scarcely heard indeed what her sister said.

"I think we shall get on after a while," she said, softly. "They said
their prayers very prettily, poor darlings, and let me kiss them without
crying. After a while we shall get on, I don't fear."

"Anne!" cried Sophy, "you are too much for mere human nature: you are
too bad or too good for anything. I begin to hate these little wretches
when I hear you speak of them so."

"Hush!" said Anne, "I know you don't mean it. Easton will be very
strange to them at first. I could not go to India for my part. A crust
of bread at home would be better. Think of parting with your children
just when they come to an age to understand?"

"John, I suppose, did not take children into consideration when he went
away. You speak as if children were all one's life."

"A great part of it," said Anne, gently. "No, dear, I am not clever like
you, and perhaps it is what you will call a low view; but after all it
runs through everything. The flowers are used for the seed, and
everything in the world is intended to keep the world going. Yes, even
I, that is the good of me. I shall never be a mother, but what does that
matter? There are so many children left on the world whom somebody must
bring up."

"And who are brought to you when they need you, and taken from you when
they need you no longer," said Sophy, indignantly; "you are left to bear
the trouble--others have the recompense."

"It is so in this world, my dear, all the way down, from God himself.
Always looking for reward is mean and mercenary. When we do nothing,
when we are of no use, what a poor thing life is," said Anne, with a
little colour rising in her cheeks, "not worth having. I think we have
only a right to our existence when we are doing something. And I have my
wages; I like to be of a little consequence," she said, laughing.
"Nobody is of any consequence who does not do something."

"In that case, the ayah, the housemaid is of more consequence than you."

"So be it--I don't object," said Anne; "but I don't think so, for they
have to be directed and guided. To be without a housemaid is dreadful.
The moment you think of that, you see how important the people who work
are; everything comes to a stand-still without Mary, whereas there are
ladies whose absence would make no difference."

"I, for instance."

"You are very unkind to say so, Sophy; all the same, if you were to do
more, you would be happier, my dear."

"To do wh