Thistle and Rose | Page 5

a moment at tea-time, and though he was discretion
itself, and never gossiped about his patients, it was interesting to gather
from his face whether he was anxious, or the reverse, as to any special
case.
This afternoon, therefore, Mrs Hunt's drawing-room presented a busy
and animated scene. It was a long, low room, with French windows,
through which a pleasant old garden, with a wide lawn and shady trees,
glimpses of red roofs beyond, and a church tower, could be seen. Little
tables were placed at convenient intervals, holding silk, scissors,
cushions full of needles and pins, and all that could be wanted for the
work in hand, which was to be embroidered in separate strips; over
these many ladies were already deeply engaged, though it was quite

early, and there were still some empty seats.
"Shall we see Mrs Forrest this afternoon?" asked one of those who sat
near the hostess at the end of the room.
"I think not," replied Mrs Hunt, as she greeted a new-comer; "she told
me she had to drive out to Losenick about the character of a
maid-servant."
"Oh, well," returned the other with a little shake of the head, "even Mrs
Forrest can't manage to be in two places at once, can she?"
Mrs Hunt smiled, and looked pleasantly round on her assembled guests,
but did not make any other answer.
"Although I was only saying this morning, there's very little Mrs
Forrest can't do if she makes up her mind to it," resumed Miss Gibbins,
the lady who had first spoken. "Look at all her arrangements at
Waverley! It's well known that she manages the schools almost
entirely--and then her house--so elegant, so orderly--and such a way
with her maids! Some people consider her a little stiff in her manner,
but I don't know that I should call her that."
She glanced inquiringly at Mrs Hunt, who still smiled and said nothing.
"It's not such a very difficult thing," said Mrs Hurst, the wife of the
curate of Dornton, "to be a good manager, or to have good servants, if
you have plenty of money." She pressed her lips together rather bitterly,
as she bent over her work.
"There was one thing, though," pursued Miss Gibbins, dropping her
voice a little, "that Mrs Forrest was not able to prevent, and that was
her brother-in-law's marriage. I happen to know that she felt that very
much. And it was a sad mistake altogether, wasn't it?"
She addressed herself pointedly to Mrs Hunt, who was gazing serenely
out into the garden, and that lady murmured in a soft tone:

"Poor Prissy Goodwin! How pretty and nice she was!"
"Oh, as to that, dear Mrs Hunt," broke in a stout lady with round eyes
and a very deep voice, who had newly arrived, "that's not quite the
question. Poor Prissy was very pretty, and very nice and refined, and as
good as gold. We all know that. But was it the right marriage for Mr
Bernard Forrest? An organist's daughter! or you might even say, a
music-master's daughter!"
"Old Mr Goodwin has aged very much lately," remarked Mrs Hunt. "I
met him this morning, looking so tired, that I made him come in and
rest a little. He had been giving a lesson to Mrs Palmer's children out at
Pynes."
"How kind and thoughtful of you, dear Mrs Hunt," said Miss Gibbins.
"That's very far for him to walk. I wonder he doesn't give it up. I
suppose, though, he can't afford to do that."
"I don't think he has ever been the same man since Prissy's marriage,"
said Mrs Hunt, "though he plays the organ more beautifully than ever."
With her spectacles perched upon her nose, her hands crossed
comfortably on her lap, and a most beaming smile on her face, Mrs
Hunt looked the picture of contented idleness, while her guests stitched
away busily, with flying fingers, and heads bent over their work. She
had done about half an inch of the pattern on her strip, and now, her
needle being unthreaded, made no attempt to continue it.
"Delia's coming in presently," she remarked placidly, meeting Miss
Gibbins' sharp glance as it rested on her idle hands; "she will take my
work a little while--ah, here she is," as the door opened.
A girl of about sixteen came towards them, stopping to speak to the
ladies as she passed them on her way up the room. She was short for
her age, and rather squarely built, holding herself very upright, and
walking with calmness and decision.
Everything about Delia Hunt seemed to express determination, from

her firm chin to her dark curly hair, which would always look rough,
although it was brushed back from her forehead and fastened up
securely in a knot at