"Mama," said Tessie, "I don't think it says much for Fred's good sense that she should talk in that way about Mr St. Cyr and his home. Very likely there are crowds of visitors there every night, though there was no one there then." Frederica shook her head. "No, you would not say so if you went there. Only very old people or shadows could ever be content there." "Mama, listen to her! Is she sensible?" "Well, perhaps it is foolish," said Frederica candidly. "But all the same I cannot help being sorry for Cousin Cyprien. What does he take pleasure in, mama?" "My dear, a man like Mr St. Cyr has many sources of interest and pleasure that a young girl like you cannot be supposed to know anything about, or even to understand, if you knew them. I do not think he needs your pity or sympathy very much. He is very religious, I believe." "And religion is enough to content some people," said Tessie flippantly. "You know you told me the other day that Miss Baines' religion made her quite patient and happy, even when she was in great suffering, and not afraid even of death; and perhaps it suits Mr St. Cyr to be religious too." "Yes; but then his religion must be quite different from Miss Baines'." "Oh, well! it may be just as good, or it may suit him just as well. I think you are very foolish, and so does Selina." But Selina said nothing. She listened always to her sister's talk, and "thought about it afterwards," as Tessie had said. Now she was repeating to herself, "Patient and happy even in great suffering; that must be a good and beautiful thing." And many thoughts did she give to Miss Baines and her sufferings, and her patience, before she saw her sisters again. It was a beautiful sight, if there had been anyone to see it--the mother and her daughters as they sat there together on that last night before Frederica and Theresa went back to school. And yet it would have been a sorrowful sight to one who knew their history and their affairs, and who loved them and wished them well. For, except the dear love they bore to one another, there was not a single element of permanence in the happiness they enjoyed together. That the hour of separation was drawing near, none who looked in Mrs Vane's face could fail to see. It was coming slowly, so slowly that she, who had almost forgotten what it was to be quite well and free from pain, had come to think that her illness was not of a kind that sooner or later ends in death. The thought that it might be so--that she must leave her children, young, without experience, every danger doubled by their own beauty and their grandfather's wealth, was a very painful one, but she put it from her, whenever it could be put away. Death was terrible to think of for their sakes. Yes, and terrible for herself too; for of the hope which sustains the Christian alike in life and in death, she knew nothing.