I was a little, but only a little, startled by this: I knew her way. I looked up at her, smiling. “You are so designing,” I said; “I might have known there was something underneath. You are going to ask them to spend the rest of their holidays here?” “That if you like,” she said brightly, encouraged, I could see, by my tone; “but more than that, Mary; more than that.” I was not curious. I looked with an indolent amusement at the shining of the firelight and the reflection in the mirror of the flame of the candles, which shone out of its surface without seeming to move the dark ruddy gloom beyond. A glass is always an inscrutable, wonderful thing, like an opening into the unseen: it was especially so that night. “Mary,” Mrs Tufnell resumed, with a voice that faltered, I could not tell why; “do you remember when I first spoke to you of Mrs Peveril--when I was ill?--and what I said?” “Yes,” I answered, with sudden alarm, looking up at her. “You don’t feel ill now?” “No, but I have got a shake,” she said. “When a woman at my time of life is ill, though it may seem to pass quite away, it always leaves a something. I shall never be as strong as I have been, my dear child. I feel I have got a shake. My life has come to be like the late leaves on the top of a tree. They may last through many gales, but the first gust may blow them off. I cannot feel sure for a day.” I went close up to her in my fright, and knelt down by the sofa, and put my arms round her. “Do not speak so,” I said; “you could not leave me? What could I do without you? I am not an orphan as long as I have you. You cannot have the heart----” “Oh, Mary! hush; don’t overwhelm me. It was of that I wanted to speak. I shall live as long as I can, for your sake. But, dear, old people cannot stay always, however much they may be wanted. I have been thinking of it a great deal, and there is a proposal I have to make to you--with Mrs Peveril’s consent, Mary. You must listen to all I have to say.” “Oh, you have consulted Mrs Peveril!” said I; and I got up, feeling my heart grow chill and sore, and went back to my seat to hear what was to be said to me. In the depths of my heart I must have been jealous of her still. It came all back upon me like a flood. My dear old lady gave me a grieved look, but she did not stop to explain. She went quickly on with what she had to say:-- “Grove House is a nice old-fashioned house, and cheap, and they have a good list of scholars; and Miss Robinson would be glad to retire, and would not ask very much for the furniture and things; and Mrs Peveril is so much liked by everybody. I have always set apart as much as I thought was right of my little property, intending it for you, Mary----” “Don’t!” I cried, in a voice so shrill and sharp that it startled even myself who spoke.