think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties and to scheme benevolence, for those about her.  We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it was our due; the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks.  Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to gratitude or acknowledgment; others only recall it years after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor tardy payment of tears.  Then forgotten tones of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of the past—­oh so bright and clear!—­oh so longed after!—­because they are out of reach; as holiday music from withinside a prison wall—­or sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable—­more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no escape.

All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take of Harry Esmond’s melancholy, upon Tom Tusher’s departure, was, by a gayety unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom.  She made his three scholars (herself being the chief one) more cheerful than ever they had been before, and more docile, too, all of them learning and reading much more than they had been accustomed to do.  “For who knows,” said the lady, “what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a learned tutor long?”

Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and he would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away.

At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a letter, with a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of 2,000L. among her six nieces, the Dean’s daughters; and many a time since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded him.  She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased relative, from whom she and her family had been many years parted.

When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long face.  “The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your ladyship a coach and a couple of horses that will do indifferent to ride or for the coach.  And, Beatrix, you shall have a spinnet:  and, Frank, you shall have a little horse from Hexton Fair; and, Harry, you shall have five pounds to buy some books,” said my lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folk’s money.  “I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend your money, and all your sisters’, too.”

“I have but one aunt—­and—­and I have another use for the money, my lord,” says my lady, turning very red.

“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?” cries my lord.  “And what the devil is there that I don’t give you which you want!”