which had made itself smelt all the morning, and would
make itself felt all the afternoon, it need never have come into her
mind at all that it was Sunday--and she would cut herself another slice.

To have told Cecilia that there was still a strain of the Puritan in
her would have been to occasion her some uneasiness, and provoked a
strenuous denial; yet her way of observing Sunday furnished indubitable
evidence of this singular fact. She did more that day than any other.
For, in the morning she invariably "cleared off" her correspondence; at
lunch she carved the beef; after lunch she cleared off the novel or book
on social questions she was reading; went to a concert, clearing off a
call on the way back; and on first Sundays--a great bore--stayed at home
to clear off the friends who came to visit her. In the evening she went
to some play or other, produced by Societies for the benefit of persons
compelled, like her, to keep a Sunday with which they felt no sympathy.

On this particular "first Sunday," having made the circuit of her
drawing-room, which extended the whole breadth of her house, and through
long, low windows cut into leaded panes, looked out both back and front,
she took up Mr. Balladyce's latest book. She sat, with her paper-knife
pressed against the tiny hollow in her flushed cheek, and pretty little
bits of lace and real old jewellery nestling close to her. And while she
turned the pages of Mr. Balladyce's book Thyme sat opposite in a bright
blue frock, and turned the pages of Darwin's work on earthworms.

Regarding her "little daughter," who was so much more solid than
herself, Cecilia's face wore a very sweet, faintly surprised expression.

'My kitten is a bonny thing,' it seemed to say. 'It is queer that I
should have a thing so large.'

Outside in the Square Gardens a shower, the sunlight, and blossoms, were
entangled. It was the time of year when all the world had kittens; young
things were everywhere--soft, sweet, uncouth. Cecilia felt this in
her heart. It brought depth into her bright, quick eyes. What a secret
satisfaction it was that she had once so far committed herself as to
have borne a child! What a queer vague feeling she sometimes experienced
in the Spring--almost amounting to a desire to bear another! So one may
mark the warm eye of a staid mare, following with her gaze the first
strayings of her foal. 'I must get used to it,' she seems to say. 'I
certainly do miss the little creatu