Aline feels badly about it, I know. If there were but another buyer for Brandon--anyone except Sir Rupert--we would, I think, let it go, dear to us as it is. But it is not the place only, it is the poor people who depend on us, and who are miserably poor, if we are miserably poor. Sir Rupert would show them scant mercy, we know. He has cleared Angry long ago of the few poor creatures who clung to it, despite its unkindliness. The mountain sheep wander now where once there were hearth-fires. "Let him keep Angry," I say, "he shall not have Brandon." Curiously enough, I could bear better that he should have the house and Aline's rose-garden, and the park and the river, and the old abbey even, than Brandon Mountain. Brandon and Angry are twin mountains; but there was a good fairy by the cradle of one, and a wicked fairy by the other. Blue, benign, smiling Brandon Mountain has watched over our race. Must he pass to the race of an enemy? Shall he, and the few little white cottages clustered about his feet, come under the blight that is upon Angry? No, a thousand times, no! The boys are not so ignorant, however, as might be supposed. Mr. Benson, whether for love of Aline, or because, as he himself says, he would not have his classics rust, has been their unpaid tutor, and I am sure they are really far better educated than most boys of their age, even if their learning be a bit old-fashioned. Will they ever find their opportunities, I wonder? I remember when we used to hope that Mr. Desmond, having set Pierce's feet on a golden road, would perhaps help Hugh, who has never forgotten his childish admiration for the man. But all that has come to nothing. Pierce was the raven we sent out of our ark in search of good tidings; but he came not back. Aline has grown older almost by years in the months that have elapsed since Pierce and Mr. Desmond parted. I have seen her come down in the morning worn and haggard, and have guessed that she has either spent a great part of the night in prayer for her beloved, or else she has slept ill, and been troubled in her dreams about him. I think she fears that things are not well with him, and I know that she has implored him in vain to come home. His letters bring her at once joy and disappointment. In every one, I think, she hopes that he will say he is coming back. She herself, with her own hands, still keeps his room swept and garnished, and the bed-clothes ever ready aired, as though at any hour of the day or night a wanderer might return.