than of myself, and as one with myself.
I have learned, since I came here, that to
understand what poverty really means one
must see the details of wealth. We have
only a general idea of a fine house and
grounds, a luxurious table and a lot of
servants. The general idea seems very
grand and attractive, but when one sees it
all in working order, when one can find out
the cost of each department, the price of
every article, the scale on which it is all
kept up, not for show, but for every day use,
then the real meaning of wealth, the awful
difficulty of attaining it, realise themselves
to one's mind. The Creswell girls know
nothing about the mechanism of their
splendid home, not much about even their
personal expenses. 'Uncle gives us a hundred
and fifty pounds a year, and tells us we
may send him in any reasonable number of
bills besides,' Maud told me. And it is quite
true. They keep no accounts. I checked
her maid's book for Gertrude, warning her
not to let her servant see her ignorance,
and she says she does not think she ever
had some of the things put down. Just
think of that! No dyeing old dresses black
for mourning for them, and turning rusty
crape! Not that that sort of thing signifies
the calculation is on too large a scale
for such small items, they only illustrate
the whole story of poverty. The
housekeeper and I are quite friendly. She has a
notion that ladies ought to understand
economy, and she is very civil. She has
explained everything to me, and I find the
sums which pass through her hands alone
would be a fortune to us. There are twenty
servants in the house and stables, and their
'hall' is a sight! When I think of the
shabby dining-room in which my dear
father used to receive his friends—great
people, too, sometimes, but not latterly—
I do feel that human life is a very unfair
thing.

"The great wide hall, floored with
marble, and ornamented with pictures, and
lamps on pedestals, and stags'-heads, and
all the things one sees in pictures of halls,
is in the centre of the house, and has a dark
carved oak gallery all round it, on which
numerous rooms open, but on the ground-
floor there is a grand dining-room, and a
smaller room where we breakfast, a billiard-
room, a splendid library (all my father's
books are in it now, and look nothing in
the crowd); an ante-room, where people
wait who come on business to Mr. Creswell
(all his business seems to consist in
disposing surplus money to advantage), and
at the back of all, opening on the most
beautiful flower-garden you can conceive,
an immense conservatory. This is a great
pleasure to mamma; there are no painful
associations with such flowers for her; my
father never gave her such bouquets as
Gertrude brings to the breakfast-table every
morning, and presents to her with a kiss,
which her uncle seems to think particularly
gracious and kind, for he always smiles at
her.

"Indeed, he smiles a good deal at every
one, for he is a very good-natured, amiable,
and kindly man, and seems to think little
of his wealth. I am sure he is dreadfully
imposed upon—-indeed, I have found out
many instances of it. How happy he could
make us if he would! I dare say he would
not miss the money which would make us
comfortable. But I must not think of such
a thing. No one could afford to give so
much as it would be wise to marry on, and
we never should be happy if we were not
wise. I don't think Mr. Creswell has a
trouble in the world, except his son Tom,
and I am not sure that he is a trouble to
him—for he doesn't talk much about
himself—but I am quite sure he ought to be.
The boy is as graceless, selfish, heartless
a cub, I think, as ever lived. I remember
your thinking him very troublesome and
disobedient in school, and he certainly is
not better at home, where he has many
opportunities of gratifying his evil propensities
not afforded him by school. He is
very much afraid of me, short a time as I
have been here, that is quite evident; and
I am inclined to think one reason why Mr.
Creswell likes my being here so much is
the influence I exercise over Tom. Very
likely he does not acknowledge that to
himself as a reason, perhaps he does not
even know it, but I can discern it, and also
that it is a great relief to the girls. They
are very kind to Tom, who worries their
lives out, I am sure, when they are alone;
but 'schoolmaster's daughter' was always
an awful personage in the old days, and
makes herself felt now, very satisfactorily
though silently. I fancy Tom will turn
out to be the crook in his father's lot when
he grows up. He is an unmannerly, common
creature, not to be civilised by all the
comfort and luxury of home, or softened
by all the gentleness and indulgence of his
father. He is doing nothing just now; he
did not choose to remain with papa's
successor, and is running wild until he can be
placed with a private tutor—some clergyman
who takes only two or three pupils.