‘No; for she was beautiful,’ said Cara, simply; and Edward took her words as she said them, without interposing a laughing compliment, as Oswald would have done. ‘I do not mind; though sometimes I wonder, when I am sitting alone here----’ ‘You wonder? what?’ ‘All about her,’ said Cara, her voice dropping lower; ‘about her dying. Don’t you think it must be hard to die like that when everybody wishes you to live? And then--about--whether she ever comes here? the drawing-room is just as she left it----’ Edward looked round it, following her glance. He did not smile; his countenance had an air of sympathy and interest, almost awe. ‘It is so strange, sitting here when all the house is still. One seems to see a chair placed differently to what it was before. I did not do it; and then everything is so still. One feels as if someone was looking, gazing at one. Sometimes I am sure that the eyes are there--not unkind, to frighten me, but solemn and steady, not changing from one thing to another, as we do. Did you ever think what happens when we die?’ ‘Not much, I am afraid,’ said the young man, himself feeling the spell of the stillness, and as if those eyes might be upon him of which she spoke. ‘But Cara, you ought not to be here by yourself, for it cannot be good for you to feel like this, or to be thinking such things. _I_ like you to be here; but it would be better, more natural, for you in the country. You ought not to stay----’ ‘This is home,’ said Cara, with a little sigh; and then she brightened up. ‘I think I am making believe for the pleasure of being sympathised with,’ she said. ‘I am not dull. It is only sometimes, only now and then, in the morning. Somehow one feels more lonely in the morning, when everybody is busy. To have nothing to do, and to see no one all the long, active forenoon! At the Hill one could run out in the garden; there was always something to do; or if it rained, there was work; but no one asks what I do with myself here.’ ‘My poor little Cara! forgive me. I thought you were a little girl again.’ ‘Oh, I don’t need to forgive you. It is very kind of you, Edward. Am I a little girl, or am I rather old? I can’t be quite sure sometimes. I suppose it is because I am fanciful,’ said Cara, the tears coming to her eyes in spite of herself. ‘Aunt Cherry always said I was. Look, I am going to cry--for nothing at all! You never--th--thought I was so silly,’ she said, with a smile on her face, but a childish sob breaking her voice. ‘I wish you were with Aunt Cherry again,’ said Edward; ‘you ought not to be left by yourself here.’ ‘Oh, I must be here. It is home, and I like it--sometimes. Your mother is very kind to me; and Oswald comes and talks----’