'Your uncle means to purchase an annuity for Jane,' she added; 'and if we could only think what to do for the Faithfulls! I wonder whether they would come and stay with us. At least they can never vex themselves again at not paying rent!' After a pause--'Jem, my dear, could you manage to give your uncle the true account of your marriage? He admires Isabel very much, I can tell you, and is pleased at the connexion. But I fancy, though he will not say so, that Mr. Ponsonby has desired him to find out all he can about Louis; and unluckily they have persuaded themselves that poor Louis courted Isabel, supposing that she was to have Beauchastel, and, finding his error, betook himself to Mary.' 'Turning Isabel over to me! Extremely flattering.' 'Now, Jem, don't be angry. It is only foolish talk! But unluckily I can't persuade your uncle not to think the real story all my partiality; and you might do much more, if it be not too unpleasant to you.' 'Thank you, granny, it is out of the question. If it were as he does us the honour to imagine, I should be the last person to confess it. My evidence could be of no service to Fitzjocelyn, when my uncle's maxim is to place confidence in no one. The sole refutation in my power is the terms on which we meet.' 'Now, I have vexed you. I wish I had said nothing about it; but when dear Louis's happiness may depend on his report--' 'If I were base enough to have acted as he supposes, I should be base enough to deny it. There is not enough to be hoped to make me speak with unreserve on such a subject.' He saved himself from saying--to such a man; but the shrewd, suspicious old bachelor was not an inviting confidant for the vicissitudes of delicate and tender feelings of such recent date, and Mrs. Frost reproached herself with asking too much of her proud, sensitive grandson. The black gown and trencher cap by no means gratified Oliver, when James set off to school on Monday morning; but he consoled himself with observing, 'We shall soon put an end to that.' 'James is quite devoted to the school,' said Isabel, and she was answered by the dry growl. 'It will be a hard thing to transplant our young people,' said Mrs. Frost, 'they have managed to be very happy here.' 'So hard of transplantation that I doubt the possibility,' said Isabel. 'You have made us take very deep root here.' 'Have you ever seen Cheveleigh, Mrs. Dynevor?' 'Never.' 'Poor Oliver! you and I think no place equal to our birthplace,' said Mrs. Frost. 'I should think Mrs. Roland Dynevor would find it compensation. How many beds did we make up, mother, the year my father was sheriff?' 'You must go to Jane for that,' said his mother, laughing. 'I'm sure I never knew.'