“All the better; you will be more likely to keep it,” was the dry reply.

The conversation then took a more tender turn.  “And so to-morrow you go!  How dull the house will be without you! and who is to keep my brats in order now I have no idea.  Well, there is nothing but meeting and parting in this world; it does not do to love people, does it? (ah!) Don’t cry, love, or I shall give way; my desolate heart already brims over—­no—­now don’t cry” (a little sharply); “the servants will be coming in to take away the things.”

“Will you c—­c—­come and h—­help me pack, dear?”

“Me, love? oh no!  I could not bear the sight of your things put out to go away.  I promised to call on Mrs. Hunt this afternoon; and you must not stop in all day yourself—­I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you had better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward.”

“Thank you, aunt.  I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden Church to take with me.”

“No, don’t go there; the meadows are wet.  Walk upon the Hatton road; it is all gravel.”

“Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way.”

“But I’ll give you something to do,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly.  “You know where old Sarah and her daughter live—­the last cottages on that road; I don’t like the shape of the last two collars they made me; you can take them back, if you like, and lend them one of yours I admire so for a pattern.”

“That I will, with pleasure.”

“Shall you come back through the garden?  If you don’t—­never mind; but, if you do, you may choose me a bouquet.  The servants are incapable of a bouquet.”

“I will; thank you, dear.  How kind and thoughtful of you to give me something to occupy me now that I am a little sad.”  Mrs. Bazalgette accepted this tribute with a benignant smile, and the ladies parted.

The next morning a traveling-carriage, with four smoking post-horses, came wheeling round the gravel to the front door.  Uncle Fountain’s factotum got down from the dicky, packed Lucy’s imperial on the roof, and slung a box below the dicky; stowed her maid away aft, arranged the foot-cushion and a shawl or two inside, and, half obsequiously, half bumptiously, awaited the descent of his fair charge.

Then, upstairs, came a sudden simultaneous attack of ardent lips, and a long, clinging embrace that would have graced the most glorious, passionate, antique love.  Sculpture outdone, the young lady went down, and was handed into the carriage.  Her ardent aunt followed presently, and fired many glowing phrases in at the window; and, just as the carriage moved, she uttered a single word quite quietly, as much as to say, Now, this I mean.  This genuine word, the last Aunt Bazalgette spoke, had been, two hundred years before, the last word of Charles the First.  Note the coincidences of history.

The two postboys lifted their whips level to their eyes by one instinct, the horses tightened the traces, the wheels ground the gravel, and Lucy was whirled away with that quiet, emphatic post-dict ringing in her ears,