'Oh Miss Merrifield,' she asked, in an interval afterwards, when hats
were being put on, 'bow do you make them take your things?'
'I don't know,' said Bessie, smiling. 'I take all the pains I can, and
try to make them useful.'
'Useful, but that's so dull--and the critics always laugh at things
with a purpose.'
'But I don't think that is a reason for not trying to do good, even in
this very small and uncertain way. Indeed,' she added, earnestly. 'I
have no right to speak, for I have made great mistakes; but I wanted to
tell you that the one thing I did get published, which was not written
conscientiously--as I may say--but only to work out a silly,
sentimental fancy, has brought me pain and punishment by the harm I
know I did.'
This was a very new idea to Constance, and she actually carried it away
with her. The visit had restored the usual terms of intercourse with
the Hackets, though there was no resumption of intimacy such as there
had been, between Constance and Dolores. It had, however, done much to
make the latter feel that the others considered themselves one with
them, and there was something that drew them together in the universal
missing of Mysie, and eagerness for her letters.
These were, however, rather disappointing. Mysie had not a genius for
correspondence, and dealt in very bare facts. There was an enclosure
which made Lady Merrifield somewhat anxious:
'My Dear Mamma,
'This is for you all by yourself.
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