'Then we're all of one mind, I don't want to go back to London. If you
don't find me in your way, I shall be delighted to stay.'

'Of course,' said Julia, 'we poor country folk can hardly hope to amuse
you.'

'I don't know about that!' exclaimed Emily. 'Where would he find any one to
play and sing to him in the evenings as you can?'

The conversation paused, and all were happier that morning, though none
knew why. Days passed, desultory and sweet, and with a pile of books about
him, he lay in a long cane chair under the trees; then the book would drop
on his knees, and blowing smoke in curling wreaths, he lost himself in
dramatic meditations. It was pleasant to see that Emily had grown
innocently, childishly fond of her cousin, and her fondness expressed
itself in a number of pretty ways. 'Now, Hubert, Hubert, get out of my
way,' she would say, feigning a charming petulance; or she would come and
drag him out of his chair, saying, 'Come, Hubert, I can't allow you to lie
there any longer; I have to go to South Water, and want you to come with
me?'

And walking together, they seemed like an Italian greyhound and a tall,
shaggy setter.

A cloud only appeared on Emily's face when Julia spoke of their departure.
Julia had proposed that they should leave at the end of the month, and
Emily had consented to this arrangement. The end of the month had appeared
to her indefinitely distant, but three weeks of the subscribed time had
passed, and signs of departure had become more numerous and more
peremptory. Allusion had been made to the laundress, and Julia had asked