 CHAPTER 1 AN EVENT Every town-bred person who travels in a rich country region knows what it is to see a neat white house planted in a pretty situation, in a shrubbery or commanding a sunny common, or nestling between two hills, and to say to himself as the carriage sweeps past its gate, I should like to live there, I could be very happy in that pretty place. Transient visions pass before his mind's eye of dewy summer mornings, when the shadows are long on the grass, and of bright autumn afternoons, when it would be luxury to saunter in the neighbouring lanes, and of frosty winter days, when the sun shines in over the lorustinous at the window, while the fire burns with a different light from that which it gives in the dull parlours of a city. Mr. Grey's house had probably been the object of this kind of speculation to one or more persons three times a week ever since the stagecoach had begun to pass through Deerbrook. Deerbrook was a rather pretty village, dignified as it was with the woods of a fine park which formed the background to its best points of view. Of this pretty village Mr. Grey's was the prettiest house, standing in a field round which the road swept. There were trees enough about it to shade without darkening it, and the garden and shrubbery beyond were evidently of no contemptible extent. The timber and coal yards and granaries which stretched down to the riverside were hidden by a nice management of the garden walls and training of the shrubbery. In the drawing-room of this tempting white house sat Mrs. Grey and her eldest daughter one spring evening. It was rather an unusual thing for them to be in the drawing-room. Sophia read history and practiced her music every morning in the little blue parlour which looked towards the road, and her mother sat in the dining-room which had the same aspect. The advantage of these rooms was that they commanded the house of Mr. Rowland, Mr. Grey's partner in the corn, coal, and timber business, and also the dwelling of Mrs. Enderby, Mrs. Rowland's mother, who lived just opposite the Rowlands. The drawing-room looked merely into the garden. The only houses seen from it were the greenhouse and the summer house, the latter of which now served the purpose of a school-room for the children of both families, and stood on the boundary line of the gardens of the two gentlemen of the firm. The drawing-room was so dull that it was kept for company—that is, it was used about three times a year when the pictures were unveiled, the green bays removed, and the ground windows which opened upon the lawn, thrown wide, to afford to the rare guests of the family a welcome from birds and flowers. The ground windows were open now, and on one side sat Mrs. Grey working a rug, and on the other Sophia working a collar. The ladies were evidently in a state of expectation—a state exceedingly trying to people who, living in ease in the country, have rarely anything to expect beyond the days of the week, the newspaper, and their dinners. Mrs. Grey gave her needle a rest every few minutes to listen, and rang the bell three times in a quarter of an hour to make inquiries of her maid about the arrangements of the best bedroom. Sophia could not attend to her work, and presently gave information that Fanny and Mary were in the orchard. She was desired to call them, and presently Fanny and Mary appeared at the window, twins of ten years old and very pretty little girls. "'My dears,' said Mrs. Grey, "'has Miss Young done with you for Oh, yes, Mama. It is just six o'clock. We have been out of school this hour almost. Then come in and make yourselves neat and sit down with us. I should not wonder if the Miss Ibbotson should be here now before you are ready. But where is Sydney? Oh, he is making a pond in his garden there. He dug it before school this morning, and he is filling it now. "'Yes,' said the other, and I don't know when he will have done, for as fast as he fills it it empties again, and he says he cannot think how people keep their ponds filled. "'He must have done now, however,' said his mother. I suppose he is tearing his clothes to pieces with drawing the water-barrel, and wetting himself to the skin besides. "'And spoiling his garden,' said Fanny. "'He has dug up all his hepaticas and two rose-bushes to make his pond. Go to him, my dears, and tell him to come in directly and dress him for tea. Tell him I insist upon it. Do not run. Walk quietly. You will heat yourselves, and I do not like Mrs. Rowland to see you running.' Mary informed her brother that he was to leave his pond and come in, and Fanny added that Mamma insisted upon it. They had time to do this, to walk quietly, to have their hair made quite smooth, and to sit down with their two dolls on each side the common cradle in a corner of the drawing-room before the Miss Ibbotsons arrived. The Miss Ibbotsons were daughters of a distant relation of Mr. Gray's. Their mother had been dead many years, they had now just lost their father, and were left without any nearer relation than Mr. Gray. He had invited them to visit his family while their father's affairs were in course of arrangement, until it could be discovered what their means of living were likely to be. They had passed their lives in Birmingham, and had every inclination to return to it, when their visit to their Dearbrook relation should have been paid. Their old school fellows and friends all lived there, and they thought it would be easier and pleasanter to make the smallest income supply their wants in their native town than to remove to any place where it might go further. They had taken leave of their friends as for a very short time, and when they entered Dearbrook looked around them as upon a place in which they were to pass a summer. All Dearbrook had been informed of their expected arrival, as it always was of everything which concerned the Gray's. The little Rowlands were walking with their mother when the Shez came up the street, but being particularly desired not to look at it, they were not much benefited by the event. Their grand-mama, Mrs. Enderby, was not at the moment under the same restriction, and her high cap might be seen above the green blind of her parlor as the Shez turned into Mr. Gray's gate. The stationer, the parish clerk, and the milliner and her assistant had obtained a passing view of sundry boxes, the face of an elderly woman, and the outline of two black bonnets, all that they could boast of to repay them for the vigilance of a whole afternoon. Sophia Gray might be pardoned for some anxiety about the reception of the young ladies. She was four years younger than the younger of them, and Hester the elder was one in twenty, a venerable age to a girl of sixteen. Sophia began to think she had never really been afraid of anything before, though she remembered having cried bitterly when first left alone with her governess, and though she had always been remarkable for clinging to her mother's side on all social occasions, in the approaching trial her mother could give her little assistance. These cousins would be always with her. How she should read history or practice music with them in the room she could not imagine, nor what she should find to say to them all day long. If poor Elizabeth had but lived, what a comfort she would have been now. The elder one would have taken all the responsibility. And she heaved a sigh once more, as she thought, to the memory of poor Elizabeth. Mr. Gray was at a market some miles off, and Sidney was sent by his mother into the hall to assist in the work of a lighting and causing the luggage to a light. As any other boy of thirteen would have done, he slunk behind the hall door without venturing to speak to the strangers, and left the business to the guests and the maids. Mrs. Gray and Sophia awaited them in the drawing room, and were ready with information about how uneasy they had all been about the rain in the morning, till they remembered that it would lay the dust, and so make the journey pleasanter. The twins shouldered their dolls and looked on from their stools, while Sidney stole in, and for want of some better way of covering his awkwardness, began rocking the cradle with his foot till he tilted it over. Sophia found the first half hour not at all difficult to surmount. She and Margaret Ibbotson informed each other of the precise number of miles between Dearbrook and Birmingham. She ascertained fully to her satisfaction that her guests had dined. She assisted them in the observation that the grass of the lawn looked very green after the streets of Birmingham, and she had to tell them that her father was obliged to attend the market some miles off, and would not be home for an hour or two. Then the time came when Bonnets were to be taken off, and she could offer to show the way to the spare room. There she took Hester and Margaret to the window, and explained to them what they saw thence. And as it was necessary to talk, she poured out what was most familiar to her mind, experiencing a sudden relief from all the unwanted shyness which had tormented her. That is Mr. Rowland's house. Papa's partner, you know. Isn't it an ugly place with that ridiculous porch to it? But Mrs. Rowland can never be satisfied without altering her house once a year. She has made Mr. Rowland spend more money upon that place than would have built a new one of twice the size. That house opposite is Mrs. Enderby's, Mrs. Rowland's mother's. So near as she lives to the Rowland's, it is shocking how they neglect her. There could be no difficulty in being properly attentive to her, so near as she is could there. But when she is ill we are obliged to go and see her sometimes, when it is very inconvenient, because Mrs. Rowland has never been near her all day. Is not it shocking? I rather wonder she should complain of her family, observed Margaret. Oh, she is not remarkable for keeping her feelings to herself, poor soul. But really it is wonderful how little she says about it, except when her heart is quite full, just to us. She tries to excuse Mrs. Rowland all she can, and she makes out that Mrs. Rowland is such an excellent mother, and so busy with her children and all that. But you know that is no excuse for not taking care of her own mother. Those are the verdant woods, are they not? said Hester, leaning out of the window to survey the whole of the sunny prospect. I suppose you spend half your days in those woods in summer? No, Mama goes out very little, and I seldom walk beyond the garden. But now you are come, we shall go everywhere. Ours is considered a very pretty village. The sisters thought it so beautiful that they gazed as if they feared it would melt away if they withdrew their eyes. The one discovered the bridge lying in shadow, the other the pointed roof of the building which surmounted the spring in the park woods. Sophia was well pleased at their pleasure, and their questions and her descriptions went on improving in rapidity, till a knock at the door of the room cut short the catechism. It was Morris, the Miss Ibbotson's maid, and her appearance gave Sophia a hint to leave her guests to refresh themselves. She glanced over the room to see that nothing was wanting, pointed out the bell, intimated that the wash stands were mahogany, which showed every splash, and explained that the green blinds were meant to be always down when the sun shone in, lest it should fade the carpet. She then withdrew, telling the young ladies that they would find tea ready when they came down. How very handsome Hester is! was the exclamation of both mother and daughter when Sophia had shut the drawing-room door behind her. I wonder, said Mrs. Gray, that nobody ever told us how handsome we should find Hester. I should like to see what fault Mrs. Rowland can find in her face. It is rather odd that one sister should have all the beauty, said Sophia. I do not see anything striking in Margaret. Mrs. Rowland will say she is plain, but in my opinion Margaret is better looking than any of the Rowlands are ever likely to be. Margaret would not be thought plain away from her sister. I hope they are not fine ladies. I am rather surprised at their bringing a maid. She looks a very respectable person, but I did not suppose they would keep a maid till they knew better what to look forward to. I do not know what Mr. Gray will think of it. When Hester and Margaret came down, Mrs. Gray was ready with an account of the Society of the Place. We are as well off for Society, said she, as most places of the size. If you were to ask the bookseller at Blickley, who supplies our club, he would tell you that we are rather intellectual people. And I hope you will see when our friends have called on you, that though we seem to be living out of the world we are not without our pleasures. I think, Sophia, the Levits will certainly call. Oh yes, Mama, to-morrow I have no doubt. Dr. Levit is our rector, observed Mrs. Gray to her guests. We are dissenters, as you know, and our neighbour Mrs. Rowland is very much scandalised at it. If Mr. Rowland would have allowed it, she would have made a difficulty on that ground about having her children educated with mine. But the Levits' conduct might teach her better. They make no difference on account of our being dissenters. They always call on our friends the first day after they arrive, or the second at furthest. I have no doubt we shall see the Levits to-morrow. And Mrs. Enderby, I am sure, said Sophia, if she is at all able to stir out. Oh yes, Mrs. Enderby knows what is right if her daughter does not. If she does not call to-morrow, I shall think that Mrs. Rowland prevented her. She can keep her mother within doors as we know when it suits her purposes. But Mr. Philip is here, Mama, and Mrs. Enderby can do as she likes when she has her son with her. I assure you he is here, Mama. I saw the cobbler's boy carry home a pair of boots there this morning. Sydney had better evidence still to produce. Mr. Enderby had been talking with him about fishing this afternoon. He said he had come down for a fortnight's fishing. Fanny also declared that Matilda Rowland had told Miss Young today that Uncle Philip was coming to see the new schoolroom. Mrs. Gray was always glad on poor Mrs. Enderby's account when she had her son with her. But otherwise she owned she did not care for his coming. He was too like his sister to please her. He is very high to be sure, observed Sophia. And really, there is no occasion for that with us, resumed Mrs. Gray. We should never think of mixing him up with his sister's proceedings if he did not do it himself. No one would suppose him answerable for her rudeness. At least I am sure such a thing would never