Sweet Content

by Mrs. Molesworth

it. For it was a real and sad grief to them all, andit was the first trouble of _that_ kind they had ever known.

  "He sent his love and good-bye to you," Yvonne said; "`little ConniePercy' he called you. And I heard him say, `but for her, things mightnot have been as they are.' Yes, he was quite happy. Do you know," shewent on in a very low voice, "years and years ago Uncle Hugo was goingto be married to somebody very nice and sweet, and she died. Mothertold us--I think it was that that made him so gentle and kind, though hewas very brave too."

  The children gave no thought to the difference Major Whyte's death wouldmake to them all in the end. I think Captain Whyte told papa all, but Inever heard or thought about it till the change actually came. That wastwo years after Major Whyte's death, when poor old Mrs Fetherston diedtoo. She felt the shock of his death very much, for though he had notbeen originally her favourite nephew, no one could have lived with himwithout learning to love him. She had grown dependent on him, too, forhelping her to manage things. Altogether it was a great blow, thoughnow, fortunately, as things were, she had Captain Whyte instead, and forthe rest of her life she did indeed cling to him and his wife, and tothem all. But she never came down to Elmwood again. She stayed on atSoutherwold, where she went immediately after Major Whyte's death, andone or the other, or more of the Yew Trees family were always with her.So I never saw her again, though now and then there was a talk of hercoming to the Yew Trees.

  These two years were very happy. The Whytes, though they still livedvery simply, were free from anxiety about the future, and instead ofthis making them selfish, it only made them the kinder. All children, Isuppose, live a good deal in the present. I don't think I understoodthis till the great change came, which made such a difference to me. Ihad thought, I suppose, that things would always go on much the same.

  But one day--it was only six months ago--Captain and Mrs Whyte, who hadboth been at Southerwold for nearly a week, telegraphed to papa, thatold Mrs Fetherston had died; it was rather sudden at the last; and inthe telegram they asked him to go to the Yew Trees to tell the children.I had seen them only the evening before, when there was no expectationof such a thing.

  "Give them my love, papa," I said, as he was starting, "and tell them Iam very sorry."

  "They _will_ be sorry, I suppose," I added to mamma, when we weresitting alone; "but not _very_, do you think? She was rather afrightening old lady, though I don't mean to be unkind."

  "She was very much softened of late," said mamma, but she spoke ratherabsently.

  "Still, mamma, it can't make them _very_ miserable--not like if one ofthemselves had died," I said. "I may go to see them soon, mayn't I, andeverything be the same?"

  Mamma looked at me very tenderly.

  "Connie, dear," she said, "don't you understand that it must make agreat difference? Captain Whyte will be the owner of Southerwold, andone or two other smaller places as well, I believe. He will be a very,very rich man, and they will be very important people. I don't say itwill change their _hearts_; indeed, I am very, very sure it will not;but they will have many new ties, and responsibilities, and duties,and--they will have to leave us."

  I stared at her. It was very silly of me not to have thought of itbefore, but I just hadn't. Then I burst into tears, and hid my face onmamma's shoulder.

  "You must try not to be selfish, darling," she whispered. "Try to be myown Sweet Content, and trust."

  I did try--I have tried, and I daresay mamma thinks I have succeeded.But in my heart I know I have not, _quite_. It all happened as mammahad said; as it _had_ to, indeed. But it came so soon: I had notrealised that. They were all as kind and dear as they could be to theend. Only they were very busy, and, of course, a little excited by thechange. What wonder! Who could have helped it? In their place, I amsure, I should have been just _horridly_ selfish. And before we knewwhere we were they were gone; the Yew Trees empty and shut up again. Iwent through it once, just once--but never again, for when I came toEvey and Mary's room, with the climbing roses paper on the walls, I feltas if my heart would burst. That was six months ago. I have seen noneof them since. They write me nice letters, but lately I have not hadone--and, after all, letters are only letters. Some of them have beenabroad for part of the winter; poor Addie was ill again, and no doubtthey have new friends, and lots and lots to do. Perhaps it will bewisest for me to remember this, and not expect ever hardly to see themagain; but--there is mamma calling me--what can it be? I must run andsee.

  It was a letter from Yvonne--a letter and an _invitation_. I am to goto Southerwold for the Easter holidays! Oh, I can hardly believe it. Idon't know if I am glad or not. I am _so_ afraid they will have grownso grand, and that I shall feel strange and shy. Oh, my dear Evey andMary--if I could but have you again like last year--with your dear oldshabby tweed jackets, and the loving hearts inside them!

  Southerwold, _April_ 16th, 188-.

  I am _here_, at Southerwold, and oh, so happy! It is the most beautiful, the grandest place you can imagine. They have _everything_! But it is not the place nor the grandeur that makes me happy. It is themselves. They are just quite, _exactly_ the same. I will never, never, never have horrid, distrustful fancies about them again. They met me at the station--Evey and Mary--in their own beautiful pony-carriage, and in one moment I felt it was all right. And just fancy--they had on the old tweed jackets!

  "It has got so suddenly hot," said Yvonne, in her funny, practical way,"that we couldn't stand our winter things; so we routed these out. Theydo very well, don't they? I suppose we shall get new ones this year.There isn't any difficulty now about such things, you see, Connie," sheadded smiling.

  "How pretty your jacket is, Connie," said Mary, admiringly. "Do let usask mother to get us ones something like it, Evey."

  Dear Mary--they were all dear. They are going to show me all the thingsthey do--the poor people, and the schools, and everything, so that whenI come here I shall know their ways and be able to help them. For I amto come _very_ often they say. And the week after next, dear littlemamma and papa are coming to fetch me. I shan't mind going home, for Iknow now we shall never be separated for very long, and never at all _inour hearts_.