"I only think you are very young, poor dear!" said Alice, looking down upon me under her arm, as she stretched up her hands to unfasten the last bit of curtain, "and I am an old woman, Miss Hester. I saw your poor mamma come away from _her_ home to find a new one here; it was a great change to her, for all so much as her child likes Cottiswoode--_she_ liked her own home very dearly, Miss Hester, and did not think this great house was to be compared to it--but she came away here of her own will after all--" "But that was because she was married, Alice," said I hastily. "Yes! it was because she was married, and because it is the common way of life," said Alice; "but, the like of me, Miss Hester, that has parted with many a one dear to me, never to see them again, thinks little, darling, of parting with dead walls." "Alice, have you had a great deal of grief," said I reverently; my attention was already diverted from the main subjects of my morning's thoughts--for I was very young, as she said, and had a mind open to every interest, that grand privilege of youth. "I have lost husband and children, father and mother, Miss Hester," said Alice quietly; she had her back turned to me, but it was not to hide her weeping, for Alice had borne her griefs with her for many, many years. I knew very well that it was as she had said, for she had often told me of them all, and of her babies whom she never could be quite calm about--but she very seldom alluded to them in this way, and never dwelt upon her loss, but always upon themselves. I did not say anything, but I felt ashamed of my passion of grief for Cottiswoode. If I should lose Alice--or, still more frightful misfortune, lose my father, what would Cottiswoode be to me. "But, my dear young lady was pity herself," said Alice, after a short pause, "I think I can see her now, when I could not cry myself, how she cried for me; and I parted with her too, Miss Hester. I think she had the sweetest heart in the world; she could not see trouble, but she pitied it, and did her best to help." "Alice," said I hastily, connecting these things by a sudden and involuntary conviction, "why is it that papa says: 'pity is a cheat.'" "It is a hard saying, Miss Hester," said Alice, pausing to look at me; and then she went on with her work, as if this was all she had to say. "He must have reason for it," said I, "and when I think of _that_ Edgar Southcote presuming to pity us, I confess it makes me very angry--I cannot bear to be pitied, Alice!" But Alice went on with her work, and answered nothing; I was left to myself, and received no sympathy in my haughty dislike of anything which acknowledged the superiority of another. I was piqued for the moment. I would a great deal rather that Alice had said, "no one can pity you"--but Alice said nothing of the kind, and after a very little interval my youthful curiosity conquered my pride.