enter my head. But he forces it upon one's mind by carrying himself so high. I don't think he can help being so tall, observed Sydney. But he buttons up and makes the most of it, replied Sophia. He stalks in like a Polish count. The sisters could not help smiling at this proof that the incursions of the Poles into this place were confined to the book club. They happened to be well acquainted with a Polish count, who was short of stature and did not stalk. They were spared all necessity of exerting themselves in conversation, for it went on very well without the aid of more than a word or two from them. Do you think, Mama, the Andersons will come? asked Sophia. Not before Sunday, my dear. The Andersons live three miles off, she explained, and are much confined by their school. They may possibly call on Saturday afternoon, as Saturday is a half-holiday, but Sunday after church is a more likely time. We do not much approve of Sunday visits, and I dare say you feel the same. But this is a particular case. People living three miles off, you know, and keeping a school. And, being dissenters, we do not like to appear illiberal to those who are not of our own way of thinking. So the Andersons sometimes come in after church, and I am sure you will accept their call just as if it was made in any other way. Hester and Margaret could only say that they should be happy to see Mr. and Mrs. Anderson in any mode which was most convenient to themselves. A laugh went through the family, and a general exclamation of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. The Andersons happened to be two maiden sisters who kept a young lady's school. It was some time before Mrs. Gray herself could so far command her countenance as to frown with becoming severity at Fanny, who continued to giggle for some time, with intervals of convulsive stillness, at the idea that the Andersons could mean Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. In the midst of the struggle, Mr. Gray entered. He laid a hand on the head of each twin, observed that they seemed very merry, and asked whether his cousins had been kind enough to make them laugh already. To these cousins he offered a brief and hearty welcome, remarking that he supposed they had been told what had prevented his being on the spot at their arrival, and that he need not trouble them with the story over again. Sydney had slipped out as his father entered, for the chance of riding his horse to the stable, a ride of any length being in his opinion better than none. When he returned in a few minutes he tried to whisper to Sophia over the back of her chair, but could not for laughing. After repeated attempts Sophia pushed him away. Come, my boy, out with it, said his father, what you can tell your sister you can tell us? What is the joke? Sydney looked as if he had rather not explained before the strangers, but he never dared to trifle with his father. He had just heard from little George Rowland that Mrs. Rowland had said at home that the young ladies at Mr. Gray's, who had been made so much fuss about, were not young ladies after all. She had seen the face of one as they passed her in the shez, and she was sure the person could not be less than fifty. She saw Morris, no doubt, said Hester, amidst the general laugh. I hope she will come to-morrow and see some people who are very little like fifty, said Mrs. Gray. She will be surprised, I think, she added, looking at Hester, with a very meaning manner of admiration. I really hope for her own sake she will come, though you need not mind if she does not. You will have no great loss. Mr. Gray, I suppose you think she will call. No doubt, my dear, Mrs. Rowland never omits calling on our friends, and why should she now? And Mr. Gray applied himself to conversation with his cousins, while the rest of the family enjoyed further merriment about Mrs. Rowland having mistaken Morris for one of the Miss Ibbotsons. Mr. Gray showed a sympathy with the sisters, which made them more at home than they had felt since they entered the house. He knew some of their Birmingham friends, and could speak of the institutions and interests of the town. For a whole hour he engaged them in brisk conversation, without having once alluded to their private affairs or his own, or said one word about Dearbrook society. At the end of that time, just as Mary and Fanny had received orders to go to bed, and were putting their dolls into the cradle in preparation, the scrambling of a horse's feet was heard on the gravel before the front door, and the house bell rang. Who can be coming at this time of night? said Mrs. Gray. It is hope I had no doubt, replied her husband. As I passed his door I asked him to go out to old Mr. Smithson, who seems to me to be rather worse than better, and to let me know whether anything can be done for the old gentleman. Hope has come to report of him, no doubt. Oh, Mama, don't send us to bed if it is Mr. Hope, cried the little girls. Let us sit up a little longer if it is Mr. Hope. Mr. Hope is a great favourite with the children. With us all, observed Mrs. Gray to the sisters. We have the greatest confidence in him as our medical man, as indeed everyone has who employs him. Mr. Gray brought him here, and we consider him the greatest acquisition our society ever had. The sisters could not be surprised at this when they saw Mr. Hope. The only wonder was that in the description of the intellectual society of Dearbrook Mr. Hope had not been mentioned first. He was not handsome, but there was a gaiety of countenance and manner in him under which the very lamp seemed to burn brighter. He came, as Mr. Gray had explained, on business, and not having been aware of the arrival of the strangers, would have retreated when his errand was done. But as opposition was made to this by both parents and children, he sat down for a quarter of an hour to be taken into consultation about how the Ms. Ibbotsons were to be conducted through the process of seeing the sights of Dearbrook. With all sincerity the sisters declared that the woods of the park would fully satisfy them, that they had been accustomed to a life so quiet that excursions were not at all necessary to their enjoyment. Mr. Gray was determined that they should visit every place worth seeing in the neighborhood while it was in its summer beauty. Mr. Hope was exactly the right person to consult, as there was no nook, no hamlet to which his tastes or his profession had not led him. Sophia put paper before him on which he was to note distances, according to his and Mr. Gray's computations. Now it was one peculiarity of Mr. Hope that he could never see a piece of paper before him without drawing upon it. Sophia's music books and any sheet of blotting paper which might ever have come in his way bore tokens of this, and now his fingers were as busy as usual while he was talking and computing and arranging. When, as he said, enough had been planned to occupy a month, he threw down his pencil and took leave till the morning, when he intended to make a call which should be less involuntary. The moment he was gone the little girls laid hands on the sheet of paper on which he had been employed. As they expected it was covered with scraps of sketches, and they exclaimed with delight, Look here! Here is the spring! How fond Mr. Hope is of drawing the spring! And here is the footbridge at Dingleford! And what is this? Here is the place we don't know, Papa. I do not know how you should, my dears. It is the abbey ruined down the river, which I rather think you have never seen. No, but we should like to see it. Are there no faces this time, Fanny? None anywhere? No funny faces this time. I like them the best of Mr. Hope's drawings. Sophia, do let us show them some of the faces that are on your music books. If you will be sure and put them away again, but you know if Mr. Hope is ever reminded of them he will be sure to rub them out. He did old Owen fishing so that he can't rub it out if he would, said Sidney. He did it an ink for me, and that is better than any of your sketches that will rub out in a minute. Come, children, said their father, it is an hour past your bedtime. When the children were gone and Sophia was attending the sisters to their apartment, Mrs. Gray looked at her husband over her spectacles. Well, my dear, said she. Well, my dear, responded Mr. Gray. Do you not think Hester very handsome? There is no doubt of it, my dear. She is very handsome. Do you not think Mr. Hope thinks so, too? It is a fact which few but the despisers of their race like to acknowledge, and which those despisers of their race are therefore apt to interpret wrongly and are unable to make too much of, that it is perfectly natural, so natural as to appear necessary, that when young people first meet the possibility of their falling in love should occur to all the minds present. We have no doubt that it is always so, though we are perfectly aware that the idea speedily goes out again as naturally as it came in, and in no case so speedily and naturally as in the minds of the parties most nearly concerned, from the moment that the concern becomes very near indeed. We have no doubt that the minds in Mr. Gray's drawing-room underwent the common succession of ideas, slight and transient imaginations which pass into nothingness when unexpressed. Probably the sisters wondered whether Mr. Hope was married, whether he was engaged, whether he was meant for Sophia in the prospect of her growing old enough, probably each speculated for half a moment unconsciously for her sister, and Sophia for both. Probably Mr. Gray might reflect that when young people are in the way of meeting frequently in country excursions a love affair is no very unnatural result, but Mrs. Gray was the only one who fixed the idea in her own mind and others by speaking of it. Do you not think Mr. Hope thinks Hester very handsome, Mr. Gray? I really know nothing about it, my dear. He did not speak on the subject as he mounted his horse, and that is the only opportunity he has had of saying anything about the young ladies. It would have been strange if he had, then, before Sydney and the servants. Very strange, indeed. But do you not think he must have been struck with her? I should like very well to have her settled here, and the corner house of Mr. Rowland's might do nicely for them. I do not know what Mrs. Rowland would think of Mr. Hope's marrying into our connection so decidedly. My dear, said her husband, smiling, just consider. For anything we know these young ladies may both be attached and engaged. Hope may be attached elsewhere. No, that I will answer for it. He is not. I— Well, you may have your reasons for being sure on that head, but he may not like the girls. They may not like him. In short, the only thing that has happened is that they have seen each other for one quarter of an hour. Well, there is no saying what may come of it. Very true. Let us wait and see. But there is no harm in my telling you whatever comes into my head. None in the world. Unless you get it so fixed there that somebody else happens to know it too. Be careful, my dear. Let no one of these young people get a glimpse of your speculation. Think of the consequence to them and to yourself. Dear me, Mr. Gray, you need not be afraid. What a serious matter you make of a word or two. Because a good many ideas belong to that word or two, my dear. End of Chapter 1 I had rather look out and sleep, said she. I shall be ashamed to close my eyes on such a prospect. Maurice, if you are waiting for us, you may go. I shall sit up along while yet. Maurice thought she had not seen haste and such spirits since her father's death. She was unwilling to check them, but said something about the fatigues of the journey and being fresh for the next day. No fear for tomorrow, Maurice. We are in the country, you know, and I cannot fancy being tired in the fields and in such a park as that. Good night, Maurice. When she was gone, Hester called Margaret to her, put her arm around her waist and kissed her again and again. Use him happy tonight, Hester, said Margaret's gentle voice. Yes, said Hester. More like being happy than for a long time past. How little we know what we shall feel. Here I have been dreading and dreading this evening and shrinking from the idea of meeting the Grace and wanting to write at the last moment to say that we would not come. And it turns out, oh, so differently. Think of day after day, week after week of pure country life. When they were planning for us tonight and talking about the brook and the lanes and the meadows, it made me very hard dance. Thank God, said Margaret, when your heart dances, there is nothing left to wish. But did not yours? Had you ever such a prospect before, such a prospect of delicious pleasure for weeks together, except perhaps when we caught our first sight of the sea? Nothing can ever equal that, replied Margaret. Do you not hear now the shout we gave when we saw the sparkles on the horizon? Heaving sparkles. When we were a mile off and Mama held me up that I might see it better. And baby, dear baby, clap these little hands. Does it not seem like yesterday? Like yesterday, and yet, if baby had lived, he would now have been our companion, taking the place of all other friends to us. I saw the film when I saw Sidney Gray, but he would have been very unlike Sidney Gray. He would have been five years older, but still different from what Sidney Gray will be at 18. Grayther, more manly. How strange is the idea of having a brother, said Margaret, and never see girls with their brothers, but I watched them, and longed to feel what it is just for one hour. I wonder what difference it would have made between you and me, if we had had a brother. You and he would have been close friends, always together, and I should have been left alone, said Hester with a sigh. Oh yes, she continued interrupting Margaret's protest. It would have been so. There can never be the same friendship between three as between two. And why should you have been the one left out, asked Margaret. But this is all nonsense, all a dream, she added. The reality is the baby died, still a baby, and we know no more of what he would have been than of what he is. The real truth is that you and I are alone, to be each other's only friend. It makes me tremble to think of it, Margaret. It is not so long since our home seemed full. I have used all to sit round the fire and laugh and play with papa, as if we were not to separate, till we had all gone old. And now, young as we are, here we are alone. How do we know that we shall be left to each other? There is only one thing we can do, Hester. Set Margaret