But for the generosity of our relatives we would have been in a pretty plight.  They sent us sufficient means to buy iii everything, and our neighbours came to our rescue with enthusiasm and warm-hearted genuine sympathy.  The bailiff—­a gentleman to the core—­seeing how matters stood, helped us to the utmost of his power.

Our goods were disposed of on the premises, and the neighbours arranged a mock sale, at which the bailiff winked.  Our friends had sent the money, and the neighbours did the bidding—­none bidding against each other—­and thus our belongings went for a mere trifle.  Every cloud has its silver lining, and the black cloud of poverty has a very bright silver lining.

In poverty you can get at the real heart of people as you can never do if rich.  People are your friends from pure friendship and love, not from sponging self-interestedness.  It is worth being poor once or twice in a lifetime just to experience the blessing and heartrestfulness of a little genuine reality in the way of love and friendship.  Not that it is impossible for opulence to have genuine friends, but rich people, I fear, must ever have at their heart cankering suspicion to hint that the friendship and love lavished upon them is merely self-interestedness and sham, the implements of trade used by the fawning toadies who swarm around wealth.

In conjunction with the bishop’s name, the approaching sale of our goods had been duly advertised in the local papers, and my father received several letters of sympathy from the clergy deploring the conduct of the bishop.  These letters were from men unknown to father, who were unaware that Richard Melvyn was being sold off for a debt already paid.

By the generosity of relatives and the goodness of neighbours as kind as ever breathed, our furniture was our own again, but what were we to do for a living?  Our crops were withering in the fields for want of rain, and we had but five cows—­not an over-bright outlook.  As I was getting to bed one night my mother came into my room and said seriously, “Sybylla, I want to have a talk with you.”

“Talk away,” I responded rather sullenly, for I expected a long sing-song about my good-for-nothingness in general—­a subject of which I was heartily tired.

“Sybylla, I’ve been studying the matter over a lot lately.  It’s no use, we cannot afford to keep you at home.  You’ll have to get something to do.”

I made no reply, and my mother continued, “I am afraid we will have to break up the home altogether.  It’s no use; your father has no idea of making a living.  I regret the day I ever saw him.  Since he has taken to drink he has no more idea of how to make a living than a cat.  I will have to give the little ones to some of the relatives; the bigger ones will have to go out to service, and so will your father and I. That’s all I can see ahead of us.  Poor little Gertie is too young to go out in the world (she was not twelve months younger than I); she must go to your grandmother, I think.”