But Mrs. Shelley could not be always at her boy’s heels to keep the peace between them, and as Jack grew into manhood she watched with anxious heart his growing passion for Fairy, and his increasing jealousy of his youngest brother. Under any circumstances his love for Fairy would have made her tremble for him, though at present Fairy was such a child it was impossible to say how she might feel in the future with regard to Jack; but Mrs. Shelley thought it far more probable the child would meet someone at the Leslies than that she would choose Jack, whom she had known all her life, and whom she seemed to regard as an elder brother. But when added to this Jack’s jealousy of Charlie grew side by side with his love, like an ugly poisonous weed by the side of a beautiful flower, Mrs. Shelley, in spite of the comfort and joy Fairy was to her, often regretted having taken her in, though, as she told herself, she really did not know what else could she have done. A few days after the Brent goose was sent to the Pells, Fairy, on coming back from the Rectory at four o’clock, found she had left one of her books behind her, and as Charlie was not to be found, being in all probability at the Pells, paying an afternoon visit on his goose, Fairy with some difficulty persuaded Mrs. Shelley to let her go back to the Rectory alone, declaring she would be home again before dark. She reached the Rectory safely, got her book, and was just passing the Winter-bourne, about ten minutes’ walk from the shepherd’s house, when, rather to her annoyance, Dame Hursey suddenly appeared from a by-lane and stopped her. “Good-evening, Mrs. Hursey; I must not stop, it is getting so dark; mother will be frightened,” said Fairy, trying to pass the old woman, mindful of her promise to Jack, and secretly rather nervous at her encounter with the old wool-gatherer in this lonely spot, and in the gathering gloom of a November evening. “Mother, indeed! You have a grander lady for your mother than Mrs. Shelley ever saw the like of, proud as she and her son Jack may be, I am thinking; but never mind that—one of these fine days Dame Hursey may tell you some news that will open those pretty eyes of yours, till they will look bigger than ever. Tell me, child, you can read writing, of course, can’t you?” said Dame Hursey, pulling aside her coarse apron, and fumbling among the folds of her tattered linsey skirt for her pocket. “Yes, I can read and write too; but I really must be going home; it is getting so late,” said Fairy.