! My own Sweet Content!” said mamma. She thought me so good for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to please myself.

“It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it,” said mamma. “I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the papering and painting?”

It turned out that he had – in little country towns you don’t find separate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whose window I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on our way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. And soon after, we left the Yew Trees and drove off again.

Mr Bickersteth’s house was between the Yew Trees and the town. As we were passing the gate it opened, and Lady Honor came out. She was walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. In my eyes very old, for I could not remember her anything else. Papa drew up when he saw her, and jumped down.

“We have just been at the Yew Trees,” he said. “My wife and Connie are so interested in getting it made nice for your friends.”

“Ah, yes!” said Lady Honor, looking pleased, “we heard from Frank Whyte this morning that it is settled. Very good of you to go yourself to look over the house, my dear Mrs Percy. And Connie, too! That is an honour – however in this case you will be rewarded. You will find the Whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, Mrs Percy, Evey especially.”

Mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp.

“Evie,” she whispered (I spell it “Evie,” because I know that was how mamma thought it), “do you hear, Connie?”

“Yes, of course,” I said rather sharply. No one else noticed mamma, for Lady Honor had turned to papa. I felt half provoked. I wished the little Whyte girl had not been called “Evie.”

“Mamma will always be mixing her up with our Evie, and thinking her a sort of an angel,” I thought to myself, and something very like a touch of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. Just at that moment, unluckily, Lady Honor glanced my way again.

“Are you quite well again, Connie?” she said. “You don’t look very bright, my dear. She needs companionship, doctor – companionship of her own age, as I have always told you. It will do her good in every way, yes, in every way,” and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. I am not sure that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the satisfaction – a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be such a thing! And perhaps it was not to be wondered at: “bright” I certainly was not looking, and indeed I fear there must have been something very like sulkiness in my face just then. “Sweet Content,” Lady Honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, “a very pretty name and a very lovely character. I was telling the Whyte children about it when I was with them the other day.”

Mamma flushed with pleasure, but I felt inwardly furious. I was sure the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards I felt glad that papa had not seen my face just then.

For the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to Lady Honor, I was quite silent. If it had not been for very shame, I would have asked to be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to Fuller’s shop. And mamma’s gentle coaxing only made me crosser.

“I am sure you are too tired, darling,” she kept saying. “You don’t think you have caught cold? Do say, if you feel at all chilly?”

And when I grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew more and more anxious, till at last papa turned round and looked at me.

“She is all right, Rose,” he said. “It is as mild as possible – leave the child alone. At the same time, Connie,” he added to me, “you must answer your mother more respectfully. You have nothing to be so cross about, my dear.”

I felt startled and almost frightened. It was very seldom papa found fault with me. Yet there was something in his tone which prevented my feeling angry; something in his tone and in his eyes too. It was as if he was a little sorry for me. I felt myself redden, and I think one or two tears crept up.

“I am sorry,” I said, gently.

Papa’s face brightened at once, and this made it easier for me to master myself. We were just at Fuller’s by this time. I went in with papa and mamma, and after a minute or two I found it was not difficult to talk as usual, and to feel really interested in the papers. Papa and mamma chose very nice ones for the dining- and drawing-rooms, and I was asked my opinion about them all, especially about the schoolroom one. Then came the bedroom ones, most of which were quickly decided upon. I grew very anxious indeed when mamma asked to see the pale-grey-with-roses one, which had been in the window a week or two ago. Fuller’s man knew it at once and brought it out.

“It is beautiful,” he said, “a French paper, but expensive.”

And so it was, dearer than the one chosen for the dining-room! But papa glanced at it and then at me with a smile.

“Yes,” he said, “I will have that one for the bedroom to the right – the room off the passage up the first stair.”

“Oh, papa, thank you,” I said earnestly. And I meant it.

I have told all these little things to make you understand as well as I can, the mixture of feelings I had about the Whyte children even before I ever saw them. Now I will skip a bit of time, and go on to tell about how things actually turned out.

