"What a mercy I wrote that letter!" she said to herself, with a sigh of
content. She was thinking of a proposal that had come to her a few days
before this date, to take a post as drawing mistress in a Brighton
school. The salary was tempting; and, at the moment, money was more than
usually scarce in the family purse. Her mother's eyes had looked at her
wistfully.

Yet she had refused; with a laughing bravado that had concealed some
inward qualms.

Whereupon the gods had immediately and scandalously rewarded her. She had
sold four of her drawings at a Liverpool exhibition for twenty pounds;
and there were lying beside her on the grass some agreeable press
notices just arrived, most of which she already knew by heart.

Twenty pounds! That would pay the half year's rent. And there were
three other drawings in a London show that might very well sell too. Why
not--now the others had sold? Meanwhile she--thank the Lord!--had saved
herself, as a fish from the hook. She was still free; free to draw, free
to dream. She had not bartered her mountains for a salary. Instead of
crocodile walks, two and two, with a score of stupid schoolgirls, here
she was, still roaming the fells, the same happy vagabond as before. She
hugged her liberty. And at the same time she promised herself that her
mother should have a new shawl and a new cap for Whitsuntide.

Those at present in use came near in Lydia's opinion to being a family
disgrace.

The last act of the great spectacle rushed on; and again the artist held
her breath enthralled. The gold on Skiddaw was passing into rose; and