Every room was crowded with ornaments and knick-knacks, all of which had
some association with herself. Even those apartments not seen by guests
were no less encumbered with mementoes that had been discarded from time
to time in favor of newer treasures. Mrs. Bolton never dared to change
her servants, and it cannot be wondered at, that while offering a home
to her nephew's wife, she could not extend her invitation to a
mischievous boy of seven.

But however interesting Bolton Villa might be to its mistress, it was
not altogether a home favorable for the recovery of a bowed-down spirit,
though Mrs. Bolton could not understand why Sophy, surrounded with so
many blessings and with so much to be thankful for, should fall into a
low, nervous fever shortly after she had parted with her husband and
child. The house was quiet, fearfully quiet to Sophy. There was a
depressing hush about it altogether different from the cheerful
tranquillity of her own home. Very few visitors broke through its
monotony, for Mrs. Bolton's social pinnacle was too high above her
immediate neighbors for them to climb up to it; whilst those whose
station was somewhat on a level with hers lived too faraway, or were too
young and frivolous for friendly intercourse. There were formal
dinner-parties at stated intervals, and occasionally a neighboring
clergyman to be entertained. But these came few and far between, and
Sophy Chantrey found herself very much alone amid the banners and
souvenirs that banished her boy from the house.

Mrs. Bolton herself was very often away. There was always something to
be done in the parish which should by right have been Sophy's work, but
her aunt had always discouraged any interference and David had been
quite content to keep her to himself, as there was so able a substitute
for her in the ordinary duties of a clergyman's wife. She had made but