resting her head on her sister's shoulder. We must make the most of being together while we can. There must not be a shadow of a cloud between us for a moment. Our confidence must be as full and free. Our whole minds is absolutely open as, as I've read and heard, about two minds can ever be. Those who say so do not know what may be, exclaimed Hester. I am sure there is not a thought, a feeling in me, that I could not tell you, though I know I never could to anyone else. If you were to lose your Hester, there are many, many things, that would shut up in me forever. There will never be anyone on earth to whom I could say the things, that I can tell to you. Do you believe this, Hester? I do, I know it. Then you will never again doubt me, as you certainly have done sometimes. You cannot imagine how my heart sinks, when I see you are fencing that I care for somebody else more than for you, when you think that I am feeling differently from you. O Hester, I know every change of your thoughts by your face, and indeed your thoughts have been mistaken sometimes. They have been wicked often, so test in your low voice. I have sometimes thought that they must be hopelessly bad, when I have found that the strongest affection I have in the world has made me unjust and cruel to the pets and their love best. I have a jealous temper, Margaret, and the jealous temper is a wicked temper. Now you are unkind to yourself, Hester, and do believe you will never doubt me again. I never will, and if you find the thought of the kind rising in me, I will tell you the moment I am aware of it. Do, and I will tell you the moment I see a trace of such a thought in your face, so we shall be safe. We can never misunderstand each other for more than a moment. By the gentle leaf of heaven, all human beings have vicious, not the lowest and dullest, but has the coarseness of his life revealed at moments by some scenery of hope, rising through the brooding fox of his intellect and his heart. Such visitations of mercy are the privilege of the innocent, and the support of the infirm. Here were the lonely sisters sustained in bereavement, in self-rebuke by the vision of a friendship with Juppie and Earth in its depths and freedom. They were so happy for an hour that nothing could disturb them. I do not see, observed Hester, that it will be possible to enjoy any intimate intercourse with this family, unless they are of a different order from what they seem. We cannot have much in common, but I am sure they mean to be kind, and they will let us be happy in our own way. Oh, what mornings you and I will have to get in those woods. Did you ever see anything so soft as their look, in this light? And the bend of the river glittering there. Here, a little more this way, and you will see it as I do. The moon is not there full yet. The river will be like this for some nights to come. And these rides and drives, I hope nothing will prevent our going through the whole list of them. What is the Metamarket? Why, are you so cool about them? I think all the pleasure depends upon the companionship, and I have some doubts about that. I'd rather sit at work in a drawing home all day than go among mountains with people. Like the mansons? Oh, the spreading of shores, and the bustle of the sandwiches, before they could give a look at the waterfall. I'm afraid we may find something of the same drop back here. I'm afraid so. Well, only let us get out into the woods and lanes, and we will manage to enjoy ourselves there. We can't drive to the crest here and there together without being missed. But I think we are judging rather hastily from what we saw this evening, even about this family, and we have no right to suppose it all the acquaintance I like them. No indeed, and I am sure Mr. Hope for one is a different order. He dropped one thing, one little saying. Which proved this to my mind. I know what you mean. About the old man that used to be our guide over the teeth they were talking of. About why the teeth are different and more beautiful place to him than to us, or to his former self. Is it not true what he said? I am sure it is true. I have little to say of my own experience of wisdom or goodness, which ever it was that he particularly meant as giving a new power of sight to the old man. But I know that no three waves to my eye as it did ten years ago and the music of running water is richer to my ears every summer comes round. Yes, I almost wonder sometimes whether all things are not made at the moment by the mind that sees them. So wonderfully do they change with one's mood, and according to the store of thoughts they lay open in one's mind. If we lived in a desert island, supposing one's intellect could go on to grow there, I should feel sure of this. But not here, where I disquiet clear that the village thought if there be one, and Mr. Hope and the children and we ourselves all see the same objects in sunlight and moonlight, and acknowledge them to be the same, though we cannot measure feelings upon them. I wish Mr. Hope may say something more, which may lead the old man under his again. He is coming tomorrow morning. Yes, we shall see him again tomorrow. End of chapter 2, recording by Ellie, February 2010. Chapter 2 of Dearbrook This is a LibriVox recording, and LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ellie. The sisters were not so fatigued with their journey, but they were all in the open air the next morning, in the shrubbery demented winds, walking hand in hand, each with a dull and disengaged arm. You are giving your dolls an earring before breakfast? Said Hester, stopping them as they would have passed on. Yes, we carry out our dolls now, because we must not run before breakfast. We have made arbors in our own gardens for our own dolls, where they may sit when we are swinging. I should like to see your arbors and your gardens, sit, Margaret, looking around her. Will you take me to them? Not now, on that day, we should have to cross the grass, and we must not go upon the grass before breakfast. Where is your swing? I am very fond of swinging. Oh, it is in the archer there, under that large tree, but you cannot. I see, we cannot get to it now, because we should have to cross the grass. And Margaret began to look around for any place, where they might go beyond the gravel walk on which they stood. She moved towards the greenhouse, but found it was never unlocked before breakfast. The summer house remained, and the most unexceptionable pass led to it. The sisters turned that way. You cannot go there, cried the children. Miss Young all set the school room before breakfast. We are going to see Miss Young, explained Hester, smiling at their maids' faces, who switched the children's stare from the end of the pass. There was suddenly sin to turn and walk as fast as they could, without its being called running towards the house. They were gone to the mother's dressing room door, to tell her that the miss Ibitzens were gone to see Miss Young before breakfast. The pass led for some little way under the hedge, separated Mr. Gray's from Mr. Hall's garden. There were voices on the other side, and what was said was perfectly audible. An easy hearing what was not meant for them hest the market give tokens of their presence. The conversation on the other side of the hedge proceeded, and in a very short time the sisters were persuaded that they had been mistaken in supposing that what was said was not meant for them. My own Matilda said the voice, which evidently came from under the lady's bonnet, which moved parallel with Hester's and Margaret's. My own Matilda, I would not be so harsh as to prevent your playing where you please before breakfast, run where you like, my love. I am sorry for little girls who are not allowed to do as they please in the cool of the morning. My children shall never suffer such restriction. Mother, grant a rough little person, I am going to fish as Uncle Philip today, sit near Gray and I are going, I don't know how far up the river. On no account, my dear boy, you must not think of such a thing. I should not have a moment's peace while you are away. You would not be back till evening, perhaps. And I should be fencing all day that you were in the river. It is out of the question, my own George. But I must go, mother. Uncle Philip said I might, and sit near Gray is going. That is only another reason, my dear boy. Your uncle will yield to my wishes, I am sure, as he always does. And if Mrs. Gray allows his son to run such risks, I am sure I should not feel myself justified. You will stay with me, love, won't you? You will stay with your mother, my own boy. George ran roaring away, screaming for Uncle Philip. Was not a tender ever to plead his cause. Mama Tilda resumed the fond mother. You are making yourself a sad figure. You will not be fit to show yourself at breakfast. Do you suppose your papa ever saw such a frog as that? There, look, dripping wet. Bridget, take Mrs. Matilda and change all her clothes directly. So much for my allowing her to run on the grass while the dew is on. Lose your time, Bridget. Let the child to catch cold. Leave Ms. Anne with me. Walk beside me, my Anna. Ah, there is Papa. Papa, we must find some amusement for George today, as I cannot think of letting him go out fishing. Suppose we take the children to spend the morning with their cousins at Dingelfart? Tomorrow would you be better, my love, replied the husband. Indeed, I don't see how I can go today, or you either. And Mr. Hohlen lowered his voice, so as to show that he was aware of his liability to be overheard. Oh, as to that, there is no hurry, replied the lady aloud. If I had nothing else to do, I should not make that call today. Any day will do as well. As has the Margaret looked at each other, they heard the gentleman say softly, Hush, but Mrs. Hohlen went on as audibly as ever. There is no reason why I should be in any hurry to call on Mrs. Gray's friends, whoever and whatever they may be. Any day will do for that, my dear. Not having been yet forbidden to run before breakfast, has the Margaret fled to the summer house, to avoid hearing any more of the domestic dialogues of the Hohlen family. What shall we do when that woman calls, said Hester, how will it be possible to speak to her? As we should speak to any other indifferent person, replied Margaret, her rudeness is meant for Mrs. Gray, not for us, for she knows nothing about us. And Mrs. Gray will never hear from us what has passed. Shall we knock? In answer to the knock, they were requested to enter. Miss Young rose in some confusion, and she found the visitors were other than her pupils. But she was so lame that Hester may test it down again, while they drew seats for themselves. They apologized for breaking in upon her with so little ceremony. But they explained that they were come to be inmates at Mr. Gray's, for some months, and that they wished to lose no time in making themselves acquainted with every result of their family or from they considered themselves apart. Miss Young was evidently pleased to see them. She closed the volume, and assured them that they were welcome to her apartment. For us, had she, everybody calls in my apartment, and why should not I? Do you spend all your time here? Ask Hester. Almost the whole day, I have a lodging in the village, but they leave it early this fine morning, and stay here till dark. I am so lame as to make it inconvenient to pass over the ground often that is necessary. And I find a pleasanter to see trees and grass through every window here, than to look out into a various yard, the only prospect from the lodging. The furnace and sparks are pretty enough on a winter's evening, especially when one is too ill or too dismal to do anything but watch them. But that this season one grows tired of the old wash-shoes and cinders, and so is he here. To this is that they seem the world of desolation in these words. They were always mourning for having no brother. Here was one who appeared to be entirely alone. From not knowing exactly what to say, Mark had opened the book Miss Young had laid aside. It was German, Schiller's Thirty Years' War. Everyone has something to say about German literature. Those who do not understand it are asking whether it is not very mystical and wild and obscure, and those who understand it saying that it is not at all. It would be a welcome novelty if the two parties were to set about finding out what it is to be mystical. A point which, for all that is known to the generality, it is not yet ascertained. Miss Young and her visitors did not end upon precise definitions of this warning. This were left for a future occasion. Meantime it was ascertained that Miss Young had learned the German language by the aid of dictionary and grammar alone, and also that if she should happen to meet anyone who wished to enjoy what she was enjoying, she should be glad to have fought any aid in her power. Hester was satisfied with thanking her. She was old enough to know that learning a new language is a serious undertaking. Margaret was somewhat younger and ready for any enterprise. She saw she saw before her hours of long mornings, when she would be glad to escape from the work table to Miss Young's companionship and to study. The bright field of German literature seemed to open before her to be explored. She warmly thanked Miss Young and accepted to offer the assistance. So you spent all your days alone here, said she, looking round upon the rather bare walls, the matted floor, the children's desks, and the single shelf which helped Miss Young's books. Not exactly all day alone, replied Miss Young. The children are with me five hours a day, and the set of pupils from the village comes to me besides five spare hours in the afternoon. In this way I see a good many little faces every day, and some others too I should hope. Some besides little faces, Miss Young was silent. Margaret hastened on. I suppose most people would say here what it is said everywhere else about the noble lesson privilege of the task of teaching children, but the don't end with those who have to do it. I'm as fond of children as anyone, but then it is having them out to play on the grass or romping with them in the nursery that I like. When it becomes a matter of desks and schoolbooks, I had far rather studied and teach. I believe everybody except perhaps mothers would agree with you, said Miss Young, who was now without apology playing a needle. Indeed, then I am very sorry for you. Thank you, but there is no need to be sorry for me. Do you suppose that one's comfort lies in having a choice of employment? My experience leads me to think the contrary. I do not think I could be