portrait hanging behind her on the wall. She was like her father, but
she took pride in her greater conscientiousness; her vocabulary was
larger than his by at least one word.

A few days later she set out on that road and past those trees which
had been the safe witnesses of so much of Rose Mallett's life, but
their safeness lay in their constant muteness, and they had no message
for Henrietta. Walking quickly, she rehearsed her coming meeting with
Francis Sales, but when she actually met him on the green track, on
the very spot where Rose had pulled up her horse in amazement at the
scene of transformation, Henrietta, like Rose, had no formal greeting
for him.

She said, 'The trees! What are you doing with them?'

'Turning them into gold.'

'But they were beautiful.'

'So are lots of things they will buy.' She moved a little under his
look, but when he said, 'I'm hard up,' she became interested.

'Really? I thought you were frightfully rich. You ought to be with all
these belongings.' She looked round at the fields dotted with sheep
and cattle, the distant chimneys of Sales Hall, the fallen trees and
the team of horses dragging logs under the guidance of workmen in
their shirt sleeves. 'I know all about being poor,' she said, 'but I
don't suppose we mean the same thing by the word. I've been so poor--'
She stopped. 'But there's a lot of excitement about it. I used to hope
I should find a shilling in my purse that I'd forgotten. A shilling!