‘I have often noticed that the children of improvident fathers do better in life than those whose parents toil to make them independent. They are like the ravens--Providence takes care of them. Well, my dear, I congratulate you.’ ‘God has been very good to me, dear aunt, but I have had many troubles. I want you to tell me about my father. Did you see much of him in the last years of his life?’ ‘Not very much. He used to call upon me occasionally, and he used sometimes to bring your mother to spend the day with me. She was a sweet woman--you are like her in face and figure--and she and I used to get on very nicely together. She was not above taking advice.’ ‘Had my father many friends and acquaintances at that time?’ asked Laura. ‘Many friends! My dear, he was poor.’ ‘Do you know if he had any one particular friend? He could not have been quite alone in the world. I recollect there was a gentleman who used to come very often to the cottage at Chiswick. I cannot remember what he was like. I was seldom in the room when he was there. I remember only that my father and he were often together. I have a very strong reason for wishing to know all about that man.’ ‘I think I know whom you mean. I have heard your poor mother talk of him many a time. She used to tell me all her troubles, and I used to give her good advice. You say you want particularly to know about this person.’ ‘Most particularly, dear aunt,’ said Laura eagerly. ‘Then, my dear, my diary can tell you much better than I can. I am a woman of methodical habits, and ever since my husband’s death, three-and-twenty years ago last August, I have made a point of keeping a record of the course of every day in my life. I dare say the book would seem very stupid to strangers. I hope nobody will publish it after I am dead. But it has been a great pleasure to me to look through the pages from time to time, and call up old days. It is almost like living over again. Kindly take my keys, Laura, and open the right-hand door of the cheffonier.’ Laura obeyed. The interior of the cheffonier was divided into shelves, and on the uppermost of these shelves were neatly arranged three-and-twenty small volumes, bound in morocco, and lettered Diary, with the date of each year. The parliamentary records at Strawberry Hill are not more carefully kept than the history of Mrs. Malcolm’s life. ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘Your father died in the winter of ’56; your poor mother a few months earlier. Bring me the volume for ’56.’ Laura handed the book to the old lady, who gave a gentle little sigh as she opened it. ‘Dear me, how neatly I wrote in ’56,’ she exclaimed. ‘My handwriting has sadly degenerated since then. We get old, my dear; we grow old without knowing it.’ Laura thought that in that monumental drawing-room age might well creep on unawares. Life there must be a long hybernation.