happy, said Hester, to be tied down in employment I didn't like. Not to a positively disgusting one, but I'm disposed to think that the greatest number of happy people may be found busy in employment that they have not chosen for themselves and never would have chosen. I'm afraid these very happy people are how they belong to be doing something else. Yes, there is the great trouble they think their experience makes them wiser, that if they were only in another set of circumstances, if they'd only a choice what they would do, a chance for the exercise of the powers they are conscious of, they would do such things should be the wonder and the terror of the earth. But the powers may be doubted if they do not appear in the conquest of circumstances. So you conquer these giddy children, when you are rather be conquering charming mate of physicians or, or what else? There is little to conquer in these children, said Miss Young. They are very good with me. I assure you, if much more to conquer in myself is regard to them, it is but little that I can do for them, and that little I'm apt to despise in the way in desire to do more. How more? If I had them in a house by myself, so that I could educate instead of merely teaching them. But here I'm doing just what we were talking of just now, laying out the pretty looking field of duty, in which there would be probably as many sciences in any other. Teaching has its pleasures. It's great occasional and small daily pleasures, though they are not to be compared to the sublime delights of education. You must have some of these sublime delights mixed with the humbler. You are, in some degree, educating these children while teaching them. Yes, but it is more a negative than a positive function, a very humble one. Governances to children at home can do little more than stand between children and the faults of the people about them. I speak quite generally. Is such an occupation one in which anybody can be happy? Why not, as well as in making pins heads, or in nursing sick people, or in cutting square blocks out of a chalk pit for 30 years together, or in any other occupation which may be ordained to prove to us that happiness lies in the temper and not in the object of their pursuit? Are they not free and happy pin makers and sick nurses and chalk cutters? Yes, but they know how much to expect. They have no idea of pin making in itself being great happiness. Just so. Well, let the governess learn what to expect. Set her free from a hankering of the happiness in her work, and you have a happy governess. I thought such a thing was out of the order of nature. Not quite. There have been such, though there are strong influences against it. The expectations of all parties are unreasonable, and those who are too humble or too aimable to be dissatisfied with others are discontented with themselves when the inevitable disappointment comes. There is a great deal said about the evils of the possession of a governess between the family and the servants. A great deal said that it's very true, and always will be true, while governesses have proud hearts like other people. But these slight evils in comparison is the kind one of the common failure of the relation. There, do you hear the bell? What is it, the breakfast bell? Yes, you must go. I would not be understood as inviting you here, for it is not except upon sufferance my room, and I have no inducement to offer, but they may just say that you will always be welcome. Always, said Margaret, in and out of school hours? In and out of school hours, unless your presence should chance to term a pupil's heads. In that case, you will not be offended if I ask you to go away. Mary and Fanny had just reported in the breakfast parlor that the Miss Ippotsons had been such a time with Miss Young, when he has then Margaret entered. The testimony there was all in favor of Miss Young. Mr. Gray called her most estimable young woman, and Mrs. Gray declared that, though she could not agree with all her points, and decidedly thought that she overheated with Taylor Holland's talents, she was convinced that her children enjoyed great advantages under her care. So, fire added, that she was very superior, quite learned. Mrs. Gray further explained that, though not so much at ease, on the subject of her daughter's education, no one could have any idea of the trouble she had in getting the plan arranged. It had seemed a pity that the Holland's and her children should not learn together. It was such an advantage for children to learn together. But Mrs. Holland had made a thousand difficulties. After breakfast, she would show her young friends to home, which she had proposed to be the schoolroom. Its air and advantages in every way as could be imagined, but Mrs. Holland had objected that she could not have Metellor and George come out in all waters, as if they would have to walk a mile, instead of just a sweep of the gravel walk. Mrs. Holland had proposed that her back parlor should be the schoolroom, but rarely it was not to be sought of, so small and close and such a dull room for Miss Young. The gentlemen had been obliged to take it up at last. Nobody could ever find out which of them it was that had sought of the summer house. Though she was satisfied in her own mind, that Mr. Holland was not in the habit of having such clever ideas. But, however, it was so unsettled. The summer house was so exactly on the boundary line between the two gardens that really no objection had been left for Mrs. Holland to make. She came as near to it as she could, however, for she had had the walk covered at a great expense from her garden door to the summer house, when everybody knew that she did not mind the children getting wetted other times on the grass before the tour was off. And the covered way is quite an eyesore from the drawing-room windows, at its fire. Quiet, said Mrs. Gray, and the camp is seen from ours, as the DIC you observed last night, but there is no doubt that entered into her calculations when she made it. Mr. Gray inquired about the arrangements for the morning and whether he could be of any service. It happened to be a leisure morning with him, and he did not know when he might have another command. So far, I reminded her father that it would be impossible for the ladies of the family to go out when they were expecting the neighbors to call, and this brought on in other speculations as to who would call, and especially when the Rowlands might be looked for. Has the embarked belief they could have settled the matter? But they forbore to speak of what they had overheard. They began to wonder whether the subject of Mrs. Rowland was to be served up with every meal for continuance, and has the fond anticipations of delight in a country life somewhat dampened by the idea of the frowning ghost of the obnoxious lady being forever present. End of Chapter 3, Recording by Ellie, February 2010 Chapter 4 of Tierbrook This is a LibroVox recording. All LibroVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibroVox.org. Recording by Ellie Tierbrook by Harriet Matineux Chapter 4, Morning Calls The little girls had been dismissed to the school room before Mr. Gray had finally pushed away his T-card. Not being wanted by the ladies, he walked off to his timber yard, and his wife followed to ask him some question not intended for the general ear. Sophia was struck with a sudden panic and being left alone with the strangers, and escaped by another door into the storeroom. As the last traces of the breakfast things vanished, Hester exclaimed, So we may please ourselves, it seems, as to what we are to do with our morning. I hope so, said Margaret. You let us get down to the meadow we see from our window, the meadow that looks so flat and green. We may very well take to ours Gray's before we need sit down here in form and order. Hester was willing, and the bonnet too soon on. As Margaret was passing downstairs again, she saw Mrs. Gray and Sophia whispering in her room, the door pitched to the open. She heard the chat instantly, and the result of the consultation soon appeared. Just as the sisters were turning out of the house, Sophia ran after them to say that mama wished they would be so good as to defer the walk. Mama was afraid that if they were seen abroad in the village, it would be supposed that they did not wish to receive visitors. Mama would rather that they should stay within this morning. There was nothing for it but to turn back. And Hester's row down the bonnet was no very good Gray's, as she observed her sister dead. To all appearance, a town life was more free than a country one after all. Let us do our duty fully this first morning, said Margaret. Look, I'm going to carry down my backpack, and you shall see me sit on the same chair from this hour till dinnertime, unless I receive directions to the contrary. There is trend in that amount to this. Hester's chair was placed opposite to Mrs. Gray, who seemed to have pleasure in gazing at her, and in indulging in audible hints and visible wings, and notes about her beauty. To every lady visitor who sit near her, Margaret might please herself as she pleased. At the intervals of the visits of the morning, she was treated with a diversity of entertainment by Sophia, who occasionally summoned her to the window to see how material the Rowland was allowed to run across the road to her grandmamas, as odd so much as they had upon her head. To see Jim Bird, the oldest man in the parish, believed to be near a hundred, who was resting himself on the bank of the hedge. To see the peacock, which had been sent as a present from Sir William Hunter to Mr. James, a lawyer, in which was a great nuisance from its screaming. To say whether the two little reefs, dropping their curtsies as they went home from school, were not little beauties. In the short, to witness all the village spectacles, which present themselves before the windows of an acute observer on a fine spring morning, the young ladies had to return to their seats often as few so heard, or the approach of parasols discerned. Among the earliest visitors were Mrs. Enderby, and their redoubtable sum is the Philip. Mrs. Enderby was a bright-eyed, brisk, little old lady, who was rather apt to talk herself quite out of press, but who had evidently strong tendencies still, and that was to look on the bright side of everything and everybody. She smiled smiles full of meaning and they sent in return for Mrs. Grace Winks about Hester's beauty, and really she had hestered with the counts of how good everybody was at Tearbrook. She was thankful that they made Phoebe was better. She knew that Mrs. Grace would not fail to inquire. Really, Phoebe was much better. The influence had left side-effects, but there were dispersing. It would be a great pity should the girl not quite recover, for she was the most invaluable servant, such a servant as is very rarely to be met with. The credit of restoring her belonged to Mr. Hope, who indeed had done everything. She supposed the ladies would soon be seeing Mr. Hope. He was extremely busy as everybody knew, had very large practice now, but he always contrived to find time for everything. It was exceedingly difficult to find time for everything. There was her daughter, Priscilla, Mrs. Rowland, whose husband was Mr. Grace's partner. Priscilla devoted her life to her children, and dear children there were, and no one who knew what she did for her children would expect anything more from her, but indeed those who knew best she herself, for instance, were fully satisfied that dear Priscilla did wonders. The apology for Mrs. Rowland, in case she should not call, was made without ingenuity. Hester fully understood, and Mrs. Grace showed by her bridling that it was not lost upon her either. Mr. Enderby meanwhile was behaving civilly to Margaret and Sophia. That is to say, he was somewhat more than merely civil to Margaret and somewhat less to Sophia. It was obviously not without reason that Sophia had complained of his utter. He could not, as soon as he pleaded, help being tall, but he might have helped excessive rigidity with which he stood upright till invited to sit down. The fact was that he had reason to believe that the ladies of Mr. Grace's family made very free of his sister's name and affairs. And though he would have been sorry to have been obliged to defend all she said and did, he felt some very natural emotions of dislike towards those who were always putting the worst construction upon the whole of her conduct. He believed that Mr. Grace's influence was exerted on behalf of peace and good understanding, and he sought to perceive that Sidney, with the shortness, which some boys show very early, was more or less sensible to the absurdity of the feud between the partners' wives and daughters. And towards these members of the Grace family, Mr. Enderby felt nothing but goodwill. He talked politics with Mr. Grace in the shrubbery of the Church on Sunday, executed commissions for him in London, and sent him game. And Sidney was under obligations to him for many a morning of sport, and many a service such as gentlemen who are not about five and twenty, and its freaks can render to boys entertaining their teens. Whatever might be his opinion of women in general from the particular specimens which had come in his way, he had too much sense and gentlemanly feeling to include Mrs. Grace's guests in the dislike he felt towards herself, or to suppose that they must necessarily share his position towards his relations. Perhaps he felt unknown to himself some inclination to pre-possess them in favor of his connections. To stretch his complacence a little, as a precaution against the prejudices with which he knew Mrs. Grace would attempt to occupy their minds. However this might be, he was as amicable with Margaret as his mother was with her sister. He soon found out that the strangers were more interested about the natural features of the aproc than about its gossip. He was amused at the earnestness of Margaret's inquiries about the scenery of the neighborhood, and he lovingly promised that she should see every nook within twenty miles. At their say, if I were to ask you, you have never seen a glass bottle blown or a teapot painted. If I have, said Margaret, I know many ladies in Birmingham who have not. You will not be surprised then, if you find some ladies in the aproc could not ride, and who can tell you no more of the pretty places near than if they have been brought up in Whitechapel. They keep the best sights for strangers and not for common use. I am in reality only a visitor at the aproc. I do not live here and never did, yet I am better able to be