After this they lived quietly and uneventfully for two or three years at Sir Ashley Mottisfont's residence in that part of England, with as near an approach to bliss as the climate of this country allows. The child had been a godsend to Philippa, for there seemed no great probability of her having one of her own: and she wisely regarded the possession of Dorothy as a special kindness of Providence, and did not worry her mind at all as to Dorothy's possible origin. Being a tender and impulsive creature, she loved her husband without criticism, exhaustively and religiously, and the child not much otherwise. She watched the little foundling as if she had been her own by nature, and Dorothy became a great solace to her when her husband was absent on pleasure or business; and when he came home he looked pleased to see how the two had won each other's hearts. Sir Ashley would kiss his wife, and his wife would kiss little Dorothy, and little Dorothy would kiss Sir Ashley, and after this triangular burst of affection Lady Mottisfont would say, 'Dear me--I forget she is not mine!' 'What does it matter?' her husband would reply. 'Providence is fore-knowing. He has sent us this one because he is not intending to send us one by any other channel.' Their life was of the simplest. Since his travels the baronet had taken to sporting and farming; while Philippa was a pattern of domesticity. Their pleasures were all local. They retired early to rest, and rose with the cart-horses and whistling waggoners. They knew the names of every bird and tree not exceptionally uncommon, and could foretell the weather almost as well as anxious farmers and old people with corns. One day Sir Ashley Mottisfont received a letter, which he read, and musingly laid down on the table without remark. 'What is it, dearest?' asked his wife, glancing at the sheet. 'Oh, it is from an old lawyer at Bath whom I used to know. He reminds me of something I said to him four or five years ago--some little time before we were married--about Dorothy.' 'What about her?' 'It was a casual remark I made to him, when I thought you might not take kindly to her, that if he knew a lady who was anxious to adopt a child, and could insure a good home to Dorothy, he was to let me know.' 'But that was when you had nobody to take care of her,' she said quickly. 'How absurd of him to write now! Does he know you are married? He must, surely.' 'Oh yes!'