Things almost never turn out as one expects, the older one gets the more one sees this, especially about things one has thought of and planned a good deal. I had planned the first seeing the Whytes ever so many times in my own mind, always in the same way, you know, but with little additions and improvements the more I thought it over. The general idea of my plan was this. It was to be a lovely day: I was to ride over with papa one morning, Hoppie was to be looking his sweetest, and as we rode up to the house I was to see (and pretend not to see, of course) a lot of heads peeping out of a window to admire the little girl and her pony. Then we should be shown into the drawing-room, which I had furnished in my own mind rather shabbily and stiffly, and Captain and Mrs Whyte would come in and begin thanking papa for all his kindness, and would speak to me very nicely and rather admiringly, and Mrs Whyte would sigh a very little as if she wished her daughters were more like me. She would say how very much they wanted to know me, and she would beg papa to stay a few minutes longer while she called them. She would be very kind, but rather fussy and anxious. Then the girls would come in, looking very eager but shy. They were to be smaller than I, and younger-looking, very shabbily dressed, but nice, and very admiring. I would talk to them encouragingly, and they would tell me how beautiful they thought the rose paper, and that Lady Honor had told them I had chosen it – at least, perhaps it should be Lady Honor, I was not quite sure – sometimes I planned that papa should smile and it should come out by accident, as it were. Then this should lead us to talk of flowers, and I would tell them how they might make winter nosegays to brighten up the drawing-room a little, and I would promise them some flowers out of our conservatory, and papa would ask Mrs Whyte to let them come to have tea with me the next day, and they would look delighted though half afraid, and they would all come to the door to see me mount, and, and – on and on I would go for hours, in my fancies, of which “I” and “we” were always the centre, the pivot on which everything else revolved!

Now I will tell what really happened.

It was about six weeks after the day that I had gone with papa and mamma to the Yew Trees. So it was within a fortnight of Christmas. Mamma and I had been to the Yew Trees again once or twice to see how things were getting on, but for the last ten days or so we had not gone, as the Whytes’ two servants and their furniture had come, and the house was now, therefore, to all intents and purposes theirs, and one morning a letter from Captain Whyte to papa announced that he and Mrs Whyte and “some of our numerous youngsters” were to arrive the same day.

“Poor things,” said mamma, with a little shiver, “how I do pity them removing at this season.”

“But it isn’t cold,” said papa. “So far it has been an unusually mild winter, though certainly we have had a disagreeable amount of rain.”

He glanced out as he spoke. It was not raining, but it looked dull and gloomy.

“I suppose there is nothing we can do to help the Whytes?” said mamma. “You will tell me, Tom, if you think there is.”

“I almost think the kindest thing in such circumstances is to leave people alone till they shake down a little,” he replied. “However, I shall be passing that way this evening, and I’ll look in for a moment. Captain Whyte won’t mind me.”

I didn’t think any one could ever “mind” papa! I suppose it comes partly from his being a doctor and knowing so much about home things, children and illnesses, and so on, that he is so wonderfully sensible and handy and tender in his ways – “like a woman,” Prudence says; but indeed I don’t think there are many women like him– and I don’t think it can be all from his being a doctor, it must be a good deal from his own kind, tender, sympathising heart.

“Please find out how soon we can go to see them at the Yew Trees,” I said. “Perhaps I might ride there with you some morning on Hop-o’-my-thumb before mamma goes regularly to call.”

“We’ll see,” said papa, as he went off. Of course, I was thinking of my imaginary programme, but papa did not know that.

When he came home that night I was disappointed to find that he had not seen any of the Whytes. Captain Whyte was out, and Mrs Whyte, after all, had not yet come. “Only Miss Whyte and two of the young gentlemen,” the servant had said, and as papa had no very particular reason for calling, he had not asked to see “Miss Whyte.”