a guide than almost any resident. The ladies, especially, are extremely domestic. They are far too busy to have ever looked about them. But I will speak to Mr. Gray and... Oh pray, do not trouble Mr. Gray. He has too much business on his hands already, and he is so kind, and he will be putting himself out of his way for us, and all you want is to be in the open air in the fields. All you want? We are like stylings in a cage, and looked as if we were smiling at the well-known speech of the styling, but it is not quoted. The mother is now saying that Mr. Hope finds time for everything, and she is right. He will help us. You must see Hope, and you must like him. He is the great boast of the place, next to the new sign. Is this a remarkable or only new? We are remarkable for ingenuity, if not for beauty. It is the bonnet to blue, a latest bonnet of blue satin with brown bows, or whatever you may call the trimming when you see it. And we are favored besides as the portrait of a millionaire holding the bonnet to blue. We don't nearly as much of this sign as of Mr. Hope, but you must see them both and tell us what you like best. You have seen Mr. Hope. He was here yesterday evening. Well then, you must see him again, and you must not think the worst of him for his being praised by everybody you meet. It is an ordinary case of a village aposicary. Margaret laughed, so little did Mr. Hope look like the village aposicary of her imagination. Ah, I see you know something of the brilliant election of villagers for the aposicary, how the young people wanted it to always be as everybody, and how the old people could not live without him, and how the poor folks take him for a sort of magician, and how he obtains more knowledge of human affairs than of any other kind of man. But Hope is, though a very happy man, not this sort of privileged person. His friends are so attached to him that they confide to him all their own affairs, but they respect him too much to gossip and lodge to him of other peoples. I see you do not know how to credit this, but I assure you, though the inhabitants of the apogase accomplish in the arts of gossip as any villagers in England, Hope knows little more than you do at this moment about who are upon terms and who are not. My sister and I must learn this art of ignorance, said Margaret. If it be really true that the place is full of quarrels, we shall be afraid to stay, unless we can contrive to know nothing about them. Oh, do not suppose we are worse than others who live in villages. Since our present rector came, we threaten some of the both the quarrel average of peace and quiet. And the country has always been identical with the idea of peace and quiet to us, to our great people, said Margaret. And very properly in one sense. But if you leave behind the din of streets for the sake of stepping forth from your work table upon a soft lawn, or of looking out upon the old church steeple among the trees, while you hear nothing but pleading and chirping, you must expect some set off against such advantages. And the set off is the being among a small number of people who are always busy looking into one other small concerns. But that is not a necessary evil, said Margaret. From what you are saying just now, it appears it may be avoided. From what I was saying about hope? Yes, such one's hope may get all the good out of every situation, without its evils. But nobody else, said Margaret, smiling. Well, Heston, I must try whether we cannot have to do with lawns and sheep for a few months without quarrelling or having to do with quarrels. And what if you have made the subject of quarrels, asked Mr. Enderby, how are you to help yourselves in that case? How does Mr. Hope help himself in that case? It remains to be seen, as far as I know, the whole place is agreed about in my present. Everyone will tell you that never was society so blessed with a medical man before, from director to my mother, who never quarrelled with anybody down to the village's cold. I am not going to prepossess you against even our village's cold by telling her name. You will know it in time, though your first acquaintance will probably be with her voice. So we are to hear something besides pleading and chirping. A tremendous knock at the door occurred, as if in angst to this. All the conversation in the room subtly stopped, and Mr. Mrs. Rowland walked in. This is my sister, Mrs. Rowland, observed Mr. Enderby to Margaret. This is my daughter, Priscilla, Mrs. Rowland, said Mrs. Enderby to Heston. Both sisters were annoyed at feeling timid and nervous on being introduced to the lady. There is something imposing in hearing a mere name very often, and the proof that the person it belongs to fills a large space in people's minds. And when the person is thus frequently named as fear and dislike, an idea is originated of a command over powers of evil which makes the actual presence absolutely awful. This seemed now to be felt by all, so far had nothing to say. Mrs. Gray's head twitched nervously, while she turned from one to the other with slight remarks. Mrs. Enderby ran on about the having all happened to call at once, and it's been quite a family party in Mrs. Gray's power. And Mr. Phillips' flow of conversation had stopped. Margaret thought he was trying to help loving. The call could not be an incredible one. The partner's latest quote in their own children's saying is about school and Miss Young, and Miss Young's praise of the children. The itch wide was the other in eulogium of Miss Young, evidently on the ground of her hopes of Fanny and Mary on the one hand, and of Matilda, George and Anna on the other. Mrs. Enderby interposed praises of all the children, while Mr. Holland engaged his attention, calling off her observation and his own from the sparring of the rival mothers. Philip informed Margaret at length that George was a fine little fellow, who would make a good sportsman. There was some blash in taking such a buoyant fishing, but Mr. Philip had lighted on a dangerous topic as he soon found. His sister heard what he was saying, and began an earnest protest against little boys fishing on account of the danger and against any idea that she would allow her George to run any such risks. Of course, this made Mrs. Gray fire up. He said an imputation upon her care of her son Sidney, and before the rest of the company could talk down the dispute, it brought too much of the appearance of a recrimination about the discharge of maternal duties. Margaret saw that, but for the relationship, Mrs. Holland might fairly be concluded to be the village's cold eluded to by Mr. Enderby. It was impossible that he could have been speaking of his sister. But the abrog was a very unfortunate place, if it contained a more unable person than she appeared at this moment. The faces of the two ladies were still flashed with excitement when Mr. Hope came in. The sister saw that he appeared like a good genius, so he enabled the party to grow on his entrance. It seemed as if he was a great favorite with Mr. Holland's assistiada family. So friendly was the gentleman and so gracious the lady, when Mr. Hope was, to all appearance unconscious, of the existence of any unpleasant feelings among his neighbors. The talk flowed on about the concerns of the personages of the village, about the aspect of public affairs, about the poets of the age, and what kind of poetry was most right in Dearbrook, and how the book society went on, till all had grown cordial, and some began to propose to be hospitable. Mrs. Holland hoped for the honor of seeing the Miss Ibertsens one day the next week, when Mr. Holland should have returned from a little excursion of business. Mrs. Enderby wondered whether she could prevail all her young friends to spend an evening with her before her son left Dearbrook. The Mrs. Craig if noticed that she should shortly issue her invitations to those with whom she wished her young cousins to become better acquainted. All went right for the rest of the morning, and the Enderby's and Roland's went the way the poets came. When Dr. Lloyd inquired about the scores in Birmingham, it could not be come out that Heston Margaret were dissenters. Yet, as they were desired to observe, did not seem in the least shocked, and his manner was just as kind to them after this disclosure as before. He was pronounced a very liberal man. Mr. Hope was asked to stay to dinner, and Mrs. Craig complacently related the events of the morning to her husband as he took his place at the table. Dearbrook had done his duty to Heston Margaret pretty well for the first day. Everybody of consequence had called by the Endersens, but they would not doubt come on Sunday. End of Chapter 4, Recording by Ellie, February 2010 Chapter 5, Part 1 of Dearbrook This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dearbrook by Harriet Mentino Chapter 5, The Meadows, Part 1 The afternoon was the time when Miss Young's pupils practiced the mysteries of the needle. Little girls are not usually fond of sewing, till they become clever enough to have devices of their own, to cut out a doll's petticoat, or contrive a pincushion to surprise mama. Sewing is a mere galling of the fingers and strain upon the patience. Every writhe stitch shows and is pretty sure to be remarked upon. The seam or hem seems longer the offener it is measured. Till the little workwoman becomes capable of the enterprise of dispatching a whole one at a sitting, after which the glory is found to ameliorate the toil, and there is a chance that the girl may become fond of sewing. Miss Young's pupils had not arrived at this stage. It was a mystery to them that Miss Young could sit sewing, as fast as her needle could fly for the whole afternoon. And during the intervals of their lessons in the morning, it was in vain that told them that some of their pleasantest hours were those which she passed in disappointment, and that she thought they would perhaps grow as a fond of work as their sister. Sophia, before they were as old as she, with languid steps did the twins return to the house this afternoon for another pair of shirt sleeves, and show mama the work they had finished, hand in hand as usual and carrying up for judgment their last performance. They entered the house. In a very different mood did they return, running, skipping, and jumping. They burst again into the summer house. Miss Young, oh Miss Young, we are to have a holiday. Mama sends her complaints to you, Miss Young, and she hopes you will give us a holiday. It is a fine afternoon, she thinks, and my cousins have never gathered cow slips. We are all going into the meadow for a cow slip gathering, and Mr. Hope will come to us there. He has to go somewhere now, but he will come to us before we have half done. Matilda Rawland looked fall of dismay till she was told that Mrs. Gray hoped she would be of the party, and begged that she would go directly and ask her mama's leave. What a quantity of cow slips we shall get, observed Mary, as she took down Fanny's basket from the nail on which it hung, and then her own. We are each to have a basket, mama says, that we may not quarrel. What shall we do with such a quantity of cow slips? Make tea of them to be sure, replied Fanny. We may dry them in this window. May not we, Miss Young? And we will give you some of our cow slip tea. Miss Young smiled and thanked them. She did not promise to drink of the promise tea. She had a vivid remembrance of the cow slip drying of her young days, when the picked flowers lay in a window till they were laced all over with cow webs. And when they were at length popped into the teapot with all speed, to hide the fact that they were moldy, she remembered the good-natured attempts of her father and mother to swallow, a doll's cupful of her cow slip's tea, rather than discourage the spirit of enterprise which, now that she had lost those whom she loved, was all that she had to trust to. Fanny, said Mary, with eyes wide open, cannot we have a feast here for my cousins when we make our cow slip tea? A feast? Oh, that would be grand, replied Fanny. I have a shilling, and so have you, and we could buy a good many nice things for that, and Matilda Rawland will lend us her doll's dishes and put with ours. Miss Young, will you let us have our feast here one afternoon? We will ask my cousins, without telling them anything, and they will be so surprised. Miss Young promised everything, engaged not to tell, soothed their hair, tied their bonnets, and send them away quite happy with their secret. Such a holiday as this was one of Miss Young's few pleasures. There were several occasions in the year when she could make sure beforehand of some hours to herself. Her Sundays were much occupied with the Sunday school, and with intercourse with poor neighbors whom she could not meet on any other day but Christmas day, the day of the annual fair of Dearbrook, and two or three more were her own. Those were, however, so appropriated long before to some object that they lost much of their character of holidays. Their true holidays were such as the afternoon of this day, ours suddenly set free, little gifts of leisure to be spent according to the fancy of the moment. Let none pretend to understand the value of such whose lives are all leisure, who take up a book to pass the time, to saunter in gardens because there are no morning visits to make, who exaggerate the writing of a family letter into important business. Such have their own enjoyments, but they know nothing of the paroxysm of pleasure, of a really hard-working person on hearing the door shut with excludes the business of life, and leaves the delight of free thoughts in hands. The worst part of it is the having to decide how to make the most of liberty. Miss Young was not long in settling this point. She just glanced up at her shelf of books, and down upon her drawing board, and abroad through the south window, and made up her mind. The Asesia, with its fresh bunches of blossoms, was waving above the window, casting in flickering shadows upon the floor. The evergreens of the shrubbery twinkled in the sun as the light breeze swept over them. The birds were chirping all about, and a yellow butterfly alighted and trembled on the windowsill, at the moment. It was one of the softest and gayest days of spring, and the best thing was to do nothing but enjoy it. She moved to the south window, with her work, and sowed or let the wind blow upon her face as she looked out. The landscape was a wide one, far beyond and somewhat below the garden, and shrubberies in which the summer house stood, flat meadows stretched to brink of the river. On the other side of which were the park