“And you, Aunt Anna,” said Geoffrey, turning upon her with quick impatience, “did you always know the truth from a lie?” “I have had no practice to speak of,” she answered; “lies have been told me ever since I can remember. The other is a great deal more uncommon. Don’t puzzle your mother with sophistries. Tell her what you want, that is the shortest way.” “Indeed, dear,” said Mrs Underwood, with deprecating looks, “your Aunt Anna is right; it would be better just to tell me what I am to do. I would have done anything for poor Leonard. Poor fellow! to die among strangers, far from his poor wife and everybody that knew him! My heart bleeds for _her_, Geoff. If they had sent for me I would have gone in a moment to nurse him and take care of him. You don’t suppose I would have been so cruel as to let him die by himself if I had known? And now these poor girls. Oh, what a change for them! to come here for pleasure, and to have all their amusement, poor things, turned into misery and sorrow!” Here the kind woman’s voice was choked with tears. “Mother! mother!” said Geoffrey, “you are the best woman in the world: but I think you will drive me out of my senses all the same.” Mrs Underwood dried her eyes after a moment and looked up in his face with a tremulous little smile. “That is what your poor father used to say,” she replied with great simplicity. “I am not one to see the rights of everything at a glance like Anna; but if you will explain to me what it is best to do, you will see I will always do it, Geoff. You may trust me for that.”