angry with herself at the idea that
anything should make any difference to her,
that she should be 'roused.' How truly
my dear father understood, how highly he
prized her exquisite sensitiveness of feeling;
he was just the man to hold it infinitely
above all the strong-mindedness in the
world! I am stronger-minded, happily—- I
wonder if you like to know that I am, or
whether you, too, prefer the weaker, the
more 'womanly' type, as people say,
forgetting that most of the endurance, and a
good deal of the work, in this world, is our
'womanly' inheritance, and that some of us,
at least, do it with discredit. You don't
want moralising, or philosophising, from
me, though, dearest Walter, do you? You
complain of my matter-of-fact letters as it
is. I must not yield to my bad habit of
talking to myself, rather than to you on
paper.

"Well, then we came to Woolgreaves, and
found the heartiest of welcomes, and
everything prepared for our comfort. As I
don't think you know anything more of the
place than could be learned from our summer
evening strolls about the grounds,
when we always took such good care to
keep well out of sight of the windows, I
shall describe the house. You will like to
know where and how I live, and to see in
your fancy my surroundings. How glad I
shall be when you, too, can send me a
sketch of anything you can call 'home.'
Of course, I don't mean that to apply to
myself here; I never let any feeling of
enjoyment really take possession of me
because of its transitoriness, you know
exactly in what sense I mean it, a certain
feeling of comfort and quiet, of having
tomorrow what you have had to-day, of
seeing the same people and the same things
around, which makes up the idea of home,
though it must all vanish soon. I wonder
if men get used to alterations in their
modes of life so soon as women do? I
fancy not. I know there is mamma, and I
am sure a more easily pleased, less
consciously selfish human being never existed
(if her share in the comforts of home was
disproportionate, it was my dear father's
doing, not of her claiming), and yet she
has been a week here, and all the luxury
she lives in seems as natural to her, as
indispensable as the easy-chair, the especially
good tea, the daily glass of wine, the
daintiest food, which were allotted to her
at home. I saw the girls exchange a look
this morning when she said, 'I hope it
won't rain, I shall miss my afternoon drive
so much! 'I wonder what the look meant?
Perhaps it meant, 'Listen to that upstart!
She never had a carriage of her own in her
life, and because she has the use of ours
for a few days, she talks as if it were a
necessary of life.' Perhaps—and I think
they may be sufficiently genuinely sweet
girls to make it possible— the look may
have meant that they were glad to think
they had it in their power to give her
anything she enjoyed so much. I like it very
much, too; there is more pleasure in
driving about leisurely in a carriage, which
you have not to pay for, than I imagined,
but I should be sorry the girls knew I cared
very much about it. I have not very much
respect for their intellects, and silly heads
are apt to take airs at the mere idea of
being in a position to patronise. Decidedly,
the best room in the house is mamma's,
and she likes it so much. I often see the
thought in her face, 'if we could have
given him all these comforts, we might
have had him with us now.' And so we
might, Walter, so we might. Just think
of the great age some of the very rich and
grand folks live to; I am sure I have seen
it in the papers hundreds of times, seventy,
eighty, ninety sometimes, just because they
are rich; rank has nothing to do with it
beyond implying wealth, and if my father
had been even a moderately rich man, if he
had been anything but a poor man, he
would have been alive to-day. We must
try to be rich, my dearest Walter, and if
that is impossible (and I fear it, I fear it
much since I have been here, and Mr.
Creswell has told me a good deal about how
he made his money, and from all he says it
seems indispensable to have some to begin
with, there is truth in the saying that money
makes money), if that is impossible, at least
we must not think of marrying while we
are poor. I don't think anything can
compensate to oneself for being poor, and I
am quite sure nothing can compensate for
seeing any one whom one loves exposed
to the privations and the humiliations of
poverty. I have thought so much of this,
dearest Walter, I have been so doubtful
whether you think of it seriously enough.
It seems absurd for a woman to say to a
man that she ponders the exigencies of life
more wisely, and sees its truths more fully
than he does, but I sometimes think women
do so, and in our case I think I estimate
the trial and the struggle there is before
us more according to their real weight and
severity than you do, Walter, for you think
of me only, whereas I think of you more