turned, saying, 'Your sister tells me
that you cannot be so long absent in the present state of your family.
If possible, the day shall be hastened.'

James was obliged to say, 'Thank you!' but any concession seemed to
affect him like an injury.

Grievous work was it to remain at Cheveleigh, under the constant dread
of some unbecoming outbreak between uncle and nephew. Fortunately,
Oliver had too much on his hands to have much time to spend with the
others; but when they were together, there was scarcely a safe subject,
not even the intended names of the twins. James made hasty answer that
they had already received their names, Mercy and Salome. Louis and
Clara both cried out incredulously.

'Yes,' said James. 'We don't like family names.'

'But such as those!'

'I wish nothing better for them than to be such another pair of
faithful sisters. May they only do as well, poor children!'

The end was softer than the beginning, and there was a tight short
sigh, that seemed to burst upward from a whole world of suppressed
anxiety and despondence.

It was not easy to understand him, he would not talk of home, was brief
about his little Catharine; and when Clara said something of Isabel's
writings, formerly his great pride, and feared that she would have no
more time for them, his blunt answer was, 'She ought not.'

These comparatively indifferent topics were the only resource; for he
treated allusions to his grandmother as if they were rending open a
wound, and it was only in his absence that Louis and Clara could hold
the conversations respecting her, which were their chief comfort and
relief. If they were certain that Oliver was busy, and James writing
letters, they would walk up and down the sheltered alley, where Louis
had last year comforted Clara. The green twilight and chequered shade
well accorded with the state of their minds, darkened, indeed, by one
of the severest losses that could ever befall either of them, and yet
it was a sorrow full of thankfulness and blessed hope.

Louis spoke of his regret that scenes of uncongenial gaiety should have
been forced upon her last year.

'I believe it made very little difference to her,' said Clara. 'She
did just what Uncle Oliver wished, but only as she used to play with
us, no more; nay, rather less for her own amusement than as she would
play at battledore, or at thread-paper verses.'

'And she was not teased nor harassed?'

'I think not. She was grieve