The next day Colonel Richardson went to Scotland, after taking a very warm farewell of Annie, who, so far as she herself was concerned, was extremely sorry for his departure. He was the only man to whom she had spoken since her marriage who had tastes in common with her, and whose views of life were not bounded by the stable, the kennel, and the dinner-table. George had indeed shown himself to be ready to enter into her feelings, but his sympathy she was afraid to encourage. It was true that she had felt for him, from the first time he had talked to her at the Grange dinner-table, a warmer sentiment than she had ever felt for Harry or any other man; and, though since her marriage she had stifled it without much difficulty, she could not but know his interest in her remained strong. She felt, however, that since last night’s talk she would have to be more careful as to her conduct, and combine prudence with a little more graciousness. It did not prove so difficult, after all. That very afternoon she had gone into the library to amuse herself among the old books that nobody else ever touched, but in whose very presence she delighted; and she was perched upon the ladder that stood there by which to reach the highest shelves, and had covered herself with dust in her endeavors to get at the dingy-looking volume whose only attraction lay in the fact that it was out of reach, when Sir George came in. She was surprised to see him, as she had never seen any of the brothers indulge in heavier reading than that which a sporting paper afforded. “What are you doing among my books?” he asked, with severity. “I don’t wonder you are astonished to see any one reading them,” said she, looking down saucily, with her dull discovery open in her hand. “You think I don’t know how to read, I believe.” “I am sure you couldn’t read this, at any rate. It is called ‘Extracts from the Sermons of the Reverend Thomas Dobbs, late Vicar of Garstone,’ and it is dated 1844.” “Why, no; I indulge in that only on very special occasions! I don’t think much of your literary taste.” “And I don’t think much of your library. I can’t find anything better.” “Oh, nonsense! Here’s the ‘Life of Knox,’ and the ‘Works of Josephus,’ and ‘Fox’s Martyrs.’ I remember my mother cured us of the vice of reading when we were youngsters by letting us have these entertaining works to read on Sundays. Have you ever noticed, Annie, that careless and irreligious parents are always very particular about what their children read on Sunday?” “But I am too old to be cured in that simple manner. Find me something nicer, please.” “Come down, then, and sit by the fire, and I’ll find you ‘Clarissa Harlowe,’ or something else as light and frivolous.”