Not yet had she been two days at Eagles' Nest; but in that short time she had found much to grieve her. Grieved she was, and full of anxiety. Every one of the family, from her uncle Francis and Mrs. Raynor downwards, had greatly changed. From the simple, unaffected people they had once been, they had transformed themselves into great personages with airs and assumptions. That was not the worst. That might have been left to find its own level in time: they would no doubt have returned to common sense. What pained Edina was the rate at which they lived. Carriages, horses, servants; dinners, dressing, gaiety. Where could it all end? Had the revenues of Eagles' Nest been twice what they were, the major would still have been spending more than his income. It was this that troubled Edina. And something else troubled her. The _tone_ of their mind seemed to be changing: not so much that of Major and Mrs. Raynor, as of the children. Speaking, of course, chiefly of the elder ones. Formerly they were warm-hearted, unassuming, full of sympathy for others. Now all thought seemed to be swallowed up in self; those who wanted help, whether in word or kind, might go where they would for it: selfishness reigned supreme. A latent dread was making itself heard in Edina's heart, that they were being spoiled by sudden prosperity. As many others have been. The first day she arrived, dinner was served at seven o'clock; a very elaborate one. Soup, fish, entrées, meats, sweets: all quite à la mode. Edina was vexed: she thought this had been done for her: but she was much more vexed when she found it was their daily style of living. To her, with the frugal notions implanted in her by her father's early straits, with her naturally simple tastes, and her conscientious judging of what was right and wrong, this profusion seemed sinful waste. And--they were all so grand! The faded cottons and washed-out muslins, had of course been discarded, but they had given place to costly gossamer fabrics and to silks that rustled in their richness. They were now just as much over-dressed as formerly they were the opposite. Alice had already put off black for her aunt Atkinson, and was in very slight mourning indeed: in lilac or white hues, with black or grey ribbons. With it all, they were acquiring a hard, indifferent tone, as though the world's changes and sorrows could never again concern them. "All this looks new," mused Edina, referring to the appurtenances of the room. "I don't fancy Aunt Ann had anything so modern: she liked old-fashioned furniture. With all these expenses, Uncle Francis will soon be in greater embarrassment than he ever was at Spring Lawn. And it is bad for Charley. Very bad. It will give him all sorts of extravagant ideas and habits."