were very bitter; but they were very clever, and they saved the
family from ruin.

Book followed book immediately,--first two novels, and then a book
on Belgium and Western Germany. She refurnished the house which
I have called Orley Farm, and surrounded us again with moderate
comforts. Of the mixture of joviality and industry which formed
her character, it is almost impossible to speak with exaggeration.
The industry was a thing apart, kept to herself. It was not necessary
that any one who lived with her should see it. She was at her table
at four in the morning, and had finished her work before the world
had begun to be aroused. But the joviality was all for others.
She could dance with other people's legs, eat and drink with other
people's palates, be proud with the lustre of other people's finery.
Every mother can do that for her own daughters; but she could do it
for any girl whose look, and voice, and manners pleased her. Even
when she was at work, the laughter of those she loved was a pleasure
to her. She had much, very much, to suffer. Work sometimes came
hard to her, so much being required,--for she was extravagant, and
liked to have money to spend; but of all people I have known she
was the most joyous, or, at any rate, the most capable of joy.

We continued this renewed life at Harrow for nearly two years,
during which I was still at the school, and at the end of which
I was nearly nineteen. Then there came a great catastrophe. My
father, who, when he was well, lived a sad life among his monks and
nuns, still kept a horse and gig. One day in March, 1834, just as
it had been decided that I should leave the school then, instead
of remaining, as had been intended, till midsummer, I was summoned
very early in the morning, to drive him up to London. He had been