task with the sense that he was now working with Bessy and not against her.
Yet perhaps, after all, it was chiefly the work itself which had healed old wounds, and quelled the tendency to vain regrets. Amherst was only thirty-four; and in the prime of his energies the task he was made for had been given back to him. To a sound nature, which finds its outlet in fruitful action, nothing so simplifies the complexities of life, so tends to a large acceptance of its vicissitudes and mysteries, as the sense of doing something each day toward clearing one’s own bit of the wilderness. And this was the joy at last conceded to Amherst. The mills were virtually his; and the fact that he ruled them not only in his own right but as Cicely’s representative, made him doubly eager to justify his wife’s trust in him.
Mrs. Amherst, looking up from a telegram which the parlour-maid had handed her, smiled across the table at her son.
“From Maria Ansell—they are all coming tomorrow.”
“Ah—that’s good,” Amherst rejoined. “I should have been sorry if Cicely had not been here.”
“Mr. Langhope is coming too,” his mother continued. “I’m glad of that, John.”
“Yes,” Amherst again assented.
The morrow was to be a great day at Westmore.
[ 438 ]
