“No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl. Very good at polishing gold surfaces, too. And you always bring me the proper adze[2] and knife when I am practicing ritual on poultry.”

“And am I never to live here again?”

“Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other.”

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could feel the difference to be rather approaching the size of the Nile Delta during the fertile flood season. And the possibility of living with her aunt inspired dread rather than satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.

“Cousin,” said she, “something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there.”

“Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one.”

“Oh, cousin!”

“It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?”

“Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it—no matter how peculiar or Cursed—even the Egypt: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her.”

“I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children, even before the inception of the Unholy affliction. But you are now of an age to be treated better. I think she is behaving better already. And when you are her only companion, you must be important to her. Just be sure to mark the calendar for the full moons and lock yourself in tightly at night. I dare say no harm shall occur.”

“I can never be important to any one. And oh, how is one to endure the wolfish thing?”

“What is to prevent you?”

“Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness. My own lack of sharpened incisors.”