“No, my love, of course not,” said Mamma, who was somewhat agitated. “What I meant is, that you are going to people whom we used to know--I mean, whom we know nothing of. They are great people--a great deal richer and higher in station than we are; and it is possible Papa may be brought into contact with them about the Old Wood Lodge; and you are young and inexperienced, and don’t know the dangers you may be subjected to;--and, my dear children, what I have to say to you is, just to remember your duty, and read your Bibles, and take care!” “Mamma! we are only going to Richmond--we are not going away from you,” cried Marian in dismay. “My dears,” said Mrs Atheling, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “I am an old woman--I know more than you do. You cannot tell where you are going; you are going into the world.” No one spoke for the moment. The young travellers themselves looked at their mother with concern and a little solemnity. Who could tell? All the young universe of romance lay at their very feet. They might be going to their fate. “And henceforward I know,” said the good mother, rising into homely and unconscious dignity, “our life will no longer be your boundary, nor our plans all your guidance. My darlings, it is not any fault of yours; you are both as obedient as when you were babies; it is Providence, and comes to every one. You are going away from me, and both your lives may be determined before you come back again. You, Marian! it is not your fault, my love; but, oh! take care.” Under the pressure of this solemn and mysterious caution, the girls at length went up-stairs. Very gravely they entered the little white room, which was somewhat disturbed out of its usual propriety, and in respectful silence Marian began to arrange her burden. She sat down upon the white bed, with her great white apron full of snowy muslin and dainty morsels of lace, stooping her beautiful head over them, with her long bright hair falling down at one side like a golden framework to her sweet cheek. Agnes stood before her holding the candle. Both were perfectly grave, quite silent, separating the sleeves and kerchiefs and collars as if it were the most solemn work in the world. At length suddenly Marian looked up. In an instant smiles irrestrainable threaded all the soft lines of those young faces. A momentary electric touch sent them both from perfect solemnity into saucy and conscious but subdued laughter. “Agnes! what do you suppose mamma could mean?” asked Marian; and Agnes said “Hush!” and softly closed the door, lest Mamma should hear the low and restrained overflow of those sudden sympathetic smiles. Once more the apparition of the magnificent Sir Langham gleamed somewhere in a bright corner of Marian’s shining eye. These incautious girls, like all their happy kind, could not be persuaded to regard with any degree of terror or solemnity the fate that came in such a shape as this. CHAPTER XXXIV. EVERYBODY’S FANCIES.