"Ah, but it won't be the same. That came simply rushing over me as she drove away. She's been the dearest daughter to me. She's centred herself on me. I suppose she's made me selfish. She's given me all that she could of what her mother would have given me. I've never valued her half enough. I think I loved B better than her when they were both children. Not much better, but perhaps enough to make her feel the difference. That's rather a bad memory just now. I may have done it in ways that I haven't meant to, that may have hurt her." "I'm sure you needn't trouble yourself about that, dear Mr. Grafton," she said, with some earnestness. "She is devoted to you, in a way she couldn't be if you hadn't been just as much to her as she has to you. It has been lovely to see you together. And what you've been able to do lately has cemented it all as nothing else could have done. I know she's felt it deeply, because she's told me so. She's full of gratitude and love for you. And I think you've earned it all. Oh, _please_ don't trouble yourself in that way. I'm sure you needn't." "Well, perhaps I needn't. There can't have been much wrong, or she wouldn't have been able to give me what she has. I don't think it's that, either, that is descending on me now. Things are right between me and all my children. I've only lost what every man must lose when he gets to my age; only, like Mrs. Gummidge, I feel it more. They have been my chosen companions. They've kept me young between them. It isn't only that I love them. I've liked doing things with them better than with anybody else. I get on with other men as well as most people. Perhaps before the children grew up I enjoyed myself going about and amusing myself with my friends as much as any man could. But for the last few years, and especially since we came to live here, I've liked being with them better than anybody--I never knew how much better until just now. When I've been up in London I've been looking forward all the week to getting down here again. I tell you, it's a bleak prospect to go back to the sort of life I found pleasant enough ten years ago. I think I've outgrown it. It's just passing the time. There's nothing left to make it worth while." She was silent for a time, and then said: "You know, your case and mine aren't so very different. Until you all came to live here, and took me in so happily, I was really only passing the time. It has made a lot of difference to me getting all the companionship and affection I have had here. I feel the break up of your family, too. It has been a delightful bit of life, and I feel it hasn't lasted half long enough. Still, it isn't really all over, though it has altered. Caroline will be here, and Barbara by and bye. Beatrix and Bunting, too, sometimes; and I count for a little, don't I, Mr. Grafton? You've let me think myself almost one of your family."