’And I too change perpetually—­now this, now that—­now disappointed and peevish because all is not exactly as I had pictured it, and now suddenly discovering that the reality is far more beautiful than I had imagined it.  Oh, Helstone!  I shall never love any place like you.

A few days afterwards, she had found her level, and decided that she was very glad to have been there, and that she had seen it again, and that to her it would always be the prettiest spot in the world, but that it was so full of associations with former days, and especially with her father and mother, that if it were all to come over again, she should shrink back from such another visit as that which she had paid with Mr. Bell.

CHAPTER XLVII

SOMETHING WANTING

’Experience, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand;
Whence harmonies we cannot understand,
Of God’s will in His worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad, perplexed minors.’ 
MRS. BROWNING.

About this time Dixon returned from Milton, and assumed her post as Margaret’s maid.  She brought endless pieces of Milton gossip:  How Martha had gone to live with Miss Thornton, on the latter’s marriage; with an account of the bridesmaids, dresses and breakfasts, at that interesting ceremony; how people thought that Mr. Thornton had made too grand a wedding of it, considering he had lost a deal by the strike, and had had to pay so much for the failure of his contracts; how little money articles of furniture—­long cherished by Dixon—­had fetched at the sale, which was a shame considering how rich folks were at Milton; how Mrs. Thornton had come one day and got two or three good bargains, and Mr. Thornton had come the next, and in his desire to obtain one or two things, had bid against himself, much to the enjoyment of the bystanders, so as Dixon observed, that made things even; if Mrs. Thornton paid too little, Mr. Thornton paid too much.  Mr. Bell had sent all sorts of orders about the books; there was no understanding him, he was so particular; if he had come himself it would have been all right, but letters always were and always will be more puzzling than they are worth.  Dixon had not much to tell about the Higginses.  Her memory had an aristocratic bias, and was very treacherous whenever she tried to recall any circumstance connected with those below her in life.  Nicholas was very well she believed.  He had been several times at the house asking for news of Miss Margaret—­the only person who ever did ask, except once Mr. Thornton.  And Mary? oh! of course she was very well, a great, stout, slatternly thing!  She did hear, or perhaps it was only a dream of hers, though it would be strange if she had dreamt of such people as the Higginses, that Mary had gone to work at Mr. Thornton’s mill, because her father wished her to know how to cook; but what nonsense that could mean she didn’t