She
felt an old woman, although still a girl in years. She had no
interest in life: she had nothing, no one to live for.
One bright March day, Mavis held two letters in her hand as she sat
by the window of her sitting-room at Mrs Budd's. She read and re-
read them, after which her eyes would glance with much perplexity in
the direction of the daffodils now opening in the garden in front of
the house. She pondered the contents of the letters; then, as if to
distract her thoughts from an unpalatable conclusion, which the
subject matter of one of the letters brought home to her, she fell
to thinking of the daffodils as though they were the unselfish
nurses of the other flowers, insomuch as they risked their frail
lives in order to see if the world were yet warm enough for the
other blossoms now abed snugly under the earth. The least important
of the two letters was from Major Perigal; it had been forwarded on
from Melkbridge. In his cramped, odd hand, he expressed further
admiration for Mavis's conduct; he begged her to let him know
directly she returned to Melkbridge, so that he might have the
honour of calling on her again.
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