"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would really be best for Amy." Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been doing its duty. At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which was always so much better than they could get their cook at The Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that seemed as if it would never smile again. She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship. But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing. No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it, so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings, Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by, the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of unselfishness had not made any other course impossible. It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to Constantia she must go. "I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace as befitted her unheroic sacrifice. "I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system, the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children, never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life and your pretty cottage upside down." There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she could have understood, it would have made no difference.