“I should know that from his influence upon you.”

She looked at me wistfully, smoothed my hair with her cool hand, and resumed the letter.

“He thinks he will not come to Surrey with you; asks me to tell him my wishes,” she repeated rapidly, translating from the original.  “What do I think of our future?  How shall we propose any change?  Will Cassandra describe her visit?  Will she tell me that he thinks of going abroad?”

She dropped the letter.  “What pivot is he swinging on?  What is he uncertain about?”

“There must be more to read.”

She turned another page.

“If I go to Switzerland (I think of going on account of family affairs), when shall I return?  My family, of course, expected me to marry in their pale; that is, my mother rather prefers to select a wife for me than that I should do it.  But, as you shall never come to Belem, her plans or wishes need make no difference to us.  If Cassandra would be to us what she might, how things would clear!  Don’t you think, my love, that there should be the greatest sympathy between sisters?”

I laughed.

Verry said she did not like his letter much after all.  He evidently thought her incapable of understanding ordinary matters.  It was well, though; it made their love idyllic.

“Let us speak of matters nearer home.”

“Let us go to my room; the storm is so loud this side of the house.”

“No; you must stay till the walls tremble.  Have you seen, Verry, any work for me to do here?”

“Everything is changed.  I have tried to be as steady as when mother was here, but I cannot; I whirl with a vague idea of liberty.  Did she keep the family conscience?  Now that she has gone I feel responsible no more.”

“An idea of responsibility has come to me—­what plain people call Duty.”

“I do not feel it,” she cried mournfully.  “I must yield to you then.  You can be good.’

“I must act so; but help me, Verry; I have contrary desires.”

“What do they find to feed on?  What are they?  Have you your evil spirit?”

“Yes; a devil named Temperament.”

“Now teach me, Cassandra.”

“Not I. Go, and write Ben.  Make excuses for my negligence toward you about his letter.  Tell him to come.  I shall write Alice and Helen this evening.  We have been shut off from the world by the gate of Death; but we must come back.”

“One thing you may be sure of—­though I shall be no help, I shall never annoy you.  I know that my instincts are fine only in a self-centering direction; yours are different.  I shall trust them.  Since you have spoken, I perceive the shadows you have raised and must encounter.  I retreat before them, admiring your discernment, and placing confidence in your powers.  You convince if you do not win me.  Who can guess how your every plan and hope of well-doing may be thwarted?  I need say no more?”