Both the sisters were in tears before this speech was finished. “I am sure it is very hard,” sobbed the elder, as soon as she could speak, “to be in dear Tom’s position, and to have to manage everything, and always to hear it brought up against him that he has nothing to do with the estate, and it belongs to his wife. I wonder how he ever puts up with it,” cried the other, “dear Tom, that is the head of one of the oldest families in the county—far better blood than the Cliffords, whose great-grandfather was in trade; and they would all have been ruined but for dear Tom,” concluded Miss Louisa; “he has given himself up to their interests—and this is his reward!” “Hush, now,” said Miss Harwood, “I am sure nothing was said that could make you cry; and I see poor dear Mary herself in the pony-carriage driving down by the green. I daresay she will call here. She will be quite surprised if she sees you have been crying. Shouldn’t you like to run up-stairs and set your bonnets straight?” “I daresay she’ll come in looking as bright as possible,” said Miss Amelia, “and could not understand, if we were to tell her, why we should quarrel and cry over her affairs. After all, it’s a shame she shouldn’t be happy, poor soul; she always makes the best of everything. There she is, kissing her hand to us already. How d’ye do, my dear? And I am sure I think she’s as pretty now as when she was twenty, whatever the men may say.” “Oh dear, that’s just what the men say,” cried Miss Louisa, with indignation, unable even at this crisis to resist the temptation; “for she always was a gentleman’s beauty,” added Miss Lydia, half under her breath. They were not in the least malignant, and both of them secretly liked Mary in their hearts; but they could not resist the opportunity of throwing a little javelin at her, which certainly did her no harm. Mary did not reach the door until her sisters-in-law had put themselves in order by the help of the mirror in the back drawing-room. All this time Miss Amelia stood by the window making her comments. “Of course there is a basket to be taken out of the pony-carriage,” said that mollified observer, who was nodding and smiling all the time to the new arrivals, “with a quantity of forced things in it, no doubt; for there’s nothing else to be had at this time of the year. I think I can see strawberries through the lid, which, considering it is only March, is flying in the face of nature, I think. And here is Loo. Well, I am not sure that poor Loo is not as much forced as the strawberries; she looks a long way older than her mother, it appears to me. Poor thing! perhaps it’s not wonderful under the circumstances; and I think Loo would be pretty if she was free in her mind, or had time for anything but brooding over affairs. She is, let me see, eighteen at her next birthday——”