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letterfromherpocket,andgaveittoMissMaybell,
whoreaditstandingnearthewindow.
Asshereadthisletter,whichwasashortone,the
youngladylookedangry,withbrighteyesand
abrilliantflush,thenpale,andthenthetearsstarted
tohereyes,andturningquiteawayfromtheold
woman,andstillholdinguptheletterasifreadingit,
sheweptinsilence.
Theoldwoman,ifshesawthis,evincednosympathy,
butcontinuedtofidgetabout,mutteringtoherself,
shovinghermiserablefurniturethiswayorthat,
arranginghercrockeryonthedresser,visitingthe
saucepanthatsatpatientlyontheembers,and
sometimeskickingthedog,withanunwomanlycurse,
whenhegrowled.Dryinghereyes,theyoungladytook
herdeparture,andwithaheavyheartleftthisdismal
abode;butwiththeinstinctofpropitiation,strong
intheunhappy,andwiththemelancholyhopeofeven
buyingamomentarysympathy,sheplacedsomemoney
inthedarkhardhandofthecrone,whomadeher
acourtesyandathankless“thankee,Miss,”onthe
step,ashereyecountedoverthesilverwithagreedy
ogle,thatlayonherleanpalm.
“Nothingfornothing.”Onthewholeasomewhat
mercenarytypeofcreationisthehuman.Thepost-boy
remindedtheyounglady,asshecametothechaise-
door,thatshemightaswellgratifyhim,thereand
then,withthetwopoundswhichshehadpromised.
Andthisdone,shetookherplacebesideoldDulcibella,
whohaddroppedintoareverienearakintoadoze,
andso,withoutadventuretheyretracedtheirway,and
oncemorepassingundertheshadowofGryce’smill,
enteredontheirdirectjourneytoWyvern.
Thesunwasnearthewesternhorizon,andthrewthe
melancholytintsofsunsetoveralandscape,undulating
andwooded,thatspreadbeforethem,astheyentered
theshort,broadavenuethatleadsthroughtwofiles
ofnobleoldtrees,tothegrayfrontofmany-chimneyed
Wyvern.
