“I hope the poor things are not in any trouble,” she thought.  “They were afraid the young man in the sitting-room was engaged.  If he got married and left them, I don’t know what they would do; he has been so regular.”

Though the day was hot, the weather was perfect, and Emily, having exchanged her easy slippers for an almost equally easy pair of tan shoes, found her tired feet might still be used.  Her disposition to make the very best of things inspired her to regard even an eight-mile walk with courage.  The moorland air was so sweet, the sound of the bees droning as they stumbled about in the heather was such a comfortable, peaceful thing, that she convinced herself that she should find the four miles to Maundell quite agreeable.

She had so many nice things to think of that she temporarily forgot that she had put Mrs. Cupp’s letter in her pocket, and was half-way across the moor before she remembered it.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed when she recalled it.  “I must see what has happened.”

She opened the envelope and began to read as she walked; but she had not taken many steps before she uttered an exclamation and stopped.

“How very nice for them!” she said, but she turned rather pale.

From a worldly point of view the news the letter contained was indeed very nice for the Cupps, but it put a painful aspect upon the simple affairs of poor Miss Fox-Seton.

“It is a great piece of news, in one way,” wrote Mrs. Cupp, “and yet me and Jane can’t help feeling a bit low at the thought of the changes it will make, and us living where you won’t be with us, if I may take the liberty, miss.  My brother William made a good bit of money in Australia, but he has always been homesick for the old country, as he always calls England.  His wife was a Colonial, and when she died a year ago he made up his mind to come home to settle in Chichester, where he was born.  He says there’s nothing like the feeling of a Cathedral town.  He’s bought such a nice house a bit out, with a big garden, and he wants me and Jane to come and make a home with him.  He says he has worked hard all his life, and now he means to be comfortable, and he can’t be bothered with housekeeping.  He promises to provide well for us both, and he wants us to sell up Mortimer Street, and come as quick as possible.  But we shall miss you, miss, and though her Uncle William keeps a trap and everything according, and Jane is grateful for his kindness, she broke down and cried hard last night, and says to me:  ’Oh, mother, if Miss Fox-Seton could just manage to take me as a maid, I would rather be it than anything.  Traps don’t feed the heart, mother, and I’ve a feeling for Miss Fox-Seton as is perhaps unbecoming to my station.’  But we’ve got the men in the house ticketing things, miss, and we want to know what we shall do with the articles in your bed-sitting-room.”