“Do not praise me too much. I tell you I am doing nothing, and have done nothing for years; and sometimes it strikes me with terror. If anything should happen suddenly! My father is an old man; but talking to him now is of no use; we must risk it. What did you see in your dream?” “Oh, you will laugh at me,” he said with a nervous flutter; “nothing--except that he was here. I dreamt of him before, that time that he came home--after----” “Don’t speak of it,” said Miss Musgrave, with a corresponding shiver. “To think that such things should happen, and be forgotten, and we should all go on so comfortably--quite comfortably! I have nothing particular to make me happy, and yet I am as happy as most people--notwithstanding all that I have come through, as the poor women say.” “That is because you are so unselfish--so----” “Insensible--more like. I am the same as other people. What the poor folk in the village come through, Mr. Pen!--loss of husbands, loss of children, one after another, grinding poverty, and want, and anxiety, and separation from all they care for. Is it insensibility? I never can tell; and especially now when I share it myself. I am as happy sometimes as when I was young. That sunshine gave me a ridiculous pleasure. What right have I to feel my heart light?--but I did somehow--and I do often--notwithstanding all that has happened, and all that I have ‘gone through.’” Mr. Pennithorne gave a vague smile, but he made no reply; for either she was accusing herself unjustly, or this was a mood of mind which perhaps derogated a little from Mary Musgrave’s perfection. He had a way himself of keeping on steadfastly on the one string of his anxiety, whatever it might be, and worrying everybody with it--and here he lost the object of his faithful worship. It might--nay, must--be right since so she felt; but he lost her here. “And speaking of happiness,” she went on after a pause, “I want the children to come with me to Pennington to see the archery. It is pretty, and they will like it. And they like to drive behind my ponies. They are quite well?--and Emily?” “Very well. Our cow has been ill, and she has been worrying about it--not much to worry about you will say, you who have so much more serious anxieties.” “Not at all. If I had a delicate child and wanted the milk, I should fret very much. Will you send up for some of ours? As usually happens, we, who don’t consume very much, have plenty.” “Thank you,” he said, “but you must not think that little Emmy is so delicate. She has not much colour--neither has her mother, you know.” He was a very anxious father, and looked up with an eager wistfulness into her face. Little Emmy was so delicate that it hurt him like a foreboding to hear her called so. He could not bear Miss Musgrave, whose word had authority, to give utterance to such a thought.