Let me start at the beginning though. There were two sisters-Amy Jane and Susan Ellen. They were the daughters of a parson and when they grew up the younger of the two, Susan Ellen, fell in love with the curate who came to assist her father. He was poor and not in a position to marry but Susan Ellen had never been one to consider the practical side of life. Acting against the advice of her father, the entire village community and her forceful sister, she eloped with the curate. They were very poor because he had no living and they opened a little school and taught in it for a while. Meanwhile Amy Jane, the wise virgin, had made the acquaintance of the wealthy Sir Timothy Seton. He was a widower with no children and he desperately wanted them. Amy Jane was a good-looking, very capable young lady. Why should they not marry? He needed a mistress for his house and children for his nurseries. Amy Jane seemed well equipped to provide them both.

Amy Jane believed she was a suitable wife for him and, what was more important, that he would be the right husband for her. Riches, standing, security—they were three very desirable goals in Amy Jane's eyes. And after the disastrous marriage of her sister there must be someone to reinstate the family fortunes.

So Amy Jane married and in her forceful way set about performing the tasks she had undertaken. In a short while Sir Timothy's household was managed with the utmost skill, to his delight and to slightly less of that of the domestics, for those whom Amy Jane considered not worth their salt were dismissed, and the rest, realizing their fate lay in their ability to please Amy Jane, proceeded to do just that.

It was not long before a living was found for the curate and his reckless bride; and they were to live right under the shadow of Seton Manor.

Amy Jane then set about the next project, which was to fill the nurseries at Seton Manor.

In this she was less successful. She had one miscarriage, which she believed to be an oversight on the part of the Almighty as she had prayed, and set the whole village praying, for a son. But she was almost immediately pregnant and this time that pregnancy was brought to a conclusion and, although it might not be entirely satisfactory, it was at least a start.

Sir Timothy was delighted with the puling infant who, Nurse Abbott declared, had needed an extra smart slap on the posterior to start its breathing. "The next will be a boy," stated Amy Jane, in a voice before which Heaven itself would have quailed. Opposition came from the doctor; Amy Jane would risk her life by trying again. Let her rest content with her girl. The child was responding to treatment and was going to survive. "Don't risk it again," said the doctor. "I could not answer for the consequences." And as neither Amy Jane nor Sir Timothy wished to face such a disaster, there were no more children; and Jessamy, after clinging to life somewhat precariously for a few weeks, suddenly began to clamor for food and to kick and cry the same as other children.

A few months after the birth of Jessamy, life and death came to the vicarage hand in hand. Amy Jane was shocked. My mother had always been a great disappointment to her. Not only had she made a disastrous marriage, but just when her capable sister was putting her on her feet in a very pleasant living which Sir Timothy had secured with some effort, for there were others who were in fact more deserving than my father, she had given birth to a child and died doing it. A small baby in a vicarage with a man who was more than usually helpless was inconvenient to say the least, but a woman of Amy Jane's caliber was not to be deterred. She found Janet and installed her. Henceforth I was cared for, and Amy Jane, as my mother's closest relative, would of course keep an eye on me.

This she undoubtedly did and her own precious Jessamy was a part of my childhood and girlhood. It was Jessamy's clothes which came to the vicarage and were made over for me. I was slightly taller, which would have made them short, but she was broader-shouldered and took them up more. Janet said it was child's play to take them in a bit and there was better stuff in them than any that would find their way into this house from the shops.

"You look a sight better in them than Miss Jessamy," she would say and, coming from can't-tell-a-lie Janet, that was gratifying.

So I was accustomed to wearing castoff clothes. I can remember very few that did not come via Jessamy. Spending such a lot of time with her, wearing her old garments, did make me become a part of her life.

There was one time when Aunt Amy Jane thought it was fashionable to send girls to school, and there was talk of our going. I was excited at the idea. Jessamy was terrified. Then Dr. Cecil, he who had suggested that there should be no other Seton child in the nursery but Jessamy, decided that she was not strong enough for a boarding school. "Her chest," was all he said. So no school it was, and as Jessamy's chest was too weak to let her go, mine, strong as it might be—and it had never given me or Dr. Cecil any indication that it was not—could not take me there. Fees would have to be paid by Sir Timothy, and it was not to be thought of that I should be sent and paid for while his daughter remained at home.

When there was entertaining at Seton Manor, Aunt Amy Jane always did her duty and invited me. When she came to the vicarage she rode over in the carriage with a foot warmer in the winter and a parasol in the summer. On winter days she would pick up her beautiful sable muff and alight from the carriage while the Seton coachman held open the door with the utmost display of deference and she would march into the house. In the summer she would hand her parasol to the coachman, who would solemnly open it and hold it out in one hand while he helped her to alight with the other. I used to watch this ritual from one of the upstairs windows with a mixture of hilarity and awe.

My father would receive her in a somewhat embarrassed way. He would be frantically feeling for his spectacles, which he had pushed up on his head. They always slipped too far back and he would think he had put them down somewhere—which he did now and then.

