Large comfortable houses, many servants, the _Times_ every day (he found it on the table in the dining-room), and many other luxuries. He could not help making this remark to himself; he could not afford such pleasures; and now his child, his daughter, not theirs who perhaps deserved it, had gone away. Matters were not mended when Mrs. Meredith, with all her usual sweetness, but with a thrill of agitation still about her, came up to him holding out her hand. ‘Cara tells me that you are anxious about your daughter, and that my son--knows her,’ she said faltering. It was so difficult to know what to say. ‘So she tells me,’ said the Rector. ‘You will understand it is not from me; I know nothing of it. Agnes has said nothing; and perhaps,’ he added, looking round with a little natural defiance, ‘her absence may turn out to be quite simple; there may be nothing in it. She is not a good correspondent. But we are anxious, her mother and I.’ ‘I do not know where Oswald is. Oh! heaven knows, if my son has anything to do with it, I shall be grieved, grieved and ashamed to the heart! But no harm will happen to her in Oswald’s company,’ said Mrs. Meredith, raising her head in her turn with tearful pride. ‘I know my boy.’ ‘It is what I would not say of any child of mine, or of myself, for that matter,’ said the Rector. ‘Who can tell what a moment may bring forth? But if there should be anything in it, and you have any clue to your son’s movements----’ ‘I have none. Thursday or Friday he said he would come back. Cara, if you can tell us anything----’