Chapter 46 - Page 2

think of her and to remember that
she had made me look on her as a mother. Then she began to cry; and
afterwards we sat talking together for a long time--quite an hour, I
think--and I told her all about our hard life in town, and she was
astonished and deeply pained to hear what Constance had gone through. For
she knew nothing about it; she only knew that her daughter had married
Merton and was a widow and poor. I am so glad I told her, though it made
her unhappy at first, because it has made such a difference. When
Constance at last came in and found us still sitting there together, Mrs.
Churton got up and put her arms round her and kissed her, but was unable
to speak for crying. Since then she has been so different to both of us;
and when she questioned me about spiritual things she seemed quite
surprised and pleased to find that I was not an infidel, and no worse
than when I was with her. I think that in her own heart she sets it down
to Constance not having exerted herself to convert me, thinking, I
suppose, that it would have been very easy to have done so. There is no
harm in her thinking that, only it is not true. Now she even speaks to
Constance on such subjects, and tries to win her back to her old beliefs;
and although Constance does not say much, for she knows how useless it
would be, she listens very quietly to everything, and without any sign of
impatience.

With so much to make me happy, will you think me very greedy and
discontented if I say that I should like to be still happier? I confess
that there are several little, or big, things I still wish and hope for
every day, and without them I cannot feel altogether contented. I must
name two or three of them to you, but I am afraid to begin with the most
important. I must slowly work up to that at the end. Arthur has not yet
returned to England, and I am so anxious to see him again; but he says
nothing definite in his letters about returning. I have just had a letter
from him, which I shall show you when I see you, for he speaks of you in
it. After all I have told him about you he must feel that he knows you
very well.

Another thing. Since we have been here Constance has read me the first
chapters of the book she is writing. It is a very beautiful story, I
think; but it will be her first book, and as her name is unknown, she is
afraid that the publishers will not have it. That is one thing that
troubles me, for she says she must make her living by writing, and I am
almost as anxious as she is herself about it.

Another thing is about you, Mary. Why, when we love each other so much--
for you can't deny that you love me as much as I do you, and I know how
much that is--why must we keep apart just now, when you can so easily get
into a