“I know; they are in the last volume, toward the end,” said Bessie Fairfax, and quickly found them.  “They do not say that God gave man love; and that is a craving too.  Don’t you think so?”

Lady Latimer looked straight before her out of the window with lips compressed.

“What do you mean by love, my dear?—­so many foolish feelings go by that name,” said Miss Charlotte, filling the pause.

“Oh, I mean just love—­the warm, happy feeling in my heart toward everybody who belongs to me or is good to me—­to my father and mother and all of them at home, and to my grandfather now and my uncle Laurence, and more besides.”

“You are an affectionate soul!” said my lady, contemplating her quietly.  “You were born loving and tender—­”

“Like dear Dorothy,” added Miss Charlotte with a sigh.  “It is a great treasure, a warm heart.”

“Some of us have hearts of stone given us—­more our misfortune than our fault,” said Lady Latimer with a sudden air of offence, and turned and left the room, preceding the others down stairs.  Bessie was startled; Miss Charlotte made no sign, but when they were in the hall she asked her sister if she would not like to see the gardens once more.  Indeed she would, she said; and, addressing Bessie with equanimity restored, she reminded her how she had once told her that Abbotsmead was very beautiful and its gardens always sunny, and she hoped that Bessie was not disappointed, but found them answer to her description.  Bessie said “Yes,” of course; and my lady led the way again—­led the way everywhere, and to and fro so long that Miss Charlotte was fain to rest at intervals, and even Bessie’s young feet began to ache with following her.  My lady recollected every turn in the old walks and noted every alteration that had been made—­noted the growth of certain trees, and here and there where one had disappeared.  “The gum-cistus is gone—­that lovely gum-cistus!  In the hot summer evenings how sweet it was!—­like Indian spices.  And my cedar—­the cedar I planted—­is gone.  It might have been a great tree now; it must have been cut down.”

“No, Olympia, it never grew up—­it withered away; Richard Fairfax told Oliver that it died,” said Miss Charlotte.

The ladies from Hartwell were still in the gardens when the squire came home from Norminster, and on Jonquil’s information he joined them there.  “Ah, Olympia! are you here?” he said.

My lady colored, and looked as shy as a girl:  “Yes; we were just going.  I am glad to have seen you to say good-bye.”

They did not, however, say good-bye yet; they took a turn together amongst the old familiar places, Miss Charlotte and Bessie resting meanwhile in the great porch, and philosophizing on what they saw.

“Did you know grandpapa’s wife—­my grandmamma?” Bessie began by asking.

“Oh yes, my dear.  She was a sprightly girl before she married, but all her life after she went softly.  Mr. Fairfax was not an unkind or negligent husband, but there was something wanting.  She was as unlike Olympia as possible—­very plain and simple in her tastes and appearance.  She kept much at home, and never sought to shine in society—­for which, indeed, she was not fitted—­but she was a good woman and fond of her children.”