“Do you think she is one of the little girls?” I asked.

Papa shook his head.

“I don’t know. She may be an aunt who has come to help,” he said.

This idea rather annoyed me. I had not planned for a helpful aunt; it disarranged things.

“Never mind, Connie,” said mamma, thinking I was disappointed. “We shall soon know all about them. I should think we might call early next week. The old-fashioned rule in a country-place is to wait till you have seen people in church,” she added.

This was Wednesday. It was a good while to wait till next Monday or Tuesday. However, I set to work at my fancies again, determining all the same to ride past the Yew Trees, as often as I could this week. It would be rather nice and romantic for them to have seen me riding about without knowing who I was, before they actually met me.

Whom I meant by “they” I am not quite sure. I fancy I did the Whyte girls the compliment of placing them next in importance to myself in my drama.

“I wonder,” I thought, “if Lady Honor told them nicely of my being called ‘Sweet Content,’ or if she said it mockingly. It was horrid of her if she did.”

Chapter Four.
All My Own Fault

“What are you in such a brown study about, Connie?” asked mamma at breakfast the next morning.

I started.

“Nothing very particular,” I said, and I felt myself get red. I should not have liked mamma to know my thoughts – I was rehearsing for the hundredth time the scene of my first meeting with the Whytes, or rather, I should say, of their first meeting me. Just as mamma spoke I was wondering how I could persuade papa to let me ride over with him before mamma paid her more formal call at the Yew Trees.

Mamma smiled but did not press for an answer.

“I must go and order dinner,” she said, rising from her seat rather wearily. Papa had already gone out. “How nice it will be when you are grown up, my Sweet Content, and able to help me with the housekeeping.”

“Oh dear, I hope you will have a housekeeper when you get tired of it,” I said. “You never need count upon me for anything to do with eating and cooking, mamma. I should hate ordering dinners and looking over the butcher’s and grocer’s books. You wouldn’t like to see me a second Anna Gale, I hope?”

“No, indeed, dear; that you never could be. Poor Anna has no brains, and she is so very dowdy – though, perhaps that sounds unkind, for she is a very good girl,” and mamma looked rather shocked at herself.

“But one may be good without being quite so dull and ‘dowdy,’” I said, coaxingly.

Mamma stooped to kiss me as she passed my chair. “I trust you will never have to do any uncongenial work, my darling,” she said. “You shall not if I can help it.”

I remained where I was for a minute or two, thinking what I would best like to do that morning. It was a holiday, for my daily governess had got a slight cold and sore throat, and till quite satisfied that it was nothing infectious mamma had decided that she had better not come. I was rather sorry than otherwise, for I by no means disliked my lessons, and in dull weather the time was apt to hang heavily. There was no question of my going out for a ride, for, though not actually raining, it looked as if it might do so any moment.

“I may as well do the flowers in the drawing-room,” I said to myself. This was one of the few things I did regularly for mamma, and I am afraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to my liking it! I sauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers I could cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through the conservatory, I sauntered on into the drawing-room. The housemaid, a young girl, whom I was not at all in awe of, was giving the room its morning cleaning. It was nearly done, but there remained the last touches – the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or two dust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about – without which, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy and disorderly.

“Oh, Eliza, why isn’t the drawing-room done?” I exclaimed. “I want to arrange the flowers, and I can’t have you fussing about while I am doing them. You must leave it for a quarter of an hour.”

The girl looked round regretfully.

“I’d have done in five minutes, Miss Connie,” she said; “I would indeed. I’m no later than usual, but you don’t often come in here so early; and the fire isn’t lighted, and you with your cold,” she added, as if that would decide matters.

“Oh, bother my cold,” I said. “It’s not chilly in here with the door open into the conservatory. I must do the Bowers now, or I can’t do them at all, and those in the glasses are very withered.”

Eliza gave in. But as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan and brushes behind her, she stopped short again.

