"I believe it. There was nothing else to be said against Mr. Carpenter, but that he had not money; if he had had it, nobody would have found out that he wanted cultivation, or anything else. But he was a poor man. And when I married him, my father cut me off from all share in the inheritance of his property." "It all fell to your sister?" "Yes. All. The place, the old place, and all. She had everything." "And kept it." "O yes. Of course. She is a rich woman. Her husband has prospered in his business; and they are _very_ well off now. They have only one child, too." Mrs. Carpenter was silent, and Mr. Digby paused a minute or two before he spoke again. "Still, my dear friend, do you not think your sister would shew herself your sister, if she knew where you are and how you are? Do you not think it would be right and kind to let her know?" Mrs. Carpenter shook her head. "No," she said, "it would be no comfort to me; and you are mistaken if you think it would be any satisfaction to her. She is a rich woman. She keeps her carriage, and she has her liveried servants, and she lives in style. She would not like to come here to see me." "I cannot conceive it," said Mr. Digby. "I think you must unconsciously be doing her wrong." "I tried her," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I will not try her again. When my husband got into difficulties, and his health was giving way, and he was driven a little too hard, I wrote to my sister in New York to ask her to give us some help; knowing that she was abundantly able to do it, without hurting herself. She sent me for answer--" Mrs. Carpenter stopped; the words seemed to choke her; her lip quivered; and when she began to speak again her voice was a little hoarse. "She wrote me, that if my husband _died_, she would have no objection to my going back to the old place, and getting along there as well as I could; Rotha and I." One or two sore, sorrowful tears forced their way out of the speaker's eyes; but she said no more. And Mr. Digby did not know what further to counsel, and was also silent. The silence lasted some little time, while a strawberry seller was making the street ring with her cries of "Straw....berr_ees_," and the hot air wafted in the odours from near and far, and the water trickled from the pump nose again. At last Mrs. Carpenter began again, with some difficulty and effort; not bodily however, but mental. "You have been so exceedingly kind to me, to us, Mr. Digby, I--" "Hush," he said. "Do not speak of that. You have done far more for me than I ever can do for you?" "I? No. I have done nothing." "You saved my father's life." "Your father's life? You are under some mistake. I never knew a Mr. Digby till I knew you I never even heard the name." "You knew a Mr. Southwode," said he smiling. "Southwode? Southwode! The English gentleman! But you are not his son?"