In fact that day Lily was very serious, but she did not appear to be unhappy.  Early after breakfast Bell went over to the parsonage, and Mrs Dale and her youngest daughter sat together over their work.  “Mamma,” she said, “I hope you and I are not to be divided when I go to live in London.”

“We shall never be divided in heart, my love.”

“Ah, but that will not be enough for happiness, though perhaps enough to prevent absolute unhappiness.  I shall want to see you, touch you, and pet you as I do now.”  And she came and knelt on the cushion at her mother’s feet.

“You will have some one else to caress and pet,—­perhaps many others.”

“Do you mean to say that you are going to throw me off, mamma?”

“God forbid, my darling.  It is not mothers that throw off their children.  What shall I have left when you and Bell are gone from me?”

“But we will never be gone.  That’s what I mean.  We are to be just the same to you always, even though we are married.  I must have my right to be here as much as I have it now; and, in return, you shall have your right to be there.  His house must be a home to you,—­not a cold place which you may visit now and again, with your best clothes on.  You know what I mean, when I say that we must not be divided.”

“But Lily—­”

“Well, mamma?”

“I have no doubt we shall be happy together,—­you and I.”

“But you were going to say more than that.”

“Only this,—­that your house will be his house, and will be full without me.  A daughter’s marriage is always a painful parting.”

“Is it, mamma?”

“Not that I would have it otherwise than it is.  Do not think that I would wish to keep you at home with me.  Of course you will both marry and leave me.  I hope that he to whom you are going to devote yourself may be spared to love you and protect you.”  Then the widow’s heart became too full, and she put away her child from her that she might hide her face.

“Mamma, mamma, I wish I was not going from you.”

“No, Lily; do not say that.  I should not be contented with life if I did not see both my girls married.  I think that it is the only lot which can give to a woman perfect content and satisfaction.  I would have you both married.  I should be the most selfish being alive if I wished otherwise.”

“Bell will settle herself near you, and then you will see more of her and love her better than you do me.”

“I shall not love her better.”

“I wish she would marry some London man, and then you would come with us, and be near to us.  Do you know, mamma, I sometimes think you don’t like this place here.”

“Your uncle has been very kind to give it to us.”

“I know he has; and we have been very happy here.  But if Bell should leave you—­”