She took her handkerchief and a bit of flagroot from her pocket, to be ready for the sympathetic flow which she expected.  But the letter was short.  She had seen, it said, the announcement of mother’s death in a newspaper at the time.  She knew what a change it had made.  We might be sure that we should never find our old level, however happy and forgetful we might grow.  She bore us all in mind but sent no message, except to Aunt Merce; she must come to Rosville before summer was over.  And could she assist me by taking Arthur for a while?  Edward was a quiet, companionable lad, and Arthur would be safe with him at home and at school.

“I wish you would go, Aunt Merce.”

“Yes, why not, Mercy?” asked father.  “Would it be a good thing for Arthur, Cassandra?  You know what Surrey is for a boy.”

“I know what Rosville was for a girl,” I thought.  It was an excellent plan for Arthur; but a feeling of repulsion at the idea of his going kept me silent.

“Is it a good idea?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes, father; send him by all means.”

Aunt Merce sighed.  “If he goes, I must go; I can be the receptacle for his griefs and trials for a while at least, and be a little useful that way.  You know, Locke, I am but a poor creature.”

“I was not aware of that fact, and am astonished to hear you say so, Mercy, when you know how far back I can remember.  Mary shines all along those years, and you with her.”

“Locke, you are the kindest man in the world.”

“He feels fifty years younger than she appears to him,” I thought; but I thanked him for his consideration for her.

“Veronica has had a letter to-day from Mr. Somers.  What did you buy in Milford?”

“Mr. Morgeson,” Fanny called, “Bumpus, the horse-jockey, is in the yard.  He says Bill is spavined.  I think he lies; he wants to trade.”

He went out with her.

“Aunt Merce, let us be more together.  What do you think of spending our evenings in the parlor?”

“Do you expect to break up our habits?”

“I would if I could.”

“Try Veronica.”

“I have.”

“Will she give up solitude?”

“Bring your knitting to the parlor and see.”

Veronica came in to tell me that Ben was coming in a week.

“Glad of it.”

“Sends love to you.”

“Obliged.”

“Calls me ‘poor girl’; speaks beautifully of his remembrance of mother, and—­”

“What?”

“Tells me to rely on your faithful soul; to trust in the reasonable hope of our remaining together; to try to establish an equality of tastes and habits between us.  He tells me what I never knew,—­that I need you—­that we need each other.”

“Is that all?”

“There is more for me.”

I left her.  Closing the door of my room gently, I thought:  “Ben is a good man; but for all that, I feel like blind Sampson just now.  Could I lay my hands on the pillars which supported the temple he has built, I would wrench them from their foundation and surprise him by toppling the roof on his head.”