“And so here I am,” continued ‘sister,’ “but it is a pity for poor Emily, for she wanted me to live in that house, you know, John, with her.”

“But I thought old Walker was devoted to her,” said John.

“So he was, my dear, so long as her boy was with her; but now she is nobody, and I am told he shows a willingness to let her go, which is almost like dismissing her.”

“I hope she will not get my old woman away to live with her,” thought John, with a sudden start.  “I don’t know what I may be driven to, if she does.  I shall have to turn out of my own house, or take the Golden Head into it by way of protection.  No, not that!  I’ll play the man.  But,” he thought, continuing his cogitations, “Emily is too young and attractive to live alone, and what so natural as that she should ask her old aunt to come to her?”

John was still deeply cogitating on this knotty point when the children came back, and conducted him and Valentine to the place where Brandon was at work, and Dorothea sitting near him on a tree-stump knitting.

None of the party ever forgot that afternoon, but each remembered it as an appeal to his own particular circumstances.  Brandon was deep in the contentment of a great wish fulfilled.  The newly-perfected life was fresh and sweet, and something of reserve in the character and manners of his wife seemed to restrain him from using up the charm of it too fast.  His restless and passionate nature was at once satisfied and kept in check by the freshness and moderation of hers.  She received his devotion very quietly, made no demonstrations, but grew to him, laid up his confidences in her heart, and let him discover—­though she never said it—­that all the rest of the world was becoming as nothing for his sake.  Accordingly it did not occur to him, excepting on Valentine’s own account, to consider how he might feel during this interview.  He noticed that he was a little sulky and perhaps rather out of countenance; he did not wonder at these things; but being absolutely secure of his wife’s love, he never even said to himself how impossible it was that her affection should revert to Valentine; but this was for the simple reason that he had never thought about that matter at all.  He talked to Valentine on indifferent subjects, and felt that he should be glad when he had got over the awkwardness he was then evidently enduring, for they had been accustomed, far more than most brothers, to live together on terms of familiar intimacy, and only one of them at present was aware that this could never be again.

Valentine also never forgot, but often saw that picture again with the fresh fulness of the leaves for a background to the girlish figure; and the fair face so innocent and candid and so obviously content.  She was seated opposite to him, with Brandon on the grass close to her.  In general they addressed each other merely by the Christian name, but just before John rose to take leave, Dorothea dropped her ball.