“More romantic to have such a swan-like death than to live on as a butcher’s daughter,” said Sophia, and sarcasm was only a small ingredient in the speech.

“We were quite grieved about it,” said Miss Bennett, sincerely.

Sophia also felt sorry, but it was not her way to say so.  She was more interested in remarking upon the singular method of getting butcher’s meat then in vogue at Chellaston.  A Frenchman, a butcher in a small way, drove from door to door with his stock, cutting and weighing his joints in an open box-sleigh.  To see the frozen meat thus manipulated in the midst of the snow had struck Sophia as one of the most novel features of their present way of life.  Miss Bennett, however, could hardly be expected to feel its picturesqueness.  Her parents did not fancy this vendor’s meat, and at present they usually killed their own.  Her father, she said, had grown quite dexterous in the art.

“Really!” cried Sophia.  This was an item of real interest, for it suggested to her for the first time the idea that a gentleman could slaughter an ox.  She was not shocked; it was simply a new idea, which she would have liked to enlarge on; but good-breeding forbade, for Miss Bennett preferred to chat about the visit of the Prince, and she continued to do so in a manner so lively that Sophia found it no dull hearing.

“And, do you know,” she cried, “what Bertha Nash did?  The Nashes, you know, are of quite a common family, although, as Dr. Nash is everybody’s doctor, of course we are all on good terms with them.  Well, Bertha asked the Prince how his mother was!” She stopped.

“I suppose he knew whom she was talking about?”

“Oh, that was the worst of it—­he couldn’t help knowing,” cried Miss Bennett.  “I should have sunk through the floor with mortification if I had done such a thing.  I should have expected to be arrested on the spot for high treason.  Bertha says, you know, that she was so nervous at the thought of who her partner was that she didn’t know what she was saying; but I scarcely think she knew really how to address him.  One can never be thankful enough, I’m sure, for having been thoroughly well brought up.”

She went on to explain what had been her own sensations when first accosted by this wonderful Prince, upon being led out by him, and so on.  It all sounded like a new fairy tale; but afterwards, when she had gone, with cordial wishes, as she took leave, that another prince might come soon and dance with Sophia, the latter felt as if she had been reading a page of an old-fashioned history which took account only of kings and tournaments.

This visit was a distinct disappointment on the whole.  Sophia had hoped more from it, and coming after weeks that had been trying, it had power to depress.  It was late afternoon now, and the day was the last in the year.  Sophia, going upstairs to get rid of the noise of the children, was arrested by the glow of the sunset, and, weary as she was, stood long by the diamond window that was set in the wooden wall of her room.  It was cold.  She wrapped a cloak about her.  She did not at first look observantly at the glow and beauty outside.  Her eyes wandered over the scene, the bright colour upon it rousing just enough interest to keep her standing there:  her thoughts were within.