so you see Mrs.Hope has the right to be proud.

Aunt Alison used to tell me that she made no moan over her wonderful sons.
She shut herself up for a short time, and then faced the world again, her kindly, sharp-tongued self.

She is one of those splendid people who take the slings and arrows thrown at them by outrageous fortune and bury them deep in their hearts and go on, still able to laugh, still able to take an interest.

Only, you mustn't speak to her of what she has lost.
That would be too much." "Yes," said Pamela.

"I can understand that." She stopped for a minute and stood looking at the river full of "wan water from the Border hills," at the stretches of lawn ornamented here and there by stone figures, at the trees _thrawn_ with winter and rough weather, and she thought of the three boys who had played here, who had lived in the whitewashed house (she could see the barred nursery windows), bathed and fished in the Tweed, thrown stones at the grey stone figures on the lawn, climbed the trees in the Hopetoun Woods, and who had gone out with their happy young lives to lay them down in a far country.
Mrs.Hope was sitting by the fire in the drawing-room, a room full of flowers and books, and lit by four long windows.