realise it yet; but I want to feel at home here now—­indeed I do feel that already—­and I like to know how things stand.  We are all relations together, and I must try to make up for lost time.  I seem to know my aunt so well already.  She has a great gift for letting one see into her mind and heart—­and I know your father too, and Jack, and I want to know you; we must be a family party, and talk quite simply and freely about all our concerns.”

“Oh, yes, indeed I will,” said Maud—­“and I find myself wondering how easy it is to talk to you.  You do seem like a relation; as if you had always been here, indeed; but I must not talk too much about myself—­I do chatter very freely to Cousin Anne; but I don’t think it is good for one to talk about oneself, do you?  It makes one feel so important!”

“It depends who one talks to,” said Howard, “but I don’t believe in holding one’s tongue too much, if one trusts people.  It seems to me the simplest thing to do; I only found it out a few years ago—­how much one gained by talking freely and directly.  It seems to me an uncivilised, almost a savage thing to be afraid of giving oneself away.  I don’t mind who knows about my own concerns, if he is sufficiently interested.  I will tell you anything you like about myself, because I should like you to realise how I live.  In fact, I shall want you all to come and see me at Cambridge; and then you will be able to understand how we live there, while I shall know what is going on here.  And I am really a very safe person to talk to.  One gets to know a lot of young men, year by year—­and I’m a mine of small secrets.  Don’t you know the title so common in the old Methodist tracts—­’The life and death and Christian sufferings of the Rev. Mr. Pennefather.’  That’s what I want to know about people—­Christian sufferings and all.”

Maud smiled at him and said, “I am afraid there are not many Christian sufferings in my life; but I shall be glad to talk about many things here.  You know my mother died more than ten years ago—­ when I was quite a little girl—­and I don’t remember her very well; I have always said just what I thought to Jack, and he to me—­till quite lately; and that is what troubles me a little.  Jack seems to be rather drifting away from me.  He gets to know so many new people, and he doesn’t like explaining; and then his mind seems full of new ideas.  I suppose it is bound to happen; and of course I have very little to do here; papa likes doing everything, and doing it in his own way.  He can’t bear to let anything out of his hands; so I just go about and talk to the people.  But I am not a very contented person.  I want something, I think, and I don’t know what it is.  It is difficult to take up anything serious, when one is all alone.  I should like to go to Newnham, but I can’t leave father by himself; books don’t seem much use, though I read a great deal.  I want something real to do, like Jack!  Papa is so energetic; he manages the house and pays all the bills; and there doesn’t seem any use for me—­though if I were of use, I should find plenty of things to do, I believe.”