Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor, called upon and explained to her their object; she poked five old guineas into the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her donation in the visitor’s book.  During the following week she had numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she gave generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrowness; to all, however, she positively refused to become a yearly subscriber; and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the patrons of his school, she answered, “Sir, my father received his property suddenly, and I may be as suddenly deprived of it.  I will give, but I will not promise.”  Her impulse was to give, her habit to withhold.

She added one more servant to her establishment; and as she did not send out cards returning thanks for the ‘inquiries,’ which increased daily, Sarah Bond was a very lonely woman; for though some, from curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again, from the unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the rich, would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to make fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes.  Weeks and months rolled on; the old house had been repaired and beautified.  Mr. Cramp, Sarah’s law agent and ‘man of business,’ advised her to let the house, of which she occupied about as much as a wren could fill of the nest of an eagle; and, strangely enough, finding that the house of her childhood was to let, she took it, removing thither all the furniture which her father made her promise never to part with.  The ceiling of the best bed-room was obliged to be raised to admit the lofty bed with its plumes, and the spinnet was assigned a very comfortable corner in a parlour, where the faded stately chairs and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all matters connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly frugal.

After her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she looked kind things to her rich, and did kind things to her poor neighbours, only in a strange, unusual way; and her charity was given by fits mid starts—­not continuously.  She moved silently about her garden, and evinced much care for her plants and flowers.  Closely economical from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic arrangements were strangely at variance with what could not be called public gifts, because she used every effort in her power to conceal her munificence.  She did not, it is true, think and calculate, how the greatest good could be accomplished.  She knew but one path to charity, and that was paved with gold.  She did not know how to offer sympathy, or to enhance a gift by the manner of giving.  Her father had sacrificed everything to multiply and keep his wealth; all earthly happiness had been given up for it; and unsatisfying as it had been to her own heart, it had satisfied his.  Inclination prompted to give, habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in obeying inclination than in following habit; though sometimes what she believed a duty triumphed over inclination.