peful. She had so much to do, that not even
the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point of
certainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to
be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her
father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got
ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The
happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the
black communication which must briefly precede it--the joyful consent
of her father and mother to Susan's going with her--the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the
ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price
talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to
hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt
them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly
gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally
of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she could
help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be
expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished,
and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep
to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their
agitated spirits--one all happiness, the other all varying and
indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing
him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all
her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to
sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly;
and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just
articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could
say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and
the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you