"Well, she hadn't when _there_," says Terence; and then he says a dreadful thing, as vulgar as it is dreadful, that fills his aunt's heart with dismay. "She and my father fought like cat and dog," he says; and the Misses Blake feel their cup is indeed full. "And she never would take Monica anywhere," says Kit; "so selfish!" It is growing _too_ terrible. Is their idol to be shattered thus before their eyes? "Monica, was your mother _unkind_ to you?" says Miss Penelope, in a voice full of anguish. After all these years, is the Katherine of their affections to be dragged in the dust? Monica hesitates. She can see the grief in her aunt's face, and cannot bear to add to it. The truth is that the late Mrs. Beresford had _not_ been beloved by her children, for reasons which it will be possible to conceive, but which would be tiresome to enumerate here. Perhaps there seldom had been a more careless or disagreeable mother. So Monica pauses, flushes, glances nervously from right to left, and then back again, and finally rests her loving, regretful eyes full upon Miss Penelope's agitated face. Something she sees there decides her. Sinking to her knees, she flings her arms around the old lady's neck, and lays her cheek to hers. "I will say nothing, but that I am happy _here_," she says, in a low whisper. Miss Penelope's arms close round her. The worst has come to her; yet there is solace in this clinging embrace, and in the dewy lips that seek hers. If she has lost one idol, who can say she has not gained another, and perhaps a worthier one? Yet beyond doubt the two old ladies have sustained a severe shock: they hold down their heads, and for a long time avoid each other's eyes, as though fearing what may there be seen. "Let us walk round the garden, Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, feeling very sorry for them. "The evening is lovely, and the roses so sweet." "Come then," says Miss Priscilla, who is perhaps glad to escape from her own thoughts. And so they all wander to and fro in the pretty garden, bending over this flower and lingering over that in a soft, idle sort of enjoyment that belongs alone to the country. Terence had disappeared, but, as he is not great on flowers, his presence is not indispensable, and no one takes any notice of his defection. Presently they come upon the old gardener, who is also the old coachman, upon his bended knees beside a bed. The whole garden is scrupulously raked and scrupulously weeded till not a fault can be found. But Miss Priscilla is one of those who deem it necessary always to keep a servant up to his trumps. Stooping over the bed, therefore, she carefully adjusts her glasses upon her nose, and proceeds to examine with much minuteness the earth beneath her. A tiny green leaf attracts her notice. "Corney, is that a _weed_?" she asks, severely. "I certainly remember sowing some seeds in this place; but _that_ has a weedy look." "It's seeds, miss," says Corney, "Ye'd know it by the curl of it."