“I can see that you are not well, Lucy,” said Mrs. Robarts, with a look of deep concern. “What is it, dearest? I can see that something is the matter.” “Something the matter! No, there’s not; nothing worth talking of. Sometimes I think I’ll go back to Devonshire and live there. I could stay with Blanche for a time, and then get a lodging in Exeter.” “Go back to Devonshire!” and Mrs. Robarts looked as though she thought that her sister-in-law was going mad. “Why do you want to go away from us? This is to be your own, own home, always now.” “Is it? Then I am in a bad way. Oh dear, oh dear, what a fool I am! What an idiot I’ve been! Fanny, I don’t think I can stay here; and I do so wish I’d never come. I do—I do—I do, though you look at me so horribly,” and jumping up she threw herself into her sister-in-law’s arms and began kissing her violently. “Don’t pretend to be wounded, for you know that I love you. You know that I could live with you all my life, and think you were perfect—as you are; but—” “Has Mark said anything?” “Not a word,—not a ghost of a syllable. It is not Mark; oh, Fanny!” “I am afraid I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Robarts in a low tremulous voice, and with deep sorrow painted on her face. “Of course you do; of course you know; you have known it all along: since that day in the pony-carriage. I knew that you knew it. You do not dare to mention his name: would not that tell me that you know it? And I, I am hypocrite enough for Mark; but my hypocrisy won’t pass muster before you. And, now, had I not better go to Devonshire?” “Dearest, dearest Lucy.” “Was I not right about that labelling? O heavens! what idiots we girls are! That a dozen soft words should have bowled me over like a ninepin, and left me without an inch of ground to call my own. And I was so proud of my own strength; so sure that I should never be missish, and spoony, and sentimental! I was so determined to like him as Mark does, or you—” “I shall not like him at all if he has spoken words to you that he should not have spoken.” “But he has not.” And then she stopped a moment to consider. “No, he has not. He never said a word to me that would make you angry with him if you knew of it. Except, perhaps, that he called me Lucy; and that was my fault, not his.” “Because you talked of soft words.” “Fanny, you have no idea what an absolute fool I am, what an unutterable ass. The soft words of which I tell you were of the kind which he speaks to you when he asks you how the cow gets on which he sent you from Ireland, or to Mark about Ponto’s shoulder. He told me that he knew papa, and that he was at school with Mark, and that as he was such good friends with you here at the parsonage, he must be good friends with me too. No; it has not been his fault. The soft words which did the mischief were such as those. But how well his mother understood the world! In order to have been safe, I should not have dared to look at him.” “But, dearest Lucy—”