It was Miles that she got on with best. He had never so fully
realized the unhappiness of his brother's married life as those who
had watched it; and he simply viewed her as Raymond's loved and
loving widow and sincere mourner, and treated her with all brotherly
tenderness and reverence for her grief; while she responded with a
cordiality and gratitude which made her, when talking to him, a
pleasanter person than she had ever been seen at Compton before.
But it was not to Miles, but to Rosamond, that she brought an
earnest question, walking in one autumn morning to the Rectory, amid
the falling leaves of the Virginian-creeper, and amazing Rosamond,
who was writing against time for the Indian mail, by asking--
"Rosamond, will you find out if Mrs. Poynsett would mind my coming
to live at Sirenwood?"
"You, Cecil!"
"Yes, I'm old enough. There's no place for me at home, and though I
must be miserable anywhere, it will be better where I have something
to do, of some real use to somebody. I've been walking all round
every day, and seeing what a state it is in--in the hands of
creditors all these years.
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