It was Albinia’s great wish to lift that dark veil, and Lucy began, with as much seriousness and sadness as could co-exist with the satisfaction and importance of having to give such a narration, and exciting emotion and pity.  It was remarkable how she managed to make herself the heroine of the story, though she had been sent out of the house, and had escaped the infection.  She spoke in phrases that showed that she had so often told the story as to have a set form, caught from her elders, but still it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that made her sit gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy’s hand, and now and then sighing and shuddering slightly as she heard how there had been a bad fever prevailing in that lower part of the town, and how the two boys were both unwell one damp, hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt on the escape it had been that she had not kissed them before going to school.  Sophy had sickened the same day, and after the tedious three weeks, when father and mother were spent with attendance on the three, Edmund, after long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as they had hopes of him; and the same message that told Lucy of her brother’s death, told her of the severe illness of both parents.

The disease had done the work rapidly on the mother’s exhausted frame, and she was buried a week after her boy.  Lucy had seen the procession from the window, and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried.

Mr. Kendal’s had been a long illness; the first knowledge of his loss had caused a relapse, and his recovery had long been doubtful.  As soon as the children were able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to Ramsgate, and Lucy had joined them there.

‘The day before I went, I saw papa,’ she said.  ’I had gone home for some things that I was to take, and his room door was open, so he saw me on the stairs, and called me, for there was no fear of infection then.  Oh, he was so changed! his hair all cut off, and his cheeks hollow, and he was quite trembling, as he lay back on pillows in the great arm-chair.  You can’t think what a shock it was to me to see him in such a state.  He held out his arms, and I flung mine round his neck, and sobbed and cried.  And he just said, so faintly, “Take her away, Maria, I cannot bear it.”  I assure you I was quite hysterical.’

‘You must have wished for more self-command,’ said Albinia, disturbed by Lucy’s evident pleasure in having made a scene.

’Oh, but it was such a shock, and such a thing to see the house all empty and forlorn, with the windows open, and everything so still!  Miss Belmarche cried too, and said she did not wonder my feelings overcame me, and she did not see papa.’

‘Ah!  Lucy,’ said Albinia, fervently, ’how we must try to make him happy after all that he has gone through!’

’That is what grandmamma said when she got his letter.  “I would be glad of anything,” she said, “that would bring back a smile to him.”  And Aunt Maria said she had done her best for him, but he must consult his own happiness; and so I say.  When people talk to me, I say that papa is quite at liberty to consult his own happiness.’