While Coombe and mamma decided the question by lifting the lesser ones into the fly, Rachel counted heads. Her mission exceeded her expectations. Here was a pair of boys in knickerbockers, a pair in petticoats, a pair in pelisses, besides the thing in arms. When the fly had been nearly crammed, the two knickerbockers and one pelisse remained for the carriage, quite against Rachel’s opinion, but “Little Wilfred can sit on my lap, he has not been well, poor little man,” was quite conclusive; and when Rachel suggested lying back to rest, there was a sweet, low laugh, and, “Oh, no thank you, Wilfred never tires me.” Rachel’s first satisfaction was in seeing the veil disclose the face of eight years back, the same soft, clear, olive skin, delicate, oval face, and pretty deep-brown eyes, with the same imploring, earnest sweetness; no signs of having grown older, no sign of wear and tear, climate, or exertion, only the widow’s dress and the presence of the great boys enhancing her soft youthfulness. The smile was certainly changed; it was graver, sadder, tenderer, and only conjured up by maternal affection or in grateful reply, and the blitheness of the young brow had changed to quiet pensiveness, but more than ever there was an air of dependence almost beseeching protection, and Rachel’s heart throbbed with Britomart’s devotion to her Amoret. “Why wouldn’t the Major come, mamma?” “He will soon come, I hope, my dear.” Those few words gave Rachel a strong antipathy to the Major. Then began a conversation under difficulties, Fanny trying to inquire after her aunt, and Rachel to detail the arrangements made for her at Myrtlewood, while the two boys were each accommodated with a window; but each moment they were claiming their mother’s attention, or rushing across the ladies’ feet to each other’s window, treating Rachel’s knees as a pivot, and vouchsafing not the slightest heed to her attempts at intelligent pointing out of the new scenes. And Fanny made no apology, but seemed pleased, ready with answers and with eyes, apparently ignorant that Rachel’s toes were less insensible than her own, and her heavy three-years-old Wilfred asleep on her lap all the time. “She feeble, helpless, sickly!” thought Rachel, “I should have been less tired had I walked the twenty miles!” She gave up talking in despair, and by the time the young gentlemen had tired themselves into quiescence, and began to eat the provisions, both ladies were glad to be allowed a little silence. Coming over the last hill, Conrade roused at his mother’s summons to look out at “home,” and every word between them showed how fondly Avonmouth had been remembered far away. “The sea!” said Fanny, leaning forwards to catch sight of the long grey line; “it is hard to believe we have been on it so long, this seems so much more my own.” “Yes,” cried Rachel, “you are come to your own home, for us to take care of you.”