‘Satan,’ says Dr. Watts, ‘finds mischief for idle hands to do.’ And Caroline Shepley, being very idle at Wynford, fell into mischief in a way which would have confirmed good Dr. Watts in his convictions. Lady Mallow’s influenza, by dint of coddling, had become very severe indeed, and Carrie was left quite to her own devices. What these were the readers who have followed this story so far will have little difficulty in guessing. Day after day Philip and Carrie met each other, and their acquaintance deepened and ripened with extraordinary rapidity. They seemed to have none of the preliminaries of friendship to go through, but to have arrived suddenly at intimacy. Carrie was no great letter-writer at any time, now all thoughts of writing had long ago left her; she had not put pen to paper for three weeks—so absorbing an interest is flirtation. The weather hitherto had been very fine, but at last one morning broke wet and grey. Carrie was sick at heart; how could she meet Philip out of doors on such a day? she asked herself. Now dwellers in town may dread a wet day, yet they can scarcely dread it with that entire dismay of heart that falls upon the country dweller at sight of the blank grey heavens, the spongy roads, the dripping trees. The pleasures of the country are, in fact, entirely visionary in wet weather, its discomforts really practical. Carrie stood and looked out over the fields, yesterday so green, to-day so grey; up at the skies, yesterday so blue, to-day so leaden, and her heart died within her. What on earth should she do with herself all day? She went up-stairs and tried to be sympathetic over her aunt’s symptoms for an hour or more, then she came down-stairs again and worked at her embroidery, then she tried to read (Carrie was not intellectual, you remember), then she fell asleep and wakened to hear the dinner-bell ring, always a welcome summons to this hearty young heroine. Dinner over, Carrie went again to inquire for the health of Lady Mallow, and as she stood beside the bed, listening with ill-concealed yawns to an enumeration of all the symptoms, Carrie became aware of a sudden lightening of the leaden skies, and a watery sunbeam shot in at the window. She could have clapped her hands for joy. ‘Now, Caroline,’ said Lady Mallow, ‘here is the _Gentlewoman’s Journal_, which contains much useful information, such as may be useful to you in after life. I commend to your attention the article which relates to the making of wax-flowers, a most pretty accomplishment, and one which, along with other feminine parts of education, I fear your good father hath omitted from your course of study,’ etc. Carrie listened with very scant attention, but she took the Journal and made her escape from the room quickly enough.