“I don’t quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country.”

“I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him wherever he goes,” said I; “and though they are not riches, he will never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least.”

“Never, little woman,” he replied.

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian’s chair.  That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was now.  I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears were falling down her face.  I felt that I had only to be placid and merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at rest.  I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder—­how little thinking what was heavy on her mind!—­and I said she was not quite well, and put my arm about her, and took her upstairs.  When we were in our own room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was so unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I never thought she stood in need of it.

“Oh, my dear good Esther,” said Ada, “if I could only make up my mind to speak to you and my cousin John when you are together!”

“Why, my love!” I remonstrated.  “Ada, why should you not speak to us!”

Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

“You surely don’t forget, my beauty,” said I, smiling, “what quiet, old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the discreetest of dames?  You don’t forget how happily and peacefully my life is all marked out for me, and by whom?  I am certain that you don’t forget by what a noble character, Ada.  That can never be.”

“No, never, Esther.”

“Why then, my dear,” said I, “there can be nothing amiss—­and why should you not speak to us?”

“Nothing amiss, Esther?” returned Ada.  “Oh, when I think of all these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!”

I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not to answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off into many little recollections of our life together and prevented her from saying more.  When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back to Ada and sat near her for a little while.

She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a little changed.  I had thought so more than once lately.  I could not decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked different to me.  My guardian’s old hopes of her and Richard arose sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, “She has been anxious about him,” and I wondered how that love would end.