woods, all was bathed in the afternoon sunshine, except where a tree here and there cast a flake of shadow upon the grass of the meadows. It is a luxury, thought the gazer, for one who cannot move about to sit here and look abroad, I wonder whether I should have been with the party if I had not been lame. I daresay something would have taken off from the pleasure if I had. But how well I can remember what the pleasure is, the jumping styles, the feel of the turf underfoot, the running after every flower, the going wherever one has a fancy to go. How well I remember it all, and yet it gives me a sort of surprise to see the activity of these children, and how little they are aware of what their privilege is. I fancy, however, the pleasure is more in the recollection of all such natural enjoyments than at the moment. It is so with me, and I believe with everybody. This very landscape is more beautiful to me in the dark night, when I cannot sleep, than at this very moment, when it looks its best and brightest. And surely this is the great difference between that sort of pleasures, and those which come altogether from within. The delight of a happy mood of mind is beyond everything at the time. It sets one above all that can happen, its steep one in heaven itself. But one cannot recall it, one can only remember that it was so. The delight of being in such a place as those woods is generally more or less spoiled at the time by trifles, which are forgotten afterwards. One is hungry or tired, or a little vexed with somebody, or doubtful whether somebody else is not vexed. But then the remembrance is purely delicious, brighter in sunshine, softer in shade, wholly tempered to what is genile. The imagination is a better medium than the eye. This is surely the reason why Brian could not write poetry on Lake Lehman, but found he must wait till he got within four walls. This is the reason why we are all more moved by the slightest glimpses of food descriptions and books than by the amplitude of the same objects before our eyes. I used to wonder how that was when, as a child, I read the openings of scenes and books in paradise lost. I saw plenty of summer sunrises, but none of them gave me a feeling like the two lines. Now more, her rosy steps in the eastern climb advancing, so the earth with orient pearl. If all this be so, our lot is more equalized than is commonly thought. Once having received pictures into our minds and possessing a clear eye in the mind to see them with, the going about to obtain more is not a very great consequence. This comforts one for prisoners suffering carcerie duro, and for townspeople who cannot often get out of the streets, and for lame people like me who see others tripping over commons and through fields which we cannot go. I wish there was as much comfort the other way, about such as suffer from unhappy moods of mind, and no little of the joy of the highest. It would be a small gain to them to fly like birds, to see like the eagle itself. Oh there are the children! So that is their cow ship meadow, how like children they all look together. Down on the grass, gathering cow slips, I suppose the two in black are more eager about it than Sophia. She sits on the stile while they are busy. The children are holding forth to their cousins, teaching them something evidently. How I love to overlook people, to watch them acting unconsciously, and speculate for them. It is the most tempting thing in the world to contrast the little affairs one sees them to busy about, with the very serious ones which await everyone. There are those two strangers busy gathering cow slips, and perhaps thinking of nothing beyond the fresh pleasure of the air and the grass, and the scent of their flowers, their minds quite filled with the spirit of the spring, when who knows what may be awaiting them. Love may be just at hand. The tempest of passion may be brewing under this soft sunshine. They think themselves now as full of happiness as possible, and a little while hence, upon a few words spoken, a glance exchanged. They may be in such heaven a bliss that they will smile at their own ignorance in being so well pleased today. Or, but I pray they may escape the other change, neither of them knows anything of that mystery yet. I am confident they both look too young, too open, too free to have really suffered. I wonder whether it is foolish or too fancy already that one of them may be settled here. It can hardly be foolish when the thought occurs so naturally, and these great affairs of life lie distinctly under the eye of such, as are themselves, cut off from them. I am out of the game, and why should I not look upon its chances? I am quite alone, and why should I not watch for others? Every situation has its privileges and its obligations. What is it to be alone, and to be let alone as I am? It is to be put into a post of observation on others, but the knowledge so gained is anything but a good if it stops at mere knowledge. If it does not make me feel and act, woman who have what I am not to have, a home and intimate, a perpetual call of themselves, may go on more safely, perhaps without any thought for themselves, than I, with all my best consideration, but I with the blessing of a preparatory vocation, which is to stand me instead of sympathy, ties and spontaneous action, I may find out that it is my proper business to keep an intent eye upon the possible events of other people's lives, that I may use slight occasions of action, which might otherwise pass me by. If one were thoroughly wise and good, this would be sort of divine lot, without being at all wiser or better than others, being even as weak in judgment and in faith as I am, something may be of it without daring to meddle, one may stand clear-sighted, ready to help, how the children are flying over the meddle towards that gentleman who is fastening his horse to the gate. Mr. Hope, no doubt, he is the oldest cow slip we have the rare of them all, I fancy. If one could overhear the talk in every house along the village, I daresay some of it is about Mr. Hope, winning one of these young ladies. If so, it is only what I am thinking about myself. Everyone wishes to see Mr. Hope married, everyone, even to the servants here, who are always disputing whether he will not have Miss Sophia, or whether Miss Sophia will not do him, but it is very possible that one of these girls may, and the other, but I will not think about that today, how yellow the glow is upon these woods, what heavenly hues hang about the world we live in, but how strange is the lot of some in it. One would wonder why, when all are so plainly made to feel and act together, there should be any one completely solitary. There must be a reason, I would feign know it, but I can't wait till we may know all. Such were some of Maria's young natural and unchecked thoughts, there was not much of common holiday spirit in them, but to Maria liberty and peace were holiday, and her mind was not otherwise than peaceful. She was serious, but not sad. Anyone who could not at the moment have seen her face would have pronounced her cheerful at heart, and so she was. She had been so long and so far banished from ordinary happiness that her own quiet speculations were material enough for cheerfulness. The subject on which she would not think today was the possibility of one of the sisters attaching Mr. and her by. Maria Young had not always been solitary and lame and poor, her father had not been very long dead, and while he lived no one supposed that his only child would be poor, her youth passed gaily, and her adversity came suddenly. Her father was wont to drive her out in his gig almost every summer day. One evening the horse took fright and upset the gig on a heap of stones by the roadside. Mr. Young was taken up dead, and Maria was blamed for life. She had always known the enderbias very well, and there had been some gossip among their mutual acquaintance about the probability that Philip would grow up to be Maria's lover when he should be old enough to think of marrying. It was never further than this except in Maria's own heart. She had indeed hoped even supposed that in Philip's mind the affair had at least been entertained thus far. She could never settle to her own satisfaction whether she had been weak and mistaken, or whether she had really been in any degree wronged. There had been words, there had been looks, but words and looks are so easily misinterpreted. The probability was that she had no one to blame but herself. If fault there was, perhaps there was no fault anywhere, but there was misery, intense and long. During her illness no tidings came of Philip. He was in another part of the country when the accident happened, and it was not till long after it had been made known that Mr. Young had died insolvent, not till after Maria had recovered as far as recovery was possible, not till she had fallen into the habit of earning her bread, and told her with how much concern he had heard of her sufferings. This interview gave her entire possession of herself, so she believed, she got through it calmly, and it left her with one subject at least of intense thankfulness that her mind was known only to herself. Whatever might be her solitary struggles she might look without the same into the face of every human being she could bear being pitied for her poverty, for her lameness, for her change of prospects when the recollection of this came across any of her acquaintance, if it had been necessary she could probably have borne to be pitied for having loved without return, but she could not be too thankful that it was not necessary. Maria was right in her supposition that the village was speculating upon the newly arrived young ladies. The parish clerk had for some years indeed ever since the death of the late stationer, and dispenser of letters carried on a flirtation with the widow, notwithstanding the rumors which were current. As to the cause to which her late husband owed his death it was believed that poor Harriet Plumstead died of exhaustion from his wife's voice, for she was no other than the village's scold. Of whose existence Margaret had been warned by Mr. Enderby some thought that Owen was acting a politic part in protracting this flirtation, keeping her temper in check by his hold upon her expectations, and such had little doubt that the affair would linger on to the end, without any other result than Owen's exemption, meanwhile from the inflections of her tongue, to which in the discharge of his office he might otherwise become frequently liable, others wish to see them married, believing that in Owen a Welshman sufficiently irascible, Mrs. Plumstead would at last meet her batch. This afternoon an observer would have thought the affair was proceeding to this point. Mrs. Plumstead, looking particularly calmly and gracious, was putting up an unclaimed letter at the window for display. When Owen stopped to ask if she had seen the pretty young ladies who had come to Dearbrook, she remarked that to be sure. They might have gone to some place where they were wanted, for Dearbrook was not without pretty faces of its own before. And as he said so, he smiled hard in the window's face. He should not wander if some work for the rector should rise up before long, nor where there were pretty faces. Weddings might be looked for. He even asked Mrs. Plumstead if she did not think so, and added something so ambiguous about his own share in the work for the rector, which was to arise, that the widow could not make out whether she spoke as her admirer or as parish clerk. In the milliner's work room there, there was a spirited conversation between Miss Nair's and her assistant. On the past wedding dresses of Dearbrook, arising out of the topic of the day, the Miss Ibbotson's, Mrs. Howell, who, with her shopwoman, Miss Miskin, dispensed the haberdashery of the place. Smiled winningly at every customer who entered her shop, and talked of delightful accusations, and what must be felt about Mr. Hope in the midst of such charming society, and what it must be hoped would be felt, and how gay the place is likely to be with writing parties and boating parties, and some said dances on the green at Mrs. Enderby's, and how partners in a dance have been known to become partners for life, jacosally told when her poor dear Howell prevailed on her to stand up with him. The first time for twenty years at his niece's wedding, Hester's beauty and what Mrs. Gray had said about it to her mind, were discussed, just at the moment when Hester, passing the shop, was entreated by Sophia to look at a new pattern of embroidery, which had lately arrived from London, and was suspended at the window. Mrs. Howell entered Gossips, caught a glimpse of the face of the young lady, through the drapery of prints and muslims, and the festoons of ribbons, and when the party proceeded down the street there was a rush to the door, in order to obtain a view of her figure. She was pronounced beautiful, and it was hoped that some gentleman in the village would find her irresistible. It was only rather strange that no gentleman was in attendance of on her now. If the Gossips could have followed the party with their eyes into the metal, they would soon have been satisfied, for it was not long before Mr. Hope joined them there, on leaving Mr. Gray's table. He was as little disposed to go and visit the patient, as medical men are when they are called away from the merriest company, or at the most interesting moment of a conversation. The liability to this kind of interruption is one of the great drawbacks of the profession, to which Mr. Hope belonged. Another is, the impossibility of traveling, the being fixed to one place for life without any but the shortest intervals of journeying. Mr. Hope had been settled for five years at Dearbrook, and during that time he had scarcely been out of sight of its people. His own active and gladsome mind had kept him happy among his occupations. There was no one in the place with whom he could hold equal converse, but while he had it not, he did not feel the pressing heart was ever full of interest. He did not feel the pressing want of it. He loved his profession, and it kept him busy. His kind heart was ever full of interest. For his poorer patients, seeing the best side of everybody, he could be entertained, though sometimes vexed by his intercourse with the Gray's and Rawlands. Then there was the kindly tempered and gentlemanly rector, and Phillip Enderby often came down for a few weeks, and Mr. Hope had the chief management of the book society, and could thus see the best new books. And his professional rise lay through a