Winifred could not bring herself to feel that she was a burden. She was well aware that she did as much work as had ever been expected of Priscilla at the farm, and since she had found fine needlework and embroidery to do, she had earned more than enough money for her own support. Moreover she had taught the two girls to read and write since she came to Bristol, rather, it must be confessed, against the will of their mother, who complained that Winnie would make Betsey and Sally as idle and dreaming as herself. But here, for once, Simon Evans exerted his authority, and when he did, even Dame Margery had no choice but to submit. These were dreary days to Winifred. The change was great from the open, breezy field and heath, and the stately avenues and lovely gardens of the Hall, to the narrow alley where she now lived. There was not a green thing to be seen except from one window in the attic, where she could catch a glimpse of some distant tree-tops; and at these tree-tops Winifred could gladly have gazed for hours if she would have been allowed. But it was hard for her to find time even to think, since Dame Margery's voice kept up an incessant patter of small complaints and fault-findings, small remarks and smaller gossip, for, although she seldom went out, she contrived to pick up all the news of the town. Her very voice grated on Winifred's ears. She never spoke in a pleasant or cheerful tone. And a stranger hearing her in another room would be sure to think she was either whining or scolding. While at the least annoyance, she took on a tone and expression of suffering martyrdom. Reading was out of the question, save by fits and snatches, or on Sundays, when she was not engaged in cooking the Sunday dinner, or keeping the little ones quiet, while their mother nodded over her Bible, under the idea that she was performing a pious duty. It was a great relief when Winifred found fine sewing and embroidery enough to occupy her hands for some hours of every day. The close attention which this work required was a sufficient excuse for not talking, and she was learning by degrees to listen to her aunt's voice as one listens to the working of machinery or the patter of the rain—as a disagreeable noise which cannot be helped. As she worked at the muslin apron or the lace whisk which occupied her hands and eyes, her thoughts were comparatively free, and they wandered backward over the past—her pleasant life at the farm, the hours spent at the Hall or with good Dame Sprat, now enjoying that Heavenly Inheritance to which she had so steadily looked forward during her long and troubled life. She called to mind her last precious conversations with Lady Peckham, and the dying words of her mother: