weak health to excuse her all the more tiresome duties of life, and
an incorrigible tendency to sing the praises of her daughters at
all times and to all people. The daughters winced under it:
Catherine, because it was a positive pain to her to bear herself
brought forward and talked about; the others, because youth infinitely
prefers to make its own points in its own way. Nothing, however,
could mend this defect of Mrs. Leyburn's. Catherine's strength of
will could keep it in check sometimes, but in general it had to be
borne with. A sharp word would have silenced the mother's well-meant
chatter at any time--for she was a fragile nervous woman, entirely
dependent on her surroundings--but none of them were capable of it,
and their mere refractoriness counted for nothing.

The dining room in which they were gathered had a good deal of
homely dignity, and was to the Leyburns full of associations. The
oak settle near the fire, the oak sideboard running along one side
of the room, the black oak table with carved legs at which they
sat, were genuine pieces of old Westmoreland work, which had belonged
to their grandfather. The heavy carpet covering the stone floor
of what twenty years before had been the kitchen of the farm-house
was a survival from a south-country home, which had sheltered their
lives for eight happy years. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait
of the girls' father, a long serious face, not unlike Wordsworth's
face in outline, and bearing a strong resemblance to Catherine; a
line of silhouettes adorned the mantelpiece; on the walls were
prints of Winchester and Worcester Cathedrals, photographs of Greece,
and two old-fashioned engravings of Dante and Milton; while a
bookcase, filled apparently with the father's college books and
college prizes and the favorite authors--mostly poets, philosophers,
and theologians--of his later years, gave a final touch of habitableness