It was getting dusk, for she did not dine till six, and while she sat looking at the fire the days of her youth returned. She dwelt on the thoughts of Arden Park, then her home, and of her father's princely establishment. Now all belonged to her nephew; while she was an outcast, almost hated, because she could not afford to be cheated; and paying more than the half of her small income for a single sitting room, not so good as that in which at Arden her own maid used to sit at needle-work. At this moment the train of her reflections was interrupted by a voice of complaint under her window. She looked out. It was raining, but there was still twilight sufficient to discern a poor creature sitting on the ground, and looking through the iron railing in at the kitchen-window, where the light for cooking made the preparations for dinner visible. The poor woman, was miserably clad! and, from her accent, Irish. She was eloquently appealing to the compassion of the cook, while she carried in her hand, as a sort of shield against the vigilance of English policemen, a bundle of matches to sell, worth perhaps one half-penny. "Ye that's warm and well fed yonder, pity the poor crathur could and wet and hasn't broke her fast this blessed day!" The cook's shrill voice was heard in a key of reproof. "Oh, mistress," proceeded the mendicant, "but it ill becomes the face that the fire's shining upon and the mate roasting before, to look round in anger on the desolate. Sure I wouldn't be troubling you here in the could this night if I had a hearth or a home of my own to go to!" Mrs. Dorothea was struck with compassion for the poor wanderer. She opened the window, handed her money from it, and ringing the bell ordered her to have some dinner. "What a cheerful thing fire-light is!" she thought, as she resumed her seat, unconsciously made happy by the performance of a good action. She now remembered her late murmuring thoughts with shame, as she contrasted her own situation with that of the really destitute and became conscious that the source of her discontent was not any actual deprivation, but _pride_, a pride too, fostered into supernatural growth by the constant contemplation of the wealth and splendour belonging to the head of her own family, "If I could but afford to retain such a home as this," she thought, "how truly happy I might think myself. However, the poorest lodging I am at all likely to get into is a better shelter than many of my fellow creatures possess; let me not, therefore, murmur!" A dapper double rap here startled her from her reverie. "Who could be calling at so late an hour?"