'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written
this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more
than he promised.'

'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he
does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.'

'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always
looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after the
housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?'

'Yes, presently.'

Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the
window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the
library. The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. It
was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at
which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and
there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table,
where lay the old illustrated editions of _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The
Arabian Nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the
room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of
strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so
mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the
tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books
which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon
long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish
imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the
great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity.