Meantime, the coachman and the groom
are his favourite associates, and the stable
his resort of predilection.

"Do you remember the beech-copse just
beyond Hill-side-road? The windows of
my room look out in that direction, far
away, beyond the Woolgreaves' grounds; I
can see the tops of the trees, and the winding
road beyond them. I go up to my
room every evening, to see the sun set
behind the hill there, and to think of the
many times we walked there and talked of
what was to be. Will it ever be, Walter?
Were we not foolish boy and girl—- foolish
paupers? Ay, the word, hard, ugly, but
true. When I look round this room I feel
it, oh, so true! Mamma and I have a
pretty sitting-room, and a bedroom each on
opposite sides of it. Such rooms, the very
simplicity and exquisite freshness of their
furniture and appointments are more
significant of wealth, of the ease of household
arrangement, and the perfection of household
service, than any amount of rich
upholstery. And then the drawing-rooms,
and the girls' rooms, and the music-room,
and the endless spare rooms— which, by-
the-by, are rarely occupied— for so rich a
man, and one with such a house, Mr. Creswell
seems to me to have singularly little
society. No one but the clergyman and
his wife has been since we came. I thought
it might be out of delicate consideration for
us that Mr. Creswell might have signified
a wish for especial privacy, but I find that
is not the case. He said to me to-day that
he feared we found Woolgreaves dull. I
do not. I have too much to think of to be
affected by anything of that kind; and as
my thoughts are rarely of a cheerful order,
I should not ingratiate myself by social
agreeability. Our life is quietly luxurious.
I adhere to my old habit of early rising,
but I am the only person in the house who
enjoys the beauty of the gardens and
grounds in the sweet morning. We breakfast
at ten, and mamma and the girls go
out into the lawn or into the garden, and
they chat to her and amuse her until
luncheon. I usually pass the morning in
the library, reading and writing, or talking
with Mr. Creswell. It is very amusing and
interesting to me to hear all about his
career, how he made so much money, and
how he administers it. I begin to understand
it very well now. I don't think I
should make a bad woman of business by
any means, and I am sure everything of
the kind would have a great interest for
me, even apart from my desire for money,
and my conviction that neither happiness
or repose is to be had in this world without
it. The old gentleman seems surprised to
find me interested and intelligent about
what he calls such dry detail, but, just as
books and pictures are interesting, though
one may never hope to possess them, so
money, though it does not belong to myself,
and never can, interests me. Oh, my
dearest Walter, if we had but a little, just
a few hundreds of pounds, and Mr. Creswell
could teach you how to employ it with
advantage in some commercial undertaking.
He began with little more than one thousand
pounds, and now! But I might as well
wish you had been born an archbishop. In
the afternoon, there is our drive. What
handsome houses we see, what fine places
we pass by! How often I occupy myself
with thinking what I should do if I only
had them, and the money they represent.
And how hard the sight of them makes the
past appear! How little, falling to our
share, would make the future smiling and
happy!

"The girls are not interesting
companions to Mr. Creswell. He is fond of
them, and very kind to them—in fact,
lavishly generous—they never have an
ungratified wish, but how can a man, whose
whole life has been devoted to business,
feel much companionship with young girls
like them, who do not know what it means?
Of course, they think and talk about their
dead parents—at least, I suppose so—and
their past lives, and neither subject has any
charms for their uncle. They read—
especially Maud—and, strange to say, they
read solid books as well as novels; they
excel in fancy-work, which I detest,
probably because I can't do it, and could not
afford to buy the materials if I understood
the art; and they both play and sing. I
have heard very little good music, and I
am not a judge, except of what is pleasing
to myself, but I think I am correct in
rating Maud's musical abilities very
highly. Her voice thrills me almost to
pain, and to see my mother's quiet tears
when Maud plays to her in the dim evening,
is to feel that the power of producing
such salutary, healing emotion is priceless
indeed. What a pity it is I am not a good
musician! Loving music as you love it,
dearest Walter, it will be a privation to
you—if ever that time we talked of comes,
when we should have a decent home to
share—that I shall not be able to make
sweet music for you. They are not fond of
me, but I did not think they would be, and