ly''s first piece of colour, of course, in twenty-four months—and
promising us parcels from Milan. I thought that there were one or two curious or
pitying glances cast my way—but not so many, I am sure, as there were at
Stephen''s wedding. Then, I suppose, I was my mother''s burden. Now I am
become her consolation. I heard people say it, at the breakfast: ''You must be thankful
you have Margaret, Mrs Prior. So like her father! She will be a comfort to you now.''
I am not a comfort to her. She doesn''t want to see her husband''s face and habits,
on her daughterl When all the wedding guests had gone I found her wandering
about the house, shaking her head and sighing—''How quiet it seems!''—as if
my sister had been a child, and she missed the sound of her shrieks upon the
staircase. I followed her to the door of Priscilla''s bedroom, and gazed with her at
the empty shelves. It has all been boxed and sent to Marishes, even the little girlish
things—which I suppose Pris will want for her own daughters. I said, ''We are
becoming a house of empty rooms,'' and Mother sighed again.
Then she stepped to the bed and pulled one of the curtains from it, and then
the counterpane, saying they must not be left to grow damp and moulder. She
rang for Vigers and had her strip the mattress, then take the rugs and beat them,
and scour the grate. We heard the unfamiliar bustle as we sat together in the