The next winter was more dreary still and solitary than the first at Windyhill. The first had been, though it looked so long and dreary as it passed, full of hope of the coming summer, which must, it seemed, bring Elinor back. But now Mrs. Dennistoun knew exactly what Elinor’s coming back meant, and the prospect was less cheering. Three days in the whole long season--three little escapades, giving so very little hope of more sustained intercourse to come. Mrs. Dennistoun, going over all the circumstances--she had so little else to do but to go over them in her long solitary evenings--came to the conclusion that whatever might happen, she herself would go to town when summer came again. She amused herself with thinking how she would find a little house--quite a small house, as there are so many--in a good situation, where even the most fashionable need not be ashamed to come, and where there would be room enough for Elinor and her husband if they chose to establish themselves there. Mrs. Dennistoun was of opinion, already expressed, that if mothers-in-law are obnoxious to men, sons-in-law are very frequently so to women, which is a point of view not popularly perceived. And Philip Compton was not sympathetic to her in any point of view. But still she made up her mind to endure him, and even his family, for the sake of Elinor. She planned it all out--it gave a little occupation to the vacant time--how they should have their separate rooms and even meals if that turned out most convenient; how she would interfere with none of their ways: only to have her Elinor under her roof, to have her when the husband was occupied--in the evenings, if there were any evenings that she spent alone; in the mornings, when perhaps Phil got up late, or had engagements of his own; for the moment’s freedom when her child should be free. She made up her mind that she would ask no questions, would never interfere with any of their habits, or oppose or put herself between them--only just to have a little of Elinor every day. “For it will not be the same thing this year,” she said to John, apologetically. “They have quite settled down into each other’s ways. Philip must see I have no intention of interfering. For the most obdurate opponent of mothers-in-law could not think--could he, John?--that I had any desire to put myself between them, or make myself troublesome now.” “There is no telling,” said John, “what such asses might think.” “But Philip is not an ass; and don’t you think I have behaved very well, and may give myself this indulgence the second year?” “I certainly think you will be quite right to come to town: but I should not have them to live with you, if I were you.” “Shouldn’t you? It might be a risk: but then I shouldn’t do it unless there was room enough to leave them quite free. The thing I am afraid of is that they wouldn’t accept.” “Oh, Phil Compton will accept,” said John, hurriedly.