remarkably pretty country. He kept up a punctual and copious correspondence with the members of his own family, with his married sisters, and with his only brother, now with his regiment in India relating to them every important circumstance of his lot, and almost every interesting feeling of his heart with this variety of resources. Life had passed away cheerily on the whole with Mr. Hope. For the five years of his residence at Dearbrook, though there were times when he wondered whether it was to be always thus, whether he was to pass to his grave without any higher or deeper human intercourses than he had here. If it had been possible, he might, like other men as wise as himself, have invested one of the young ladies of Dearbrook with imaginary attributes, and have fallen in love with the creature of his own fancy. But it really was not possible. There was no one of the young ladies of Dearbrook who was not so far inferior to the woman of Hope's own family. To the mother he had lost, and the sisters who were settled far away, as to render this commonest of all delusions impossible to him. To such a man so circumcised, it may be imagined how great an event was the meeting with Hester and Margaret. He could not be in their presence, ten minutes without becoming aware of their superiority to every woman he had seen for five years past. The beauty of the one, the sincerity and unconsciousness of the other, and the general elevation of both struck him forcibly the first evening. His earliest thought the next morning was of some great event having taken place. And when he left Mr. Gray's door after dinner, it was with an unwillingness which made him spur himself and his horse on to their business, that he might the sooner return to his newfound pleasure. His thoughts already darted forward to the time when the Miss Ibbotsons would be leaving Dearbrook. It was already a heavy thought how dull Dearbrook would be with help them. He was already unconsciously looking at every object and speculating object in and around the familiar place with the eyes of the strangers, speculating on how the whole would appear to them. In short, his mind was full of them. There are perhaps none who do not know that this kind of impression is. All have felt it, at some time or another. Many have felt it often, about strangers whom they had been predisposed to like, or with whom they had been struck at meeting. Nine times out of ten, perhaps the impression of fleeting, and when it is gone, there is an unwillingness to return to it. Absurdity in having been so much interested without one who so soon became indifferent, but the fact it is not the less real, and general for this. When it happens between two young people who are previously fancy-free, and circumstances favor the impression till it sinks deeper than the fancy, it takes the name of love at first sight. Otherwise it pauses away without a name, without a record. For an hour it is a secret, in and after time it is forgotten. Possessed unconsciously with the street, hope threw himself from his horse at the entrance of the meadow, where the cow slip-gatherers were busy, fastened his steed to the gate, and joined the party. The children ran to him with the gleaning of intelligence, which they had acquired since he saw them last. Half an hour before, that it was well they did not put off their gathering any longer, for some of the flowers were beginning to dry up already, that cousins had never taste cow slip tea, was not this very odd. That cousin Hester would not help to pick the flowers for drying. She thought it such a pity to pull the blossom out of the calyx, that Sophia would not help either, because it was warm. That cousin Margaret had gathered a great many, but she had been ever so long washing a spider's nest, a nasty large spider's nest, that Matilda was just going to break into, when cousin Margaret asked her not to spoil it. Margaret was indeed on her knees, prying into the spider's nest, when duly laughed at, she owned, to having seen cobwebs before, but maintained that cobwebs in a closet were a very different affair from a spider's nest in a field. I rather think, however, said she, the word nest itself has something to do with my liking, for what I have been looking at. Some of your commonest country words have a charm to the ear and imagination of townspeople that you could not understand. But, said Mr. Hope, I thought nests were very common in Birmingham. Have you not nest of boxes and nest of work tables? Yes, and so we have stacks of chimneys. But yet we do not think of haymaking, when we see the smoke of the town. I rather think country words are only captivating, as relating to the country. But then you cannot think how bewitching they are to people who live in streets. The children might have found you a prettier sort of nest to indulge your fancy with. I should not think. There must be plenty of creatures beside spiders in this wide meadow. Mr. Hope called out to the little girls that whoever should find any sort of a nest in the meadow, for Miss Margaret Ibbotson, should have a ride on his horse. Away flew the children, and Hester and Sophia came from the water-side to know what all the bustle was about. Fanny returned to inquire whether the nests must be in the meadow, whether just outside would not do. She knew there was an ants nest in the bank, just on the other side of the hedge. The decision was that the ants nest would do only in the case of her not being able to find any other within bounds. Sophia looked on languidly, probably thinking all this very silly. It put her in mind of an old school fellow of hers who had been called very clever before she came to school at nine years old. Till she saw her, Sophia had believed that town children were always clever. But no later than the very first day this little girl had gotten to disgrace with the governess. Her task was to learn by heart Goldsmith's country clergyman in the deserted village. She said it quite perfectly, but when questioned about the meaning stopped short at the first line, near Yonder Cops, where once a garden smiled. She persisted that she did not know what a Cops was. The governess said she was obstinate and shut her up in the play hours between morning and afternoon school. Sophia never could make out whether the girl was foolish or obstinate in persisting that she did not know what a Cops was. But her cousin Margaret now put her in mind of this girl, with all her town feelings, and her fuss about spider's nests. How is old Mr. Smith's in today, Sophia inquired of Mr. Hope by way of introducing something more rational? Not better. It is scarcely possible that he should be, was the reply. Papa thought last night he must be dying. He is dying. Have you just come from a patient who is dying? asked Hester, with a look of anxiety, with which was mixed some surprise. Yes, from one who cannot live many days. Sophia observed that Mr. James had been sent for early this morning, no doubt to put the finish to the will, but nobody seemed to know whether the old gentleman would leave his money to his neighbour or his stepson, or whether he would divide it between them. Hester and Margaret showed no anxiety on this point, but seemed so ready to be interested about some others as to make Mr. Hope think that they were only restrained by delicacy from asking all that he could tell about his patient's state. They knew enough of the profession, however, to be aware that this kind of inquiry is the last which should be addressed to a medical man. You are surprised, said he, that I come from a dying patient to play with the children in the fields. Come, acknowledge that this is in your minds. If it is, it is an unreasonable thought, said Margaret. You must see so many dying people, it would be hard that in every case you should be put out of the reach of pleasure. Never mind the hardship, if it be fitting, said Hope. Hard or not hard, is it natural? Is it possible? I suppose witnessing death so often does lessen the feelings about it, observed Hester, yet I cannot fancy that one's mind could be at liberty for small concerns immediately after leaving a house full of mourners and the sight of one in pain. There must be something distasteful in everything that meets one's eyes in the sunshine itself. True, that is the feeling in such cases, but such cases seldom occur. Yes, I mean what I say, such cases are very rare. The dying person is commonly old, or so worn out by illness as to make death at last no evil. When the illness is shorter, it is usually found that a few hours in the sick room do the work of months of common life in reconciling the minds of survivors. I am sure that is true, observed Margaret. It is so generally the case that I know no set of circumstances in which I should more confidently reckon on the calmness, forethought and composure of the persons I have to deal with than in the family of a dying person. The news comes suddenly to the neighbours, all the circumstances rush at once into their imaginations, all their recollections and feelings about the sufferer agitate them in quick succession, and they naturally suppose the near friends must be more agitated in proportion to their nearness. The watches, meanwhile, said Hester, have had time in the long night to go over the past in the future again and again, and by morning all seem so familiar that they think they can never be surprised into grief again. So familiar, said Mr. Hope, that their minds are at liberty for the smallest particulars of their duty. I usually find them ready for the minutest directions I may have to give. Yes, the time for surprise, for consternation, is long afterwards, said Hester, with some emotion. When the whole has become settled and finished in other minds, the nearest mourners begin to wake up to their mourning. And thus, said Margaret, the strongest agitation is happily not witnessed. Happily not, said Mr. Hope. I doubt whether any body's strongest agitations ever are witnessed. I doubt whether the sufferer himself is often aware of what are really his greatest sufferings. And he is so ashamed of them that he hides them from himself when it is possible. I cannot but think that any grief which reveals itself is very indurable. Is not that rather hard? asked Margaret. How does it seem to you hard? Is it not merciful that we can keep our worst sorrows, that we are disposed, as it were, forced, to keep them from afflicting our friends? But is it not saying that bereavement of friends is not the greatest of sorrows, while all seem to agree that it is? Is it, generally speaking, the greatest of sorrows? I think not, for my own parts. There are cases in which the loss is too heavy to bear being the subject of any speculation, almost of observation—for instance, when the happiest married people are separated, or when a first or only child dies. But I think there are many sorrows greater than a separation by death of those who have faith enough to live independently of each other, and mutual love enough to deserve, as they hope, to meet again hereafter. I assure you I have sometimes come away from houses unvisited, and unlikely to be visited by death, with a heart so heavy as I have rarely or never brought from a deathbed. I should have thought that would be left for the rector to say, observed Hester, I should have supposed you meant cases of guilt or remorse. Cases of guilt or remorse, continued Mr. Hope, and also of infirmity. People may say what they will, but I am persuaded that there is a measurably more suffering endured, both in paroxysms and for a continuance, from infirmity, tendency to a particular fault, or the probation of a sense, than from the loss of any friend upon earth, except the very nearest and dearest. And even that case is no exception, when there is the faith of meeting again, which almost every mourner has, so natural and welcome as it is. Do you tell your infirm friends the high opinion you have of their sufferings, asked Margaret? Why not exactly? That would not be the kindest thing to do, would it? What they want is to have their trouble lightened to them, not made the worst of. Lightened, not by using any deceit, of course, but by simply treating their case as a matter of fact. Then surely you should make light of the case of the dying too, make light of it even to the survivors. Do you do this? In one sense I do, in another sense no one can do it. Not regarding death as a misfortune, I cannot affect to consider it so. Regarding the change of existence as a very serious one, I cannot, of course, make light of it. That way of looking at it regards only the dying person. You have not said how you speak of it to survivors. As I speak of it to you now, or to myself when I see anyone die, with the added consideration of what the survivors are about to lose. That is a large consideration, certainly, but should not one give them credit for viewing death as it is, and for being willing to bear their own loss cheerfully, as they would desire to bear any other kind of loss, especially if, as they say, they believe it to be only for a time. This, as looking on the bright side, observed Hester in a low voice, but she was overheard by Mr. Hope. I trust you do not object to the bright side of things, said he, smiling, as long as there is so much about us that is really very dark. What can religion before, said Margaret, or reason or philosophy, whichever name you may call your faith by, but to show us the bright side of everything, of death among the rest? I have often wondered why we seem to try to make the most of that evil, if evil it be, while we think it a duty to make the least of every other. I had some such feeling, I suppose, when I was surprised to hear that you had come hither straight from a death-bed. I do not wonder at all now. Mr. Smithson will not be much missed, observed Sophia, who felt herself relieved from the solemnity of the occasion by what had passed, and at liberty to speak of him as freely as if he was no nearer death than ever. He has never been a sociable neighbour. I always thought him an odd old man from the earliest time I can remember. Some few will miss him, said Mr. Hope. He is a simple-hearted shy man who never did himself justice, except with two or three who saw most of him. Their affection has been enough for him, enough to make him think now that his life has been a very happy one. There, cried Hope, as a lark sprang up almost from under the feet of the party, there is another member of Dearbrook Society ladies who is anxious to make your acquaintance. There were two or three larks hovering above the meadow at this moment, and others were soaring further