'We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.' And she sighed again. 'I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such materialists, we can't help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for a time and place of trouble--plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought, for it is plainly its good Creator's will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint Paul says, "with a house which is from heaven." So Maud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again, there is nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation which _they_ have forsaken before we do. So this great wind, you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowing from Bartram-Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, who is quite right in thinking I don't like him; and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.' I lifted my head and listened to the storm, dying away in the distance sometimes--sometimes swelling and pealing around and above us--and through the dark and solitude my thoughts sped away to Bartram-Haugh and Uncle Silas. 'This letter,' I said at last, 'makes me feel differently. I think he is a stern old man--is he?' 'It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,' answered Lady Knollys. 'I did not choose to visit at his house.' 'Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram-Haugh?' 'Yes--before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother from time to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he played; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky--and some men are, I believe, habitually unlucky--is like trying to fill a vessel that has no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of speculations, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding in that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen--poor Sir Harry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kind father went on helping him, up to his marriage--I mean in that extravagant way which was really totally useless.' 'Has my aunt been long dead?' 'Twelve or fifteen years--more, indeed--she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have given her right hand she had never married Silas.' 'Did you like her?'