Hetty was not her mother’s favourite.  Emilia and Patty divided that honour by consent, though the balance appeared now and then to incline towards Patty.  But between Mrs. Wesley and her fairest daughter there rested always a shadow of restraint, curious enough in its origin, which was that they knew each other better than the rest.  Often and quite casually Hetty would guess some thought in her mother’s mind hidden from her sisters.  She made no parade of this insight, set up no claim upon it; merely gave proof of it in passing, and fell back on her attitude of guarded affection.  And Mrs. Wesley seemed to draw back uneasily from these reflections of herself, and take refuge in Patty, who, of all her children, understood her the least.

So now when the others brought their mother to the feast in triumph, Hetty swept her a curtsey with skirt held wide, then went straight and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Ah, what a dear truant ’tis! and how good ’tis to have her home again!”

She did not ask (as Nancy or Patty would assuredly have asked) what had become of her father.  She noted, even in the half-light, a flush on her mother’s temples, and guessed at once that there had been a duel of tempers on the road, and that, likely enough, papa had bounced into the house in a huff.  The others had, in fact, witnessed this exit.  Hetty, who divined it, went the swiftest way to efface the memory.  She alone, on occasion, could treat her mother playfully, as an equal in years; and she did so now, taking her by the hand, and conducting her with mock solemnity to the seat of honour.

“It is good to be home,” Mrs. Wesley admitted as they seated her, dusted her worn shoes, and plied her with milk and hot griddle-cakes, potatoes slit and sprinkled with salt upon appetising lumps of butter.  She forgot her vexation.  Even the Wroote labourers seemed less surly than usual.  One or two, as they gathered, stepped forward to welcome her and wish her health before ranging themselves at their separate meal:  and soon a pleasant murmur of voices went up from either group at supper in the broad meadow under the moon.

“But where have you left uncle Annesley?” asked Kezzy.  “And are we all to be rich and live in comfort at last?”

Mrs. Wesley shook her head.  “He was not on board the Albemarle.”  She told of her visit to the ship and the captain’s story; adding that their uncle’s boxes, when handed over and examined, contained no papers at all, no will, no bonds, not so much as a scrap to throw light on the mystery.  And as they sat silent in dismay, she went on to tell of Garrett Wesley and the fortune unexpectedly laid at Charles’s feet.

Emilia was the first to find speech.  “So,” she commented bitterly “yet another of our brothers is in luck’s way.  Always our brothers!  Westminster and Oxford for them, and afterwards, it seems, a fortune:  while we sit at home in rags, or drudge and eat the bread of service.  Oh, why, mother?  You and we suffer together—­do you believe it can be God’s will?”