nd busy and
happy as the winter was, there often came over her those weary longings
for something which she had not yet; the something which made her
aunt's course daily so clear and calm and bright. What sort of
happiness would be Eleanor's when she got back to Ivy Lodge? She asked
herself that question sometimes. Her present happiness was superficial.

The spring meanwhile drew near, and signs of it began to be seen and
felt, and heard. And one evening Mrs. Caxton got out the plan of her
garden, and began to consider in detail its arrangements, with a view
to coming operations. It was pleasant to see Mrs. Caxton at this work,
and to hear her; she was in her element. Eleanor was much surprised to
find not only that her aunt was her own head gardener, but that she had
an exquisite knowledge of the business.

"This _sulphurea_ I think is dead," remarked Mrs. Caxton. "I must have
another. Eleanor--what is the matter?"

"Ma'am?"

"You are drawing a very long breath, my dear. Where did it come from?"

The reserve which Eleanor had all her life practised before other
people, had almost from the first given way before her aunt.

"From a thought of home, aunt Caxton. I shall not be so happy when I
get back there."

"The happiness that will not bear transportation, Eleanor, is a very
poor article. But they will not want you at home."

"I am afraid of it."

"Without reason. You will not go home this spring, my dear; trust me.
You are mine for a good long time yet."

Mrs. Caxton was wiser than Eleanor; as was soon proved. Mrs. Powle
wrote, desiring her daughter, whatever she did, not to come home then;
nor soon. People would think she was come home for her wedding; and
questions innumerable would be asked, the mortification of which would
be unbearable. Whereas, if Eleanor kept away, the dismal certainty
would by degrees become public, that there was to be no match at all
between Rythdale and the Lodge. "Stay away till it all blown over,
Eleanor," wrote her mother; "it is the least you can do for your
family." And the squire even sent a word of a letter, more kind, but to
the same effect. He wanted his bright daughter at home, he said; he
missed her; but in the circumstances, perhaps it would be best, if her
aunt would be so good as to keep her.

Eleanor carried these letters to Mrs. Caxton, with a tear in her eye,
and an humbled, pained face.

"I told you so," said her aunt. "How could people expect that Mr.
Carl