The purpose of her visit was certain to be me, because I was her Duty. She had no reason to bother herself about a man who owed his living to her benevolence—or Sir Timothy's, but all blessings which fell on our household came through her, of course. I would be sent for and studied intently. Janet said that Lady Seton did not really like me because I looked healthier than Miss Jessamy and reminded her of her daughter's weak chest and other ailments. I was not sure whether Janet was right but I did feel that Aunt Amy Jane was not really fond of me. Her concern for my welfare was out of duty instead of affection, and I have never relished being the object of duty. I doubt anyone ever does.

"We are having a musical evening next Friday," she said one day. "Anabel should come. She should stay the night as it will be late before it is over, and that will be much simpler. Jennings has the dress she will wear in the carriage. He will bring it in."

My father, struggling with his self-respect, said: "Oh, that isn't necessary, you know. I dare say we can buy a dress for Anabel."

Aunt Amy Jane laughed. I noticed that her laugh was rarely mirthful. It was usually intended to dismiss or denigrate the folly of the one to whom it was directed.

"That would be quite impossible, my dear James." When she said "my dear" that was very often a term of reproach. I was struck by that. Laughter was supposed to express gayety; endearments were for expressing affection. Aunt Amy Jane turned them about. I supposed it came of being such an efficient, highly respectable, always-right sort of person. "You can hardly be expected to buy suitable clothes on your stipend." A repetition of the laugh as her eyes swept round our humble sitting room and mentally compared it with the fine hall at Seton Manor, which had been in the Seton family for hundreds of years with the gleaming swords on the wall and the tapestries which had been in the family for generations and were reputed to be Gobelins. "No, no, James, leave this to me. I owe it to Susan Ellen." The hushed note in her voice indicated that she was speaking of the dead. "It was what she would have wished. She would never have wanted Anabel to be brought up like a savage."

My father opened his mouth to protest but by this time Aunt Amy Jane had turned to me. "Janet can adjust it. It will be quite simple." Other people's tasks always were in Aunt Amy Jane's eyes. It was only those she undertook herself which demanded so much. She was regarding me somewhat malevolently, I thought. "I hope, Anabel," she went on, "that you will behave with decorum and not upset Jessamy."

"Oh yes, Aunt Amy Jane, I will and I won't."

I felt an irresistible desire to giggle, which I am afraid came to me quite frequently in the presence of a number of people.

My aunt seemed to sense this. She said in a low funereal voice: "Always remember what your mother would wish."

I was on the point of saying that I was not sure what my mother would wish, for I was argumentative by nature, and I could never resist the temptation to get a point cleared up. I had heard from some of the servants at Seton Hall that my mother had not been at all the saint Aunt Amy Jane was turning her into. My aunt seemed to have forgotten that she had been so headstrong in making a marriage with a poor curate. The servants said that Miss Susan Ellen had been "a bit of a caution. Always got a finger in some pie and making a joke of it. Come to think of it, Miss Anabel, you're the spitting image of her." That was damning enough.

Well, I went to the musical evening in Jessamy's watered silk, which was really very beautiful. Jessamy said: "Yes, you look prettier in it than I did, Anabel."

She was a sweet girl, Jessamy was, which makes what I did to her all the more reprehensible. I led her into constant mischief. There was the affair of the gypsies, which will give you a good idea of what I mean.

We were forbidden to walk in the woods alone, but the very fact that the woods were out of bounds made them specially fascinating to me.

Jessamy did not want to go. She was the sort of girl who liked to do exactly what she was told; she saw it all as for her own good. Heaven knew that was the explanation given to us often enough. I was exactly the opposite; and I took a great delight in trying to prove which was the stronger—my powers of persuasion or Jessamy's desire to keep to the paths of righteousness.

I invariably won because I went on worrying her until I did. So at length I persuaded her to venture into the woods where some gypsies were camping. We could have a quick look, I said, and go away before they saw us.

The fact that there were gypsies in the woods made it all the more important that we should not venture into them. However, I was determined and I taunted Jessamy with cowardice so mercilessly that at length she agreed to accompany me.

We came to a caravan. There was a fire smoking nearby with a pot boiling on it. It smelled quite good. Seated on the steps of the caravan was a woman in a torn red shawl and with brass rings in her ears. She was a typical gypsy, with a tangle of black hair and big sparkling dark eyes.

"Good day to you, pretty ladies," she cried out when she saw us.

"Good day," I replied, gripping Jessamy's arm, for I had a feeling she was going to turn and run.

"Don't be shy," said the woman. "My! You are two fine little ladies. I reckon there's a bonny fortune waiting for you."

I was enthralled by the prospect of looking into the future. I always have been. I could never then and cannot now resist a fortuneteller.

"Come on, Jessamy," I said, dragging her forward.

"I think we ought to go back," she whispered.

"Come on," I said, holding her firmly. She did not like to protest. She was afraid it might seem ill-mannered towards the gypsies. Jessamy was always considering what was good and bad manners, and she was terrified of committing the latter.

"Now you two has come from the big house, I reckon," said the woman.

"She has," I told her. "I'm from the vicarage."

"Oh, holy, holy," said the woman. Her eyes were on Jessamy, who was wearing a fine gold chain with a gold locket in the shape of a heart attached to it. "Well, my pretty," she went on, "I'm sure you've got a good fortune waiting for you."

"Have I?" I asked, holding out my hand.

She took it. "You'll be the one who makes her own fortune."