The poor rector had much ado to congratulate his sister. Fortunately, he had a way of looking at events as they affected other people rather than himself; so that the pleasure he felt in the honour done to his sister’s son, and in the advantages which would accrue to her and her daughter, occupied him more than the loss and desolation to himself. When Elgitha heard the news, she was in blank despair. Rosenhurst would be unendurable without Aunt Margaret and Eveline. No one else should live in the cottage. She would go to school; she would be trained for a nurse, and go to a hospital; she must do something, or she should die of dulness, with only father and mother, and Gilbert always loafing about. But the end of it was that Margaret wrote to Mr. Echlin, thanking him, and promising to spend the winter in Manchester-square, that they might see how they liked each other, and to come at the beginning of October. Mr. Echlin replied that he was perfectly satisfied with the arrangement, but begged as a favour that they would say nothing about the matter to Mark. This was a hard condition to keep when Mark came down for his summer holiday, and led to some amusing complications. Mark was full of the goodness and generosity of his cousin. He did not believe he had a single fault; and though he had had great sorrows, he was so cheerful that you forgot he was old. “I suppose cheerfulness runs in the family,” said the lad, with a loving look at his mother. “What paragons grandmamma and grandpapa must have been!” “There is much to be thankful for in the inheritance of a cheerful temper, no doubt,” said his mother; “and I think all the Echlins I have known have been disposed to look on the bright side of things.” “You yourself, mother,” said Eveline, admiringly, “who have had trouble enough to break a woman’s heart, Aunt Elgitha says.” “But it seemed God’s own hand, Eva,” replied Mrs. Fenner, softly; “and who was I that I should murmur? Did He not know best?” “And very narrow means, mother.” “And two good children, who never fretted for what they could not have. Your cousin Miles has had more grievous sorrow than I; he has lost his wife and lost his son, who, everyone says, was all a father could wish, and he has no child left him.” “Do you know, mother,” said Mark, very confidentially, “I have a notion that he has found someone whom he thinks of bringing home? You have no notion how the house is being brisked up. He has said nothing to me. Of course, I could not expect to be always in such comfortable quarters.” “Of course not, my dear. And you would be sorry to have to leave Manchester-square?” “Naturally. Why, I am lodged like a prince. I suppose Mr. Echlin must be nearly sixty; but many men of fifty look older. There is no reason why he shouldn’t—is there, mother?” “Shouldn’t what, Mark?”