There was not much of importance in appearance to relate about the occurrences of a day which was destined to be remembered as very important by all who passed its hours at Woolgreaves. It had the usual features of a "long day," spasmodic attacks of animation and lapses of weariness, a great deal of good eating and drinking, much looking at pictures and parade-books, some real gratification, and not a little imperfectly disguised fatigue. It differed in one respect, however, from the usual history of a "long day." There was one person who was not glad when it came to an end. That person was Mr. Creswell. Poor Mrs. Ashurst had found her visit to Woolgreaves much more endurable than she expected. She had indeed found it almost pleasurable. She had been amused--the time had passed, the young ladies had been kind to her. She praised them to Marian. "They are nice creatures," she said; "really tender-hearted and sincere. Of course, they are not clever like you, my dear; but then all girls cannot be expected to be _that_." "They are very fortunate," said Marian, moodily. "Just think of the safe and happy life they lead. Living like that _is_ living; _we_ only exist. They have no want for the present; no anxiety for the future. Everything they see and touch, all the food they eat, everything they wear means money." "Yes," said Mrs. Ashurst; "and after all, money is a great thing. Not, indeed," she added, with tears in her eyes, "that I could care much for it now, for it could not, if we had it, restore what we have lost." "No," said Marian, frowning, "but it could have saved us from losing it; it could have preserved love and care, home, position, and happiness to us. True, mother, money is a great thing." But Marian's mother was not listening to her. Her mind had returned to its familiar train of thought again. Something had been said that day about Mrs. Ashurst's paying Woolgreaves a longer visit, going for a week or two, of course accompanied by Marian. Mrs. Ashurst had not decidedly accepted or negatived the proposition. She felt rather nervous about it herself, and uncertain as to Marian's sentiments, and her daughter had not aided her by word or look. Nor did Marian recur to the subject when she found themselves at home again in the evening. But she remembered it, and discussed it with herself in the night. Would it be well that her mother should be habituated to the comforts, the luxuries of such a house, so unattainable to her at home, so desirable in her state of broken health and spirits? This was the great difficulty which beset Marian, and she felt she could not decide it then.