care to be blind when he surprised her with suspicious bundles of
foolscap, and snubbed his wife for hinting that Elinor was secretly
disobeying him. Meanwhile her silent resentment never softened, and the
life of the family was embittered by their consciousness of it. It never
occurred to Mrs. McQuinch, an excellent mother to her two eldest
daughters, that she was no more fit to have charge of the youngest than
a turtle is to rear a young eagle. The discomfort of their relations
never shook her faith in their "naturalness." Like her husband and the
vicar, she believed that when God sent children he made their parents
fit to rule them. And Elinor resented her parents' tyranny, as she felt
it to be, without dreaming of making any allowances for their being in a
false position towards her.

One morning a letter from London announced that Mr. Lind had taken a
house in Westbourne Terrace, and intended to live there permanently with
his daughter. Elinor had not come down to breakfast when the post came.

"Yes," said Mrs. McQuinch, when she had communicated the news: "I knew
there was something the matter when I saw Reginald's handwriting. It
must be fully eighteen months since I heard from him last. I am very
glad he has settled Marian in a proper home, instead of living like a
bachelor and leaving her to wander about from one house to another. I
wish we could have afforded to ask her down here oftener."

"Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly," said Lydia, who had
been examining the envelope.

"To Nelly!" said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. "I think she should have invited
one of you first."