“Ah, you may well say so,” said Mrs. Pevensey, with a sigh. “The player is soothing a much afflicted father, who, in his day, was an accomplished musician, and a man of fine intellectual taste. I shall take her a drive to-morrow; it will make a little change for her, which is better than none. ‘He that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little.’”[1] A door or two off, we left a little flat round basket, containing about two dozen large hothouse strawberries—scarlet, ripe, and tempting, as they peered out of their coverlet of dark green leaves. Several such little baskets had, during two or three springs, found their way to _me_. “That is for poor Miss Peach, who is dying of consumption,” said Mrs. Pevensey. “Arbell set them out so nicely. My dear Mrs. Cheerlove, whatever you said to Arbell the other day, has had magic effect! She has been quite a different girl ever since!” “That is more to her praise than mine,” said I. “What I said was very little.” “All the better, perhaps, since it was to the purpose. She is now brisk, pleasant, and active—has found her way out of dreamland into the affairs of daily life. Mademoiselle is highly satisfied with her; and Mr. Pevensey, finding she was writing a little summary of Italian middle-age history for her own amusement, was so pleased at it, that he told her he would give her five sovereigns, if she did it well by Christmas. So she is carrying it on with double spirit, ransacking the library for materials about the Guelfs and Ghibelins, the Neri and Bianchi, instead of moping; and is glad to refresh herself afterwards with a good wholesome game of play with Rosaline and Floretta.” “Ah, a golden spur sometimes pricks the best,” said I. “Small premiums for small achievements are better than competitions for a prize, which _must_ disappoint one or many. A rivalry with one’s self is the only safe rivalry.” “I think so too. And five pounds is nothing, you know, to Mr. Pevensey.” “No, but a hundred pounds may be more so. Harry Prout gratefully told me of his buying the horse.” “Mr. Prout had over-estimated it,” said she, quietly smiling. “I guessed as much.” “In fact, if it cannot be thoroughly broken, by Rarey’s means or others, Mr. Pevensey will have it shot; for he says it is better a showy horse should be killed, than another father of a family.” “Surely.” “And the money, you see, won’t be wasted, because it was useful where it was sent. There is some thought of quietly getting up a subscription, under the name of a testimonial. Mr. Secker, the suggestor, will acquaint Mrs. Prout with it, and ask whether she would like a silver cup or the money; and of course she will prefer the latter. Only half-sovereigns will be asked, but those who like to give more may do so unknown to all but Mr. Secker, as there will be no published subscription list.” “All the better,” said I. “There are too few who— “‘Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.’”