"Don't think me selfish," she said, turning presently, trying to subdue the sobs, and wiping the tears away. "I hope I am not that: or undutiful. It is not for myself that I grieve; indeed it is not; but for him." I knew that. "If I could only think it would be for his happiness! But oh, I fear it will not be. Something seems to tell me that it will not. And if--he should be--uncomfortable afterwards--miserable afterwards!--I think the distress would kill me." "Is it _true_, Anne? How did you hear it?" "_True!_ Too true, Johnny. At breakfast this morning papa said, 'We shall be dull to-day without our friends, Anne.' I told him I hoped not, and that I would go out with him, or read to him, or do anything else he liked; and I reminded him of his small stock of choice books that he used to be so fond of. 'Yes, yes, we shall be very dull, you and I alone in this strange house,' he resumed. 'I have been thinking for some time we should be, Anne, and so I have asked that dear, kind, lively woman to come to us for good.' I did not understand him; I did not indeed, Johnny; and papa went on to explain. 'You must know that I allude to Mrs. Podd, Anne,' he said. 'When I saw her so charmed with this house yesterday, and we were talking about my future loneliness in it--and she lamented it, even with tears--one word led to another, and I felt encouraged to venture to ask her to share it and be my wife. And so, my dear, it is all settled; and I trust it will be for the happiness of us all. She is a most delightful woman, and will make the sunshine of any home.' I wish I could think it," concluded Anne. "No; don't take the basin," I said, as she went to do so. "I'll finish picking the raspberries. What are they for?" "A pudding. Papa said he should like one." "Why could not Sally pick them? Country girls are used to the sun." "Sally is busy. Papa bade her clear out that room where our boxes were put: we shall want all the rooms now. Oh, Johnny, I wish we had not left France! Those happy days will never come again." Was the doctor falling into his dotage? The question crossed my mind. It might never have occurred to _me_; but one day at Worcester Miss Dinah had asked it in my hearing. I felt very uncomfortable, could not think of anything soothing to say to Anne, and went on picking the raspberries. "How many do you want? Are these enough?" "Yes," she answered, looking at them. "I must fill the basin up with currants." We were bending over a currant-bush, Anne holding up a branch and I stripping it, when footsteps on the path close by made us both look up hastily. There stood Sir Robert Tenby. He stared at the distress on Anne's face, which was too palpable to be concealed, and asked without ceremony what was amiss. It was the last feather that broke the camel's back. These words from a stranger, and his evident concern, put the finishing touch to Anne's state. She burst into more bitter tears than she had yet shed.