“Oh, Miss Connie!” she exclaimed, “your frock’s all out of the gathers at the left side; and there’s a hole in your elbow.”

“I know,” I said, composedly; “I caught it in the balusters – the skirt I mean; but I didn’t know about the elbow. That’s Prue’s fault, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll change it before luncheon;” and I set to work at my flowers.

It was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold water in the conservatory, and a little table on which I always arranged the flowers. And I had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; I threw them in a heap on the floor, and the gardener carried them away. But, all the same, I made myself rather dirty; my hands were smudged with mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time I was half through my task. And as I had particular ideas about arranging the colours, and so on, I was very deliberate in my movements. Quite half an hour must have passed, and I had not begun to think of calling Eliza back to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ring at the front-door bell.

“Who can that be?” I thought to myself, though without much interest in the matter. “Some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; people are so stupid.”

For rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confined to the postmen and visitors for mamma, as, besides the surgery-bell, there is a side-door for tradespeople.

I thought no more about it, till suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and I heard Benjamin the “boy” – Benjamin was not even a “buttons,” and he only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while Eliza was busy “with the rooms,” as housemaids say – in colloquy with some person or persons unseen.

“Step this way, please sir,” he was saying with his broadest accent, as I ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see who it could possibly be.

Oh, dear! How I wished I had not yielded to my curiosity; how I wished I had run out by the door of the conservatory into the garden; how I wished I had not interrupted Eliza at her work, which would by this time have been neatly accomplished!

For there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking than papa – very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side – a girl quite half a head taller than I, with grave, considerate eyes, and a quiet, pale face. She was dressed very simply, but with extreme neatness; all that, I took in, in less than an instant, even while I felt my face growing scarlet, and I seemed conscious of but one intense wish – that the ground would open and swallow me and the drawing-room up! Yes – the room was worse than I – I did not care so much for my own appearance at any time, but the drawing-room – It looked so messy and horrid – so common, too – “as if we only kept one servant,” I said to myself, “and could not afford to have the fire lighted early.” And to know that it was all my own doing!

A smile flickered over the gentleman’s face; he must have seen how wretchedly awkward and ashamed I looked – my burning cheeks must have told their own tale. But the girl only looked at me gravely, though very gently. I am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be.

“I am afraid,” Captain Whyte said at last – all this time I was blocking up the doorway, remember – “that we are taking a great liberty in disturbing Mrs Percy so very early, but – ”

Here the girl interrupted.

“You are busy arranging your flowers,” she said. “May we look at the conservatory? Perhaps, papa, Miss Percy can tell us all we want to know?”

And before I knew where I was she had crossed the room, not seeming even to see that it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in the conservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not look nearly so bad as the drawing-room.

“How pretty your flowers are!” she went on, and one could see that she meant it. “Papa, do look at those begonias – but – shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” And she gave a nice little kind sort of laugh.

“I know who you are,” I said, as I awkwardly rubbed my hands on my apron to clean them from the mould. “I – I can’t shake hands – but – it’s all my fault that the fire isn’t lighted, and the room so messy. Mamma will be very vexed – she’s always ready as early as this to see any one.”

“We have unfortunately lost the address of the ‘odd man’ that Dr Percy was so good as to give us, and we find ourselves sadly in want of his services already,” said Captain Whyte. “There are one or two other points we should be grateful for a little advice about, too, but these can wait.”

I was beginning to recover my presence of mind a little by this time, though with it, alas! an increased feeling of mortification.

“I will fetch mamma,” I began; but Captain Whyte interrupted: “Please don’t disturb her,” he said.

I felt more and more vexed.

“I believe they think she’s a vulgar, fussy old thing like Agnes Gale’s aunt,” I said to myself; “never fit to be seen till the afternoon.”

“It won’t disturb her at all,” I said. “Mamma is never very busy.”

And just as I spoke I heard her voice from the drawing-room.

