'I'm glad you have had such a pleasant day, my dear,' said she. 'It is very kind in Edmund to be troubled with such a wild goose.'
'Wild geese are very good things in their way,' said Edmund; 'water and land, precipice and moor, 'tis all the same to them.'
'And when will you take me, Edmund?' asked Gerald.
'When you have learnt to comport yourself with as much discretion as Marian, master,' said Edmund, sitting down on the grass, and rolling the kicking, struggling boy over and over, while Marian stood by her papa, showing him her sketches, and delighted by hearing him recognize the different spots. 'How can you remember them so well, papa,' said she, 'when it is so very long since you saw them?'
'That is the very reason,' he answered, 'we do not so much dwell on what is constantly before us as when we have long lost sight of it. To be confined to the house for a few years is an excellent receipt for appreciating nature.'
'Yes, because it must make you wish for it so much,' said Marian sadly.
'Not exactly,' said her father. 'You cannot guess the pleasure it has often given me to recall those scenes, and to hear you talk of them; just as your mamma likes to hear of Oakworthy.'
'Certainly,' said Lady Arundel. 'I have remembered much at poor old Oakworthy that I never thought of remarking at the time I was there. Even flaws in the glass, and cracks in the ceiling have returned upon me, and especially since the house has been pulled down.'
'I cannot think how the natives of an old house can wilfully destroy all their old associations, their heirloooms,' said Edmund.
'Sometimes they have none,' said his aunt.
'Ay,' said Sir Edmund, 'when Gerald brings home a fine wife from far away, see what she will say to all our dark passages and corner cupboards, and steps up and steps down.'
'Oh! I shall not be able to bear her if she does not like them,' cried Marian.
'I suppose that was the case with Mrs. Lyddell,' added Sir Edmund, 'that she discovered the deficiencies of the old house, as well as brought wherewith to remedy them. He does not look like a man given to change.'
'He has no such feeling for association as these people,' said Lady Arundel, pointing to Edmund and Marian; 'he felt his position, in the country raised by her fortune, and was glad to use any means of adding to his consequence.'
'I should like to see more of them. I wish we could ask them to stay here,' said Sir Edmund, with something like a sigh. 'But come, had we not better go in? The hungry fishers look quite ready for tea.'
Chapter II.
'And now I set thee down to try
How thou canst walk alone.'
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
Scarcely eight months had passed since the last recorded conversation, when Marian, in a dress of deep mourning, was slowly pacing the garden paths, her eyes fixed on the ground, and an expression of thoughtful sadness on her face. Heavy indeed had been the strokes that had fallen upon her. Before the last summer had closed, the long sufferings of her father had been terminated by one of the violent attacks, which had often been expected to be fatal. Nor was this all that she had to mourn. With winter had come severe colds and coughs; Lady Arundel was seized with an inflammation of the chest, her constitution had been much enfeebled by watching, anxiety, and grief, and in a very few days her children were orphans.
It was the day following the funeral. Mrs. Wortley was staying in the house, as were also the two guardians of the young Sir Gerald Arundel
