door and the room on the right-hand side of
the entrance. There was no one in the
drawing-room. It seemed as though no one
had been in it since the day when the furniture
was bagged up with as much care as if
the house was to be overwhelmed with lava,
and discovered a thousand years hence. The
walls were pink and gold; the pattern on
the carpet represented bunches of flowers on
a light ground, but it was carefully covered
up in the centre by a linen drugget, glazed
and colourless. The window curtains were
lace; each chair and sofa had had its own
particular veil of netting, or knitting. Great
alabaster groups occupied every flat surface,
safe from dust under their glass shades. In
the middle of the room, right under the
bagged-up chandelier, was a large circular
table, with smartly-bound books arranged at
regular intervals round the circumference
of its polished surface, like gaily-coloured
spokes of a wheel. Everything reflected
light, nothing absorbed it. The whole room
had a painfully spotted, spangled, speckled
look about it, which impressed Margaret so
umpleasantly that she was hardly conscious of
the peculiar cleanliness required to keep
everything so white and pure in such an
atmosphere, or of the trouble that must be
willingly expended to secure that effect of
icy, snowy discomfort. Wherever she looked
there was evidence of care and labour, but
not care and labour to procure ease, to help
on habits of tranquil home employment;
solely to ornament, and then to preserve
ornament from dirt or destruction.

They had leisure to observe, and to speak
to each other in low voices, before Mrs.
Thornton appeared. They were talking of
what all the world might hear; but it is a
common effect of such a room as this to make
people speak low, as if unwilling to awaken
the unused echoes.

At last Mrs. Thornton came in, rustling in
handsome black silk, as was her wont; her
muslins and laces rivalling, not excelling, the
pure whiteness of the muslins and netting of
the room. Margaret explained how it was
that her mother could not accompany them
to return Mrs. Thornton's call; but in her
anxiety not to bring back her father's fears
too vividly, she gave but a bungling account,
and left the impression on Mrs. Thornton's
mind that Mrs. Hale's was some temporary
or fanciful fine-ladyish indisposition, which
might have been put aside had there been a
strong enough motive, or that if it was too
severe to allow her to come out that day, the
call might have been deferred. Remembering,
too, the horses to her carriage, hired for
her own visit to the Hales, and how Fanny
had been ordered to go by Mr. Thornton, in
order to pay every respect to them, Mrs.
Thornton drew up slightly offended, and gave
Margaret no sympathy—indeed, hardly any
credit for the statement of her mother's
indisposition.

"How is Mr. Thornton?" asked Mr.
Hale "I was afraid he was not well, from
his hurried note yesterday."

"My son is rarely ill; and when he is,
he never speaks about it, or makes it an
excuse for not doing anything. He told me
he could not get leisure to read with you last
night, sir. He regretted it, I am sure; he
values the hours spent with you."

"I am sure they are equally agreeable to
me," said Mr. Hale. "It makes me feel
young again to see his enjoyment and
appreciation of all that is fine in classical
literature."

"I have no doubt the classics are very
desirable for people who have leisure. But,
I confess, it was against my judgment that
my son renewed his study of them. The
time and place in which he lives seem to me
to require all his energy and attention.
Classics may do very well for men who loiter
away their lives in the country or in colleges;
but the Milton men ought to have their
thoughts and powers absorbed in the work of
to-day. At least, that is my opinion." This
last clause she gave out with 'the pride that
apes humility.'

"But, surely, if the mind is too long
directed to one object only, it will get stiff
and rigid, and unable to take in many
interests," said Margaret.

"I do not quite understand what you
mean by a mind getting stiff and rigid. Nor
do I admire those whirligig characters that
are full of this thing to-day, to be utterly
forgetful of it in their new interest to-morrow.
Having many interests does not suit the life
of a Milton manufacturer. It is, or ought to
be, enough for him to have one great desire,
and to bring all the purposes of his life to
bear on the fulfilment of that."

"And that is—?" asked Mr. Hale.

Her sallow cheek flushed, and her eye
lightened, as she answered:

"To hold and maintain a high, honourable
place among the merchants of his country—
the men of his town. Such a place my son
has earned for himself. Go where you will
—I don't say in England only, but in Europe
—the name of John Thornton of Milton is
known and respected amongst all men of
business. Of course it is unknown in the
fashionable circles," she continued, scornfully.
"Idle gentlemen and ladies are not likely to
know much of a Milton manufacturer, unless
he gets into parliament, or marries a lord's
daughter."

Both Mr. Hale and Margaret had an
uneasy, ludicrous consciousness that they had
never heard of this great name until Mr.
Bell had written them word that Mr.
Thornton would be a good friend to have in
Milton. The proud mother's world was not
their world of Harley Street gentilities on
the one hand, or country clergymen and
Hampshire squires on the other. Margaret's
face, in spite of all her endeavours to keep it