“A sensible girl though, in my opinion,” said Mr. Trumbull, finishing his ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of his waistcoat.  “I have observed her when she has been mixing medicine in drops.  She minds what she is doing, sir.  That is a great point in a woman, and a great point for our friend up-stairs, poor dear old soul.  A man whose life is of any value should think of his wife as a nurse:  that is what I should do, if I married; and I believe I have lived single long enough not to make a mistake in that line.  Some men must marry to elevate themselves a little, but when I am in need of that, I hope some one will tell me so—­I hope some individual will apprise me of the fact.  I wish you good morning, Mrs. Waule.  Good morning, Mr. Solomon.  I trust we shall meet under less melancholy auspices.”

When Mr. Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon, leaning forward, observed to his sister, “You may depend, Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum.”

“Anybody would think so, from the way Mr. Trumbull talks,” said Jane.  Then, after a pause, “He talks as if my daughters wasn’t to be trusted to give drops.”

“Auctioneers talk wild,” said Solomon.  “Not but what Trumbull has made money.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

    “Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;
     And let us all to meditation.”
                              —­2 Henry VI.

That night after twelve o’clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone’s room, and sat there alone through the small hours.  She often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, notwithstanding the old man’s testiness whenever he demanded her attentions.  There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light.  The red fire with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt.  Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance at that fact.  And she had already come to take life very much as a comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act the mean or treacherous part.  Mary might have become cynical if she had not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no unreasonable claims.