Meantime, the coachman and the groom are his favourite associates, and the stable his resort of predilection.
"Do you remember the beech-copse just beyond Hill-side-road? The windows of my room look out in that direction, far away, beyond the Woolgreaves' grounds; I can see the tops of the trees, and the winding road beyond them. I go up to my room every evening, to see the sun set behind the hill there, and to think of the many times we walked there and talked of what was to be. Will it ever be, Walter? Were we not foolish boy and girl—foolish paupers? Ay, the word, hard, ugly, but true. When I look round this room I feel it, oh, so true! Mamma and I have a pretty sitting-room, and a bedroom each on opposite sides of it. Such rooms, the very simplicity and exquisite freshness of their furniture and appointments are more significant of wealth, of the ease of household arrangement, and the perfection of household service, than any amount of rich upholstery. And then the drawing-rooms, and the girls' rooms, and the music-room, and the endless spare rooms—which, by-the-by, are rarely occupied—for so rich a man, and one with such a house, Mr. Creswell seems to me to have singularly little society. No one but the clergyman and his wife has been since we came. I thought it might be out of delicate consideration for us that Mr. Creswell might have signified a wish for especial privacy, but I find that is not the case. He said to me to-day that he feared we found Woolgreaves dull. I do not. I have too much to think of to be affected by anything of that kind; and as my thoughts are rarely of a cheerful order, I should not ingratiate myself by social agreeability. Our life is quietly luxurious. I adhere to my old habit of early rising, but I am the only person in the house who enjoys the beauty of the gardens and grounds in the sweet morning. We breakfast at ten, and mamma and the girls go out into the lawn or into the garden, and they chat to her and amuse her until luncheon. I usually pass the morning in the library, reading and writing, or talking with Mr. Creswell. It is very amusing and interesting to me to hear all about his career, how he made so much money, and how he administers it. I begin to understand it very well now. I don't think I should make a bad woman of business by any means, and I am sure everything of the kind would have a great interest for me, even apart from my desire for money, and my conviction that neither happiness or repose is to be had in this world without it. The old gentleman seems surprised to find me interested and intelligent about what he calls such dry detail, but, just as books and pictures are interesting, though one may never hope to possess them, so money, though it does not belong to myself, and never can, interests me. Oh, my dearest Walter, if we had but a little, just a few hundreds of pounds, and Mr. Creswell could teach you how to employ it with advantage in some commercial undertaking. He began with little more than one thousand pounds, and now! But I might as well wish you had been born an archbishop. In the afternoon, there is our drive. What handsome houses we see, what fine places we pass by! How often I occupy myself with thinking what I should do if I only had them, and the money they represent. And how hard the sight of them makes the past appear! How little, falling to our share, would make the future smiling and happy!
"The girls are not interesting companions to Mr. Creswell. He is fond of them, and very kind to them—in fact, lavishly generous—they never have an ungratified wish, but how can a man, whose whole life has been devoted to business, feel much companionship with young girls like them, who do not know what it means? Of course, they think and talk about their dead parents at least, I suppose so—and their past lives, and neither subject has any charms for their uncle. They read—especially Maud—and, strange to say, they read solid books as well as novels; they excel in fancy-work, which I detest, probably because I can't do it, and could not afford to buy the materials if I understood the art; and they both play and sing. I have heard very little good music, and I am not a judge, except of what is pleasing to myself, but I think I am correct in rating Maud's musical abilities very highly. Her voice thrills me almost to pain, and to see my mother's quiet tears when Maud plays to her in the dim evening, is to feel that the power of producing such salutary, healing emotion is priceless indeed. What a pity it is I am not a good musician! Loving music as you love it, dearest Walter, it will be a privation to you—if ever that time we talked of comes, when we should have a decent home to share—that I shall not be able to make sweet music for you. They are not fond of me, but I did not think they would be, and
