For ah! what a difference there is between being poor and being rich--between Lady Mary in the great house, and Margaret Murray, or Smith, in Mrs. Sims’ lodging!--and if you went to the root of the matter, the one woman was as good as the other, as well adapted to “ornament her station,” as old-fashioned people used to say. I think, on the whole, it was greatly to Margaret’s credit, seeing that so much was at stake, that she never wavered in her determination to give Harry no encouragement. But she meant to put no barrier definitively in his way, no obstacle insuperable. She was willing enough to be the reward of his exertions, should he be successful in the lists; and Lady Mary’s kindness, nay, affectionateness towards her seemed to point to a successful issue of the struggle, if Harry went into it with perseverance and vigour. She could not help being a little excited by the thought. Lady Mary, on her side, was charmed with her new friend. “The brother may be a cad, as you say, but she is perfection,” she said incautiously to Harry, when he came in with a glowing countenance from his walk. “What good breeding, what grace, what charming graceful ways she has! and yet always the simplicity of that pretty Scotch accent, and of the words which slip out now and then. The children are all in raptures with little Sibby. Fancy making a graceful name like Sybil into such a hideous diminutive! But that is Scotch all over. They seem to take a pleasure in keeping their real refinement in the background, and showing a rough countenance to the world. They are all like that,” said Lady Mary, who was fond of generalizations. Harry did not say much, but he drew a chair close to the fire, and sat and mused over it with sparkling eyes, when his aunt went to dress for dinner. He did not feel capable of coherent thought at all; he was lost in a rapture of feeling which would not go into words. He felt that he could sit there all night long not wishing to budge, to be still, not even thinking, existing in the mere atmosphere of the wonderful day which was now over. Would it come back again? would it prolong itself? would his life grow into a lengthened sweet repetition of this day? He sat there with his knees into the fire, gazing into the red depths till his eyes grew red in sympathy, until the bell for dinner began to peal through the silent winter air. Mr. Tottenham had come home, and was visible at the door in evening costume, refreshed and warmed after his drive, when Harry, half-blind, rushed out to make a hasty toilette. His distracted looks made his host wonder. “I hope you are not letting that boy get into mischief,” he said to his wife. “Mischief! what mischief could he get into here?” Lady Mary replied, with a smile; and then they began to talk on very much more important matters--on Herr Hartstong’s visit, and the preparations at the Shop, which were now complete.