INQUIRIES.
The weeks went on now without any change but the changes of the season.
Rotha's flower borders bloomed up into beauty; somewhat old-fashioned
beauty, but none the worse for that. Hypericum and moss pink faded away;
the roses blossomed and fell; sweet English columbines lifted their sonsy
heads, pale blue and pale rose, and dark purple; poppies sprang up, as
often in the gravel road as in the beds; lilies came and went; the
laburnum shook out its clusters of gold; old honeysuckles freshened out
and filled all the air with the fragrance of their very sweet flowers.
Rotha's tulip tree came into blossom, and was a beautiful object from her
high window which looked right into the heart of it. Rotha grew very fond
of that tulip tree. There were fruits too. The door in the fence, which
she had noticed on her first expedition to the barnyard, was found to be
the entrance to a large kitchen garden. Truly, Joe Purcell cultivated few
vegetables; cabbages however were in number and variety, also potatoes,
and that resource of the poor, onions.
The fruits were little cared for; still, there were numbers of purple
raspberry bushes trained along the fence, which yielded a good supply of
berries; there were strawberry beds, grown up with weeds, where good
picking was to found if any one wanted to take the trouble. Gooseberries
were in great profusion, and currants in multitude. Old cherry trees,
which shaded parts of the garden disadvantageously for the under growth,
yielded a magnificent harvest of Maydukes, white hearts and ox hearts;
and pear trees and mulberry trees were not wanting, promising later
crops. Mr. and Mrs. Purcell had paid little attention to these treasures;
Joe hadn't time, he said; and Prissy wouldn't be bothered with gathering
berries after all the rest she had to do. Rotha made it her own
particular task to supply the little family with fruit; and it was one of
the pieces of work she most enjoyed. Very early, most often, while the
sun's rays yet came well aslant, she set off for the old garden with her
basket on her arm; and brought in such loads of nature's riches that Joe
and his wife declared they had never lived so in their lives. It was
lonely but sweet work to Rotha to gather the fruit. The early summer
mornings are some of the most wonderful times of the year, for the glory
and fulness and freshness of nature; the spirit of life and energy abroad
is catching; and sometimes Rotha's heart sang with the birds. For she had
a happy faculty of living in the present moment, and throwing herself
wholly into the work she might be about, forgetting care and trouble for
the time. Other mornings and evenings, she would almost forget the
present in thoughts that roamed the past and the future. Pushing her hand
among the dewy tufts of strawberry plants to seek the red fruit which had
grown large under the shadow of them, her mind would go wandering and
searching among old experiences to find out the hidden motives and
reasons which had been at work, or the hidden issues which must still be
waited for. At such times Rotha would come in thoughtful and tired. How
long would her aunt leave her in this place? and how, if her aunt did not
release her, was she ever to release herself? What was Mrs. Mowbray
about, that she never wrote? several letters had been sent off to her,
now a good while ago; letters telling all, and seeking counsel and
comfort. No word came back. And oh, where was that once friend, who had
told her to tell him everything that concerned her, and promised, tacitly
or in so many words, that her applications would never be disregarded nor
herself lost sight of? Years had passed now since he had given a sign of
his existence, much less a token of his care. But after all, was that a
certain thing? Was it not possible, that Mrs. Busby might have come in
between, and prevented any letter or word of Mr. Digby's from reaching
her? This sort of speculation always made Rotha feel wild and desperate;
she banished it as much as she could; for however the case were, she
possessed no remedy.
June passed, and July, and August came. No word from Mrs. Busby to Rotha,
and Joe Purcell said none came for him. The raspberries were gone, and
currants and gooseberries in full harvest; when there happened an
unlocked for and unwelcome variety in Rotha's way of life. Mrs. Purcell
was taken ill. It was nothing but chills and fever, the doctor said; but
chills and fever are pretty troublesome visiters if you do not know how
to get rid of them; and that this doctor certainly did not. It may be
said, that he had a difficult patient. Prissy Purcell was unaccustomed to
follow any will but her own, and made the time of sickness no exception
to her habit. With a chill on her she would get up to make bread; with
the "sick day" demanding absolute rest and quiet care, she would go out
to the garden to gather cabbages, and stand about preparing them and
getting ready her dinner; till provoked nature took her revenge and sent
the chill creeping over her. Then Prissy would (if it was not baking day)
throw down whatever she had in hand and go to her bed; and it fell to
Rotha's unwonted fingers to put on the pot and cook the dinner, set the
table and wash the dishes, even the pots and pans; for somebody must do
it, as she reflected, and poor Mrs. Purcell would come out of her bed in
the evening a mere wreck of her usual self, very unfit to do anything.
It was a strange experience, for Rotha to be cooking Joe Purcell's dinner
and then eating it with him; making gruel and toast for Prissy and
serving it to her; keeping the kitchen in order; sweeping, dusting,
mopping, scrubbing, for even that could not be avoided sometimes. "It is
my work," Rotha said to herself; "it is what is given me just now to do.
I wonder, why? But all the same, it is given; and there must be some use
in it." She was very busy oftentimes now, without the help of her flower
borders, which had to be neglected; she rejoiced that the small fruit was
gone, or nearly gone; from morning to night, when Prissy was abed, she
went steadily from one thing to another with scarce any interval of
active work. No study now but her Bible study; and to have time for that,
Rotha must get up very early in the morning. Then, at her window, with
the glory of the summer day just coming upon the outer world, she sat and
read and thought and prayed; her eyes going alternately from her open
page to the green and golden depths of the tulip tree opposite her
window; looking the while with her mental eye at the fresh and glorious
riches of some promise or prophecy. Perhaps Rotha never enjoyed her Bible
more, nor ever would, only that with growing experience in the ways of
the Lord comes ever new power to see the beauties of them, and with
greater knowledge of him comes a larger love.
August passed, and September came. And September also ran its course. The
weather grew calm and clear, and began to be crisp with frost, and the
outer world beautified with red maple leaves and crimson creepers and
golden hickory trees. Prissy got better and took her former place in the
house; and therewith Rotha had time to breathe and bethink herself.
Her aunt must long since be returned from Chicago. Once a scrap of a note
had been received from her, but it told nothing. It was not dated, and
the postmark was not New York. It told absolutely nothing, even
indirectly. Airs. Mowbray must long since have reopened her school, but
it seemed to be tacitly agreed upon that Rotha was to go to school no
more. What were all the people about? there seemed to be a spell upon
Rotha and her affairs, as much as if she had been a princess in a fairy
tale enchanted and turned to stone, or put to sleep; only she was not