The poor for miles around felt a change now. Mary had ever but little to spare from her own slender store, and that little was given freely with kind words to all; yet the new bride that had come to Finglecombe, though wealthier far than ever poor Mary hoped to be, even amid all Greville's brilliant schemes and aspirations, gave not a crumb of broken victuals to the passing mendicant; and as for the sick and needy in the adjacent lanes, and little cob-villages, she knew not of their existence. She had brought him a round sum of money, which, perhaps, more than even her beauty and unmistakable advances, had lured Greville Hampton into this second alliance; and with this he had speedily begun to speculate successfully in the purchase of land at Finglecombe, and to see, in prospect, the possible realisation of his golden dreams! Had anyone ventured to hint to Greville Hampton that he had now forgotten Mary, he would have repelled the accusation with anger. But he had been lonely--he felt the want of companionship; this woman was handsome, and had been bent on winning him, for he was possessed of much manly beauty, with a fine presence; and the dowry she had, roused in him anew that craving thirst, that eager longing for "the gold that perisheth." But in her love for him, and jealousy of the dead, she was somewhat exacting, and tried him considerably at times. "You loved your first wife, of course, Greville, because it is your nature to be tender and loving," said she on one occasion; "but do, please, put her portrait away." "Why, Anne?" "Because the eyes of it seem to follow me everywhere, to watch me; and I can never see it without thinking--thinking--" "Of what?" "That she was as dear to you, perhaps--as near to you, certainly--as I am." "Your ideas are foolish, Anne," said he; but the portrait was removed eventually, and one of her aunt, Mrs. Rookleigh, took its place. Sometimes she went further than this, and would test his veracity a little unwarrantably, in her inordinate vanity, and with ineffably bad taste. "Tell me, dearest Greville," she said, hanging over him, and caressing him with great _empressement_, "did you ever love before as you love me now?" He smoked his old briar-root, but made no reply. "Tell me--tell me," she persisted, while playfully pulling his ear; but his heart felt a pang, and his eye wandered involuntarily to where poor Mary's portrait used to hang. "Why so inquisitive?" said he; "you know that I was married before. Do you think I am so vile as to marry without loving?" "That is no answer. But were you ever so much in love as you are now?" Wishing to evade the inquiry, he smoked rather doggedly on; so she questioned him again. "Some fellows are in love a score of times, with every pretty girl they meet, in fact," said he. "But you, Greville, are not one of those men." "No, Anne, most certainly not."