cared little for herself forgiving injuries done to her, and not
forgiving those only which she thought were done to the Lord. She had
lived her life somewhat as the martyr lived, who stood for years on his
pillar unmoved, while his nails grew through his flesh. So had she
stood, doing, I fear, but little positive good with her large means but
thinking nothing of her own comfort here, in comparison with the
comfort of herself and others in the world to which she was going.

On this occasion her nephew and niece reached her together; the prim
boy, with the white cotton gloves and the low four-wheeled carriage,
having been sent down to meet Clara. For Mrs Winterfield was a lady who
thought it unbecoming that her niece though only an adopted niece
should come to her door in an omnibus. Captain Aylmer had driven the
four-wheeled carriage from the station, dispossessing the boy, and the
luggage had been confided to the public conveyance.

'It is very fortunate that you should come together,' said Mrs
Winterfield. 'I didn't know when to expect you, Fred. Indeed, you never
say at what hour you'll come.'

'I think it safer to allow myself a little margin, aunt, because one
has so many things to do.'

'I suppose it is so with a gentleman,' said Mrs Winterfield. After
which Clara looked at Captain Aylmer, but did not betray any of her
suspicions. 'But I knew Clara would come by this train,' continued the
old lady; 'so I sent Tom to meet her. Ladies always can be punctual;
they can do that at any rate.' Mrs Winterfield was one of those women
who have always believed that their own sex is in every respect
inferior to the other.