shallow reach of the river beyond the garden, with a little family of
wild duck floating upon it, and just below her a vivid splash of colour,
a mass of rhododendron in bloom, setting its rose-pink challenge against
the cool greys and greens of the fell.

But Bridget Cookson was not admiring the view. It was not new to her,
and moreover she was not in love with Westmorland at all; and why Nelly
should have chosen this particular spot, to live in, while George was at
the war, she did not understand. She believed there was some sentimental
reason. They had first seen him in the Lakes--just before the war--when
they two girls and their father were staying actually in this very
lodging-house. But sentimental reasons are nothing.

Well, the thing was done. Nelly was married, and in another week, George
would be at the front. Perhaps in a fortnight's time she would be a
widow. Such things have happened often. 'And then what shall I do with
her?' thought the sister, irritably,--recoiling from a sudden vision of
Nelly in sorrow, which seemed to threaten her own life with even greater
dislocation than had happened to it already. 'I must have my time to
myself!--freedom for what I want'--she thought to herself, impatiently,
'I can't be always looking after her.'

Yet of course the fact remained that there was no one else to look after
Nelly. They had been left alone in the world for a good while now. Their
father, a Manchester cotton-broker in a small way, had died some six
months before this date, leaving more debts than fortune. The two girls
had found themselves left with very small means, and had lived, of late,
mainly in lodgings--unfurnished rooms--with some of their old furniture
and household things round them. Their father, though unsuccessful in
business, had been ambitious in an old-fashioned way for his children,