and the house grew more lonely and cheerless each year. Mr. Denner's
office was in his garden, and was of brick, like his house, but nearer
the road, and without the softening touch of ivy; it was damp and
mildewed, and one felt instinctively that the ancient law books must have
a film of mould on their battered covers.

The lawyer's little face had a pinched, wistful look; the curls of his
brown wig were hidden by a tall beaver hat, with the old bell crown and
straight brim; it was rarely smooth, except on Sundays, when Mary brushed
it before he went to church. He took it off now, and passed his hand
thoughtfully over his high, mild forehead, and sighed; then he looked
through one of the narrow windows on either side of the front door, where
the leaded glass was cut into crescents and circles, and fastened with
small brass rosettes; he could see the lamp Mary had left for him,
burning dimly on the hall table, under a dark portrait of some Denner,
long since dead. But he still sat upon what he called his "doorstones;"
the August starlight, and the Lombardy poplars stirring in the soft wind,
and the cricket chirping in the grass, offered more companionship, he
thought, than he would find in his dark, silent library.

The little gentleman's mind wandered off to the different homes he knew;
they were so pleasant and cheerful. There was always something bright
about the rectory, and how small and cosy Henry Dale's study was. And how
pretty the Woodhouse girls' parlor looked! Mr. Denner was as slow to
recognize the fact that Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth were no longer young
as they were themselves. Just now he thought only of the home-life in
their old house, and the comfort, and the peace. What quiet, pleasant
voices the sisters had, and how well Miss Deborah managed, and how
delightfully Miss Ruth painted! How different his own life would have
been if Gertrude Drayton--Ah, well! The little gentleman sighed again,