“Connie dear,” it said, “where are you, and what’s the matter with the drawing-room?” Oh, how glad I was that she said that! “Benjamin said some one wanted me;” and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came.

They started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. Thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in Mrs Percy. Never in all my life did I feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. Just think – many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. And many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. Not so my dear little mother. She came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty – with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. “What is the matter, Connie dear?” she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers.

I flew to her side.

“Mamma dear,” I said – I was not often so gentle, but I was humbled for once – “it is Captain Whyte and Miss Whyte. It is all my fault about the drawing-room. I would not let Eliza finish it, because she was in the way when I was doing the flowers.”

Then mamma glanced at me, and I saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state I myself was in.

“My dear child!” she exclaimed. But in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

“Nay,” Captain Whyte replied, “it is our place to apologise. I only ventured to intrude so early – ”

But mamma interrupted him.

“Won’t you come into the dining-room?” she said; “it will be more comfortable.”

And so it certainly was, though it was the very thing of all others I would have hated. I had so often mocked at the Gales for never using their drawing-room except on great occasions, and always huddling together in the dining-room. But our dining-room did look nice that morning. It was as neat as could be, and the window was a tiny bit open, and a bright fire burning, and on a small table in the window stood a pretty glass with one or two late roses and a trail of ivy, which mamma had just gathered in the garden outside.

Captain Whyte walked towards the fireplace and stood on the hearthrug, talking to mamma. Miss Whyte drew nearer the window, where I followed her.

“How sweet these late roses are,” she said. “You and Mrs Percy must be very fond of flowers.”

“Yes,” I said, stupidly enough. I could see she thought me shy and awkward, and that made me still more so.

“And what a dear garden you have,” she went on, evidently anxious to set me at my ease, “just as if I had been Agnes Gale,” I thought. “Our garden at the Yew Trees will be very nice, but I do love those walled-in gardens at the back of a house in a street. I always think there’s a sort of surprise about them which makes them still nicer. Do you do much gardening yourself, Miss – no, won’t you tell me your first name?”

“Connie,” I blurted out. A smile lighted up her grave little face.

”‘Connie?’” she repeated. “Oh, yes, I remember. Is that the short for – ” but then she stopped abruptly, murmuring something about “Lady Honor;” and for the first time she looked a little shy. It made me feel pleased.

“I suppose,” I said, rather disagreeably – “I suppose Lady Honor made fun of my baby name?”

Miss Whyte looked puzzled and surprised.

“Made fun of it,” she said; “of course not. We all thought it so sweet – ‘Sweet Content,’ I mean – and what Lady Honor said has made us look forward ever so much to knowing you. I think it was a little that,” she went on, smiling again, “that made me beg papa to bring me with him this morning.”

How ashamed I felt! It seemed as if I were to do nothing but be ashamed this morning – and this time with more reason. My ugly suspicions of Lady Honor were something to be ashamed of. She had always been a true and kind friend; and just because she did not flatter and spoil me, I could not trust the good old lady.

“Oh,” I began, “I didn’t mean – I thought perhaps – ”

Then I stopped short. “My real name is Constantia,” I went on hurriedly, “not Constance. I think Constantia prettier; don’t you?”

“It is more uncommon; it’s like my name. People think mine is Eva or Evelyn, when they hear me called – ”

“Evey!” came her father’s voice across the room. We both laughed.

“Wasn’t that funny?” said Evey, as she turned with a “Yes, papa.”

“Wasn’t there something else rather particular, that you had to ask about, if possible, at once?” said Captain Whyte. “Mrs Percy is so kind.”

Evey went towards my mother; a very business-like expression came over her face.

“It’s about the laundress, Mrs Percy. Mother would be so glad to know of one at once. You see there are so many of us, it’s an important consideration. Mother will be here by Tuesday, we hope, and it would be nice for her to find it arranged, and all the things sent for the week. It was one of the reasons she was sorry not to come at once herself – to see about it.”