calls them, but she does not care for them, nor do they care for
her. She looks and speaks like a woman who could not care for
anybody, and yet perhaps there may be somewhere a person who could
move her.

I am so weary of the talk of my neighbours. It is so different from
what we used to have at Blackdeep. Oh me! those evenings when
father came in at dark, and Mr. and Mrs. Thornley came afterwards
and we had supper at eight, and father and Mr. Thornley smoked their
pipes and drank our home-brewed ale and we had all the news--how
much Mr. Thornley had got for his malt, how that pig-headed old
Stubbs wouldn't sell his corn, and how when he began to thresh it
and the ferrets were brought, a hundred rats were killed and bushels
of wheat had been eaten.

You ask me what is the matter. I do not deny I am not quite happy,
but it would be worse than useless to dwell upon my unhappiness and
try to give you reasons for it. London, in the winter, most likely
does not suit me. I shall certainly see you in the spring, and then
I hope I shall be better.


BLACKDEEP FEN, Christmas Day, 1838.

As a rule it is right to hide our troubles, but it is not right that
you should hide yours from me. You are my firstborn child and my
only daughter. There are girls who are very good, but between their
mothers and them there is a wall. They do what they are bid; they
are kind, but that is all. They live apart from those that bore
them. I would not give a straw for such duty and love. I gathered