“It’s a little difficult for me,” said Mrs. Elliot, pacing vigorously up and down the room, and more and more did her black dress seem a mockery. “In some ways you ought to be consulted: nearly all the money is left to you, as you must hear some time or other. But in other ways you’re only a boy. What am I to do?” “I don’t know,” he replied, appearing more helpless and unhelpful than he really was. “For instance, would you like me to arrange things exactly as I like?” “Oh do!” he exclaimed, thinking this a most brilliant suggestion. “The very nicest thing of all.” And he added, in his half-pedantic, half-pleasing way, “I shall be as wax in your hands, mamma.” She smiled. “Very well, darling. You shall be.” And she pressed him lovingly, as though she would mould him into something beautiful. For the next few days great preparations were in the air. She went to see his father’s sister, the gifted and vivacious Aunt Emily. They were to live in the country—somewhere right in the country, with grass and trees up to the door, and birds singing everywhere, and a tutor. For he was not to go back to school. Unbelievable! He was never to go back to school, and the head-master had written saying that he regretted the step, but that possibly it was a wise one. It was raw weather, and Mrs. Elliot watched over him with ceaseless tenderness. It seemed as if she could not do too much to shield him and to draw him nearer to her. “Put on your greatcoat, dearest,” she said to him. “I don’t think I want it,” answered Rickie, remembering that he was now fifteen. “The wind is bitter. You ought to put it on.” “But it’s so heavy.” “Do put it on, dear.” He was not very often irritable or rude, but he answered, “Oh, I shan’t catch cold. I do wish you wouldn’t keep on bothering.” He did not catch cold, but while he was out his mother died. She only survived her husband eleven days, a coincidence which was recorded on their tombstone. • • • • • Such, in substance, was the story which Rickie told his friends as they stood together in the shelter of the dell. The green bank at the entrance hid the road and the world, and now, as in spring, they could see nothing but snow-white ramparts and the evergreen foliage of the firs. Only from time to time would a beech leaf flutter in from the woods above, to comment on the waning year, and the warmth and radiance of the sun would vanish behind a passing cloud. About the greatcoat he did not tell them, for he could not have spoken of it without tears. III