off. Then came a chorus--"Mamma, let me go with you;" "I'll go with
mamma;" "Me go with mamma;" according to the gradations of age.

While Coombe and mamma decided the question by lifting the lesser
ones into the fly, Rachel counted heads. Her mission exceeded her
expectations. Here was a pair of boys in knickerbockers, a pair in
petticoats, a pair in pelisses, besides the thing in arms. When the
fly had been nearly crammed, the two knickerbockers and one pelisse
remained for the carriage, quite against Rachel's opinion, but
"Little Wilfred can sit on my lap, he has not been well, poor little
man," was quite conclusive; and when Rachel suggested lying back to
rest, there was a sweet, low laugh, and, "Oh, no thank you, Wilfred
never tires me."

Rachel's first satisfaction was in seeing the veil disclose the face
of eight years back, the same soft, clear, olive skin, delicate, oval
face, and pretty deep-brown eyes, with the same imploring, earnest
sweetness; no signs of having grown older, no sign of wear and tear,
climate, or exertion, only the widow's dress and the presence of the
great boys enhancing her soft youthfulness. The smile was certainly
changed; it was graver, sadder, tenderer, and only conjured up by
maternal affection or in grateful reply, and the blitheness of the
young brow had changed to quiet pensiveness, but more than ever there
was an air of dependence almost beseeching protection, and Rachel's
heart throbbed with Britomart's devotion to her Amoret.

"Why wouldn't the Major come, mamma?"

"He will soon come, I hope, my dear."