off. The air was full of lark music. The party stood still and listened. Looking up into the sunny sky, they watched one little warbler, wheeling around, falling, rising again, still warbling, till it seemed as if it could never be exhausted. Sophia said it made her headache to look up so long, and she seemed impatient for the bird to have done. It then struck her that she also might find a nest, like her sisters, and she examined the place whence the lark had sprung, under a thick tuft of grass, in a little hollow she found a family of infant larks huddled together and pointed them out to her cousins. The children came upon being called. They were damped in spirits. They did not see how they were to find any nests, if the ant's nest would not do, unless indeed Mr. Hope would hold them up into the trees or hedges to look, but they could not climb trees Mr. Hope knew. They were somewhat further mortified by perceiving that they might have found a nest by examining the ground, if they had happened to think of it. Margaret begged they would not be distressed at not finding nests for her, and Mr. Hope proposed to try his luck, saying that if he succeeded, everyone who wished should have a ride on his horse. To the surprise of the children, he turned towards the water and walked along the bank. The brimming river was smooth as glass, and where it stood in among the rushes, and in every tiny inlet it was as clear as the air, and alive with small fish, which darted at the flies that dimpled the surface. A swan which had been quietly sailing in the middle of the stream changed its deportment as the party proceeded along the bank. It ruffled its breast-feathers, arched back its neck till the head rested between the erect wings, and drove through the water with a speed which shivered the pictures in it as a sweeping gale would have done. What is the matter with the creature? asked Margaret. I never saw a swan behave so. The children seemed rather afraid that the bird would come on shore and attack them. Mr. Hope took the opportunity of its being at some little distance, to open the rushes, and show where a fine milk-white egg lay in a large round nest. Oh! Mr. Hope, you knew, cried the children, you knew there was a swan's nest near. Yes, and did not you, when you saw how the swan behaved? But I was aware of this nest before. Tom Creach has the care of the park's swans. He made this nest, and he told me where it was. Let your cousins have a peep, and then we will go, before the poor swan grows too much frightened. And now, who will have a ride on my horse? All the children chose to ride, and while Mr. Hope was coursing with them in turn, round and round the meadow, the young ladies proceeded along the bank. A quarter of a mile further on, they fell in with Sidney Gray and his friend Mr. Philip. They had been successful in their sport. Mr. Enderby had had enough of it, and was stretched on the grass reading, while Sidney stood on the roots of an old oak, casting his line into the pool beneath its shadow. So here you are quite safe, said Sophia. George Rowland might have come after all. Poor boy! I am glad he is not with us. He would be so mortified to see all the fish you have caught without him. How many times have we been in the river, Sidney? Can you remember? asked Mr. Enderby. I have seen no fish big enough to pull us in, said Sidney, and I do not know any other way of getting a wetting at this sport. Mrs. Rowland should have seen George and me climbing the old oak at the two-mile turning. I dared George to it, and there he hung over the water, at the end of the branch, riding up and down like a seesaw. She would think nothing of letting him go fishing after that. If the branch had broken, said Mr. Enderby, what would you have done then? Oh! it is not often that a branch breaks. Old oaks are apt to break sooner or later, and the next time you dare George to seesaw over the river, I would advise you to consider beforehand how you would get him out in case of his dropping in. Oh! he is not afraid. One day lately, when the water was low, he offered to cross the way at Dingleford. I did not persuade him to that, but he pulled off his shoes and stockings, and got over in back safe enough. Indeed, and you tried it too, I suppose. Yes, it would be a shame if I could not do what George can. It was almost as easy as walking along this bank. I shall talk to Master George, however, before he goes to Dingleford again, or he may chance to find it easier some day to miss his footing than to hold it. I wonder Mrs. Rowland is afraid to let George go out with you, said Sophia, considering what things he does when you are not with him. She does not know of these pranks, or she would feel as you do, and I hope everyone here will be kind enough not to tell her. It would only be making her anxious to no purpose, whenever the boy is out of her sight. It would be a pity to make a coward of him, and I think I can teach him what is mischief and what is not, without disturbing her. Come, ladies, suppose you rest yourselves here. You will find a pleasant seat on this bank. At least I fell asleep on it just now, as if I had been on a sofa. I wish you would all go to sleep, or else walk off, said Sidney. You make so much noise I shall never catch any fish. Suppose you were to go somewhere else, said Mr. Enderby. Would not that be rather more civil than sending us all away? Sidney thought he would find another place. There were plenty along the bank. He gathered up bait and basket, and trudged off. There was an amusement, however, which he liked better even than fishing, and for which he now surrendered it. He was presently seen cantering round the meadow on Mr. Hope's horse. Mr. Enderby hoped the Miss Ibbotsons were able to say no with decision. If not, he did not envy them their supper this evening, for Sidney would certainly ask them to eat all the fish he had caught, bream, and dace, and all. The first pleasure of young anglers is to catch these small fry, and the next is, to make their sisters and cousins eat them. Sophia solemnly assured her cousins that Mama never allowed Sidney's fish to come to table, at least in the house. If the children like to get the cook to boil them for their doll's-feasts in the schoolroom, they might. And then Miss Young is favoured with a share, I suppose, said Margaret. Have you made acquaintance with Miss Young yet, inquired Mr. Enderby? Oh, yes, I had the pleasure of knowing Miss Young long before I knew you. Long? How long? I was not aware that you had ever met. Where did you meet? In the schoolroom, before breakfast, full four hours before you called this morning. Oh, that is all you mean. I wondered how you should know her. Sophia asked whether Margaret and Miss Young were not going to study together. Margaret assented. Miss Young was kind enough to promise to help her to read German. And you, said Mr. Enderby to Hester? Why, no, I am rather afraid of the undertaking. And you, Miss Gray? No, Mama says I have enough to do with my history and my music, especially while my cousins are here. I began German once, but Mama thought I was growing a rye, and so I left it off. I find Mrs. Rowland means Matilda to learn German. We are all disposed to have my little nieces learn whatever Miss Young will be kind enough to teach them. They will gain nothing but good from her. She is very learned, to be sure, observed Sophia. And something more than learned I should think, said Hester. I fancy she is wise. How can you have discovered that already? asked Mr. Enderby, whose fingers were busy dissecting a stalk of flowering grass. I hardly know. I have nothing to quote for my opinion. Her conversation needs a general impression of her being very sensible. Sensible as she is a woman, observed Margaret. If she were a man, she would be called philosophical. She is very superior, observed Sophia. It was Mama's doing that she is the children's governess. Philosophical, repeated Mr. Enderby. It is a happy thing that she is philosophical in her circumstances, poor thing. As she happens to be unprosperous, said Margaret, smiling, if she were rich and strong and admired, her philosophy would be laughed at. It would only be in the way. Mr. Enderby sighed and made no answer. Before anyone spoke again, Mr. Hope and his little companions came up. How quiet you all are, exclaimed Sydney. Have a good mind to come and fish here again, if you will only go on to be so drowsy. Sophia declared that they had been talking up to the last minute about Miss Young and learning German and being philosophical. And which of the party have you made out to be the most philosophical, inquired Mr. Hope? We have not so much as made out what philosophy is for, said Hester. Can you tell us? As she looked up at Mr. Hope, who was standing behind her, Sydney thought her question was addressed to him. Swinging his fishing rod round, he replied doubtfully that he thought philosophy was good to know how to do things. What sort of things? Why, to make phosphorus lights and electrify people, as Dr. Leavitt did, when he made Sophia jump off the stool with glass legs. Sophia was sure that anyone else would have jumped off the stool as she did. She should take good care never to jump on it again. But she wondered Sydney did not know any better than that what philosophy was for. Her cousins said Miss Young was philosophical and she had nothing to do with phosphorus or electrical machines. Mr. Enderby explained to Mr. Hope that he had said what he was ready to maintain, that it was a happy thing for anyone who, like Miss Young, was not so prosperous as she had been, to be supported by philosophy. And granting this, said Margaret, it was next inquired whether this same philosophy would have been considered equally admirable, equally a matter of congratulation, if Miss Young had not wanted it for solace. A question as old as the briget sterling replied Mr. Hope, older, older than any bridges of man's making. Why, sterling brig, what do you mean? I mean, do you not know the story, that an old woman wanted to cross the fourth, and some ferryman would have persuaded her to go in their boat when she was confident that a tempest was coming on, which would have made the ferry unsafe. They told her at last that she must trust to Providence. Na, na, said she. I will now trust to Providence while there is a briget sterling. The common practice is, you know, with the old woman. We will not trust to the highest support we profess to have, till nothing else has left us. We worship philosophy, but never think of making use of it while we have prosperity as well. The question is whether such practice is wise, said Margaret. We all know it is common. For my part, said Mr. Enderby, I think the old Scotch woman was right. Providence helps those that help themselves, and takes care of those who take care of themselves. Just so, said Hope, her error was in supposing that the one course was an alternative from the other, that she would not be trusting in Providence as much in going by the bridge as in braving the tempest. I think we are in the same error when we set up philosophy and prosperity in opposition to each other, taking up with the one when we cannot get the other, as if philosophy were not overall, compassing our life as the blue sky overraches the earth, brightening, vivifying, harmonizing all, whether we look up to see whence the light comes or not. You think it a mistake, then, said Margaret, not to look up to it till all is night below, and there is no light to be seen but by gazing overhead. I do not see why we should miss seeing the white clouds and blue depths at noon, because we may reckon upon moon and stars at midnight. Then again, what is life at its best without philosophy? I can tell you, as well as anybody, said Mr. Enderby, for I never had any philosophy, no, neither wisdom, nor the love of wisdom, nor patience, nor any of the things that philosophy is understood to mean. Oh, Mr. Enderby cried, Sidney, what pains you took to teach me to fish, and to make me wait patiently for a bite. You say you are not patient. My account of life without philosophy, said Mr. Enderby, proceeding as if he did not hear the children testifying to his patience with them. My account of life without philosophy is that it slips away mighty easily, till it is gone, you scarcely know where or how. And when you call upon philosophy at last to give an account of it, what does she say? asked Margaret. I do not understand how life can slip away so, said Hester. Is there ever a day without its sting, without doubt of somebody, disappointment in oneself or another, dread of some evil or weariness of spirit, prosperity is no more of a cure for these than for sickness and death, if philosophy is—well, exclaimed Mr. Hope, with strong interest—if philosophy is—happy they that have her, for all need her. Hear a testimony at least as candid as your own, Enderby, if you really find life steal away as easily as you now fancy, depend upon it you are more of a philosopher than you are aware of. What is philosophy? asked Matilda of Sidney in a loud whisper, which the boy was not in any hurry to take notice of, so little was there in the conversation which seemed to bear upon phosphorus and electricity. A good question, observed Mr. Enderby. Hope, will you tell us children what we are talking about, what philosophy is all this while? You gave us a few meanings just now, which I should put into one. Call it enlargement of views, and you have wisdom and the love of wisdom and patience all at once. I, Sidney, and your kind of philosophy, too, it was by looking far and deep into nature that men found electricity. Did Dr. Levitt find it out? asked Matilda. He is so very short-sighted. I don't believe he would see those fish snapping up the flies if he sat where I do. What was that that fell on my bonnet? Is it raining? Sidney, tired of fishing, had climbed into the oak, and was sending down twigs and leaves upon the heads of the party. Sophia desired him to come down, and even assured him that if he did not, she should be angry. He replied that he would only stay to see whether she would be angry or not. The experiment was cut short by the whole party rising and moving homewards. The sun was setting, and the picked cow slips must not have any dew upon them. As the group passed up the street, Sidney in advance, with his rod and basket, on Mr. Hope's horse, Mr. Hope himself following with Hester, and the tall Mr. Endaby, with Sophia and Margaret on either arm, all like the little girls laden with cow slips, the gossips of Dearbrook were satisfied that the stranger ladies must have enjoyed their walk in the meadows.