That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness:  ’Oh, to think of a common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid crowd of children.  Oh, Julia, doesn’t it seem impossible?  And yet I suppose it is true.  I cannot bear to think of it.  I can see the horrid children tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will remember to feed the poor swans.  Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take you with me.’  And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, kissing his dear old head.  ’Dandy is mine; they can’t take him from me, can they?  But do you think the swans belong to them or to us?  I suppose it would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London.  They couldn’t live in a backyard.’

’But, dearest Emily, who are “they”?  You don’t know that he is married—­literary men don’t often marry.  For all you know, he is a handsome young man, who will fall madly in love with you.’

’No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man—­how I hate him, how I detest to think of it!  I thought I should have died when he asked to marry me.  The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, and prevent me from liking any one.  I don’t think I could like him; I should always see that wicked old man’s hoary, wrinkled face in his.’

’Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head.  It is not right, indeed it isn’t.’  And this simple Englishwoman looked at this sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm.

’I only say what I think.  I am glad the old man did disinherit me.  I’m glad we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of him....  There, that is his chair.  I can see him sitting in it now.  He is grinning at us; he is saying, “Ha! ha!  I have made beggars of you both.”  You remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?’

’Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must remember the weakness of age.’

‘The hideousness of age,’ Emily replied, in a low tone.  The conversation paused, and then Julia said—­

’You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words.  Let us speak no more of Mr. Burnett...  I daresay you will find your cousin a charming young man.  I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage.  And how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you good-bye!’

’Oh, Julia, don’t speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye.  You will never leave me—­promise me that—­you are my only friend.  Oh, Julia, promise me that you will never leave me.’