“A great many people consider Catherine handsome,” replied her mother, who began to shiver inwardly under the infliction of Mrs. Meadowsweet’s talk.  She tried to add something about Loftus, but for some reason or other words failed her.  After a moment’s pause she resumed: 

“Only those who know what small means are can understand the constant self-denial they inflict.

“And that’s true enough, Mrs. Bertram.”

“Ah, Mrs. Meadowsweet, you must be only assuming this sympathetic tone.  For, if all reports are true, you and Miss Beatrice are wealthy.”

Mrs. Meadowsweet’s eyes beamed lovingly on her hostess.

“We have enough and to spare,” she responded.  “Thank the good God we have enough and to spare.  Meadowsweet saw to that, poor man.”

“Your husband was in business?” gently in quired Mrs. Bertram.

“He kept a shop, Mrs. Bertram.  I’m the last to deny it.  He kept a good, thriving draper’s shop in the High Street.  The best of goods he had, and he sold fair.  I used to help him in those days.  I used to go to London to buy the Spring fashions, and pretty things I’d buy, uncommonly pretty, and the prettiest of all, you may be sure, for little Beatrice.  Ah! you could get a stylish hat in Northbury in those days.  Poor man, he had the custom of all the country round.  There was no shop like Meadowsweet’s.  Well, he made his fortune in it, and he died full of money and much respected.  What could man do more?”

“And your daughter Beatrice resembles her father?”

“She does, Mrs. Bertram.  He was a very genteel man—­a cut above me, as I said before.  He was fond of books, and but for me maybe he’d have got into trade in the book line.  But I warned him off that shoal.  I said to him, scores of times, ’Mark my words, William, dress will last, and books won’t.  People must be clothed, but they needn’t read.’  He was wise enough to stick to my words, and he made his fortune.”

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Bertram, in a slow, meditative voice, “that a—­um—­merchant—­in a small town like this, might, with care, realize, say, two or three thousand pounds.”

Mrs. Meadowsweet’s eyes almost flashed.

“Two or three thousand!” she said, “dearie me, dearie me.  When people talk of fortunes, in Northbury, they mean fortunes, Mrs. Bertram.”

“And your daughter will inherit?” asked the hostess of her guest.

“There’s full and plenty for me, Mrs. Bertram, and when Beatrice comes of age, or when she marries with her mother’s approval, she’ll have twenty thousand pounds.  Twenty thousand invested in the funds, that’s her fortune, not bad for a shopkeeper’s daughter, is it, Mrs. Bertram?” Mrs. Bertram said that it was anything but bad, and she inwardly reflected on the best means of absolutely suppressing the memory of the shopkeeper, and how, by a little judicious training, she might induce Mrs. Meadowsweet to speak of her late partner as belonging to the roll of British merchants.