had she allowed any pride of her own to come between them and such advantage in the world as their uncle might be able to give them.  On their behalf she had accepted the loan of the house in which she lived, and the use of many of the appurtenances belonging to her brother-in-law; but on her own account she had accepted nothing.  Her marriage with Philip Dale had been disliked by his brother the squire, and the squire, while Philip was still living, had continued to show that his feelings in this respect were not to be overcome.  They never had been overcome; and now, though the brother-in-law and sister-in-law had been close neighbours for years, living as one may say almost in the same family, they had never become friends.  There had not been a word of quarrel between them.  They met constantly.  The squire had unconsciously come to entertain a profound respect for his brother’s widow.  The widow had acknowledged to herself the truth of the affection shown by the uncle to her daughters.  But yet they had never come together as friends.  Of her own money matters Mrs Dale had never spoken a word to the squire.  Of his intention respecting the girls the squire had never spoken a word to the mother.  And in this way they had lived and were living at Allington.

The life which Mrs Dale led was not altogether an easy life,—­was not devoid of much painful effort on her part.  The theory of her life one may say was this—­that she should bury herself in order that her daughters might live well above ground.  And in order to carry out this theory, it was necessary that she should abstain from all complaint or show of uneasiness before her girls.  Their life above ground would not be well if they understood that their mother, in this underground life of hers, was enduring any sacrifice on their behalf.  It was needful that they should think that the picking of peas in a sun-bonnet, or long readings by her own fire-side, and solitary hours spent in thinking, were specially to her mind.  “Mamma doesn’t like going out.”  “I don’t think mamma is happy anywhere out of her own drawing-room.”  I do not say that the girls were taught to say such words, but they were taught to have thoughts which led to such words, and in the early days of their going out into the world used so to speak of their mother.  But a time came to them before long,—­to one first and then to the other, in which they knew that it was not so, and knew also all that their mother had suffered for their sakes.

And in truth Mrs Dale could have been as young in heart as they were.  She, too, could have played croquet, and have coquetted with a haymaker’s rake, and have delighted in her pony, ay, and have listened to little nothings from this and that Apollo, had she thought that things had been conformable thereto.  Women at forty do not become ancient misanthropes, or stern Rhadamanthine moralists, indifferent to the world’s pleasures—­no, not even though they be widows.  There are those who think that such should be the phase of their minds.  I profess that I do not so think.  I would have women, and men also, young as long as they can be young.  It is not that a woman should call herself in years younger than her father’s family Bible will have her to be.  Let her who is forty call herself forty; but if she can be young in spirit at forty, let her show that she is so.