“But, mamma,” said Lily, “what difference can it make to him?  You know that our presence near him was always a trouble to him.  He never really wanted us.  He liked to have Bell there when he thought that Bell would marry his pet.”

“Don’t be unkind, Lily.”

“I don’t mean to be unkind.  Why shouldn’t Bernard be his pet?  I love Bernard dearly, and always thought it the best point in Uncle Christopher that he was so fond of him.  I knew, you know, that it was no use.  Of course I knew it, as I understood all about—­somebody else.  But Bernard is his pet.”

“He’s fond of you all, in his own way,” said Mrs Dale.

“But is he fond of you?—­that’s the question,” said Lily.  “We could have forgiven him anything done to us, and have put up with any words he might have spoken to us, because he regards us as children.  His giving a hundred a year to Bell won’t make you comfortable in this house if he still domineers over you.  If a neighbour be neighbourly, near neighbourhood is very nice.  But Uncle Christopher has not been neighbourly.  He has wanted to be more than an uncle to us, on condition that he might be less than a brother to you.  Bell and I have always felt that his regard on such terms was not worth having.”

“I almost feel that we have been wrong,” said Mrs Dale; “but in truth I never thought that the matter would be to him one of so much moment.”

When Bell had gone, Mrs Dale and Lily were not disposed to continue with much energy the occupation on which they had all been employed for some days past.  There had been life and excitement in the work when they had first commenced their packing, but now it was grown wearisome, dull, and distasteful.  Indeed so much of it was done that but little was left to employ them, except those final strappings and fastenings, and that last collection of odds and ends which could not be accomplished till they were absolutely on the point of starting.  The squire had said that unpacking would be easier than packing, and Mrs Dale, as she wandered about among the hampers and cases, began to consider whether the task of restoring all the things to their old places would be very disagreeable.  She said nothing of this to Lily, and Lily herself, whatever might be her thoughts, made no such suggestion to her mother.

“I think Hopkins will miss us more than any one else,” she said.  “Hopkins will have no one to scold.”

Just at that moment Hopkins appeared at the parlour window, and signified his desire for a conference.

“You must come round,” said Lily.  “It’s too cold for the window to be opened.  I always like to get him into the house, because he feels himself a little abashed by the chairs and tables; or, perhaps, it is the carpet that is too much for him.  Out on the gravel-walks he is such a terrible tyrant, and in the greenhouse he almost tramples upon one!”

Hopkins, when he did appear at the parlour door, seemed by his manner to justify Lily’s discretion.  He was not at all masterful in his tone or bearing, and seemed to pay to the chairs and tables all the deference which they could have expected.