You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive
him as a lodger; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to
afford him rest and refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had
given her a moroseness of manner, and how care for the interests of
another had rendered her keen and miserly.

But there was a third act in the drama of her life.



CHAPTER V.



In spite of Peggy's prophecy that Susan's life should not seem long,
it did seem wearisome and endless, as the years slowly uncoiled their
monotonous circles. To be sure, she might have made change for
herself, but she did not care to do it. It was, indeed, more than
"not caring," which merely implies a certain degree of vis inertiae
to be subdued before an object can be attained, and that the object
itself does not seem to be of sufficient importance to call out the
requisite energy. On the contrary, Susan exerted herself to avoid
change and variety. She had a morbid dread of new faces, which
originated in her desire to keep poor dead Willie's state a profound
secret. She had a contempt for new customs; and, indeed, her old
ways prospered so well under her active hand and vigilant eye, that
it was difficult to know how they could be improved upon. She was
regularly present in Coniston market with the best butter and the
earliest chickens of the season. Those were the common farm produce