ere to be placed. The
Hudsons had put their spare rooms at the disposition of the Cottage,
and so had the Hills. The bridegroom was to stay at the Rectory.
Lady Mariamne must of course, Mrs. Dennistoun felt, be put up at the
Cottage, where the two rooms on the ground floor--what were called the
gentlemen's rooms--had to be prepared to receive her. It was with a
little awe indeed that the ladies of the Cottage endeavoured, by the aid
of Elinor's recollections, to come to an understanding of what a fine
lady would want even for a single night. Mrs. Dennistoun's experiences
were all old-fashioned, and of a period when even great ladies were less
luxurious than now; and it made her a little angry to think how much
more was required for her daughter's future sister-in-law than had been
necessary to herself. But after all, what had herself to do with it?
The thing was to do Elinor credit, and make the future sister-in-law
perceive that the Cottage was no rustic establishment, but one in which
it was known what was what, and all the requirements of the most refined
life. Elinor's bridesmaid, Mary Tatham, was to have the spare room
up-stairs, and some other cousins, who were what Mrs. Dennistoun called
"quiet people," were to receive the hospitalities of the Hills, whose
house was roomy and old-fashioned. Thus the arrangements of the crisis
were more or less settled and everything made smooth.

Elinor and her mother were seated together in the drawing-room on one of
those evenings of which Mrs. Dennistoun desired to make the most, as
they would be the last, but which, as they actually passed, were--if not
occupied with discussions of how everything was to be arranged, which
they went over again and again by instinct as a safe subject--heavy,
almost dull, and dragged sadly over the poor ladies whose hearts were so
full, but to whom to be separated, though it would be bitter, would also
at the same time almost be a relief. They had been silent for some time,
not because they had not plenty to say, but because it was so difficult
to say it without awaking too much feeling. How could they talk of the
future in which one of them would be away in strange places, exposed to
the risks and vicissitudes of a new life, and one of them be left alone
in the unbroken silence, sitting over the fire, with nothing but that
blaze to give her any comfort? It was too much to think of, much more
to talk about, though it need not be said that it was