Squire Roger had done himself for many a year. So Roger followed his
brother Osborne to Trinity,' and Mrs. Hamley was again left alone,
after the year of indecision as to Roger's destination, which had been
brought on by her urgency. She had not been able for many years to walk
beyond her garden; the greater part of her life was spent on a sofa,
wheeled to the window in summer, to the fireside in winter. The room
which she inhabited was large and pleasant; four tall windows looked
out upon a lawn dotted over with flower-beds, and melting away into a
small wood, in the centre of which there was a pond, filled with water-
lilies. About this unseen pond in the deep shade Mrs. Hamley had
written many a pretty four-versed poem since she lay on her sofa,
alternately reading and composing poetry. She had a small table by her
side on which there were the newest works of poetry and fiction; a
pencil and blotting-book, with loose sheets of blank paper; a vase of
flowers always of her husband's gathering; winter and summer, she had a
sweet fresh nosegay every day. Her maid brought her a draught of
medicine every three hours, with a glass of clear water and a biscuit;
her husband came to her as often as his love for the open air and his
labours out-of-doors permitted; but the event of her day, when her boys
were absent, was Mr. Gibson's frequent professional visits.

He knew there was real secret harm going on all this time that people
spoke of her as a merely fanciful invalid; and that one or two accused
him of humouring her fancies. But he only smiled at such accusations.
He felt that his visits were a real pleasure and lightening of her
growing and indescribable discomfort; he knew that Squire Hamley would
have been only too glad if he had come every day; and he was conscious
that by careful watching of her symptoms he might mitigate her bodily
pain. Besides all these reasons, he took great pleasure in the squire's
society. Mr. Gibson enjoyed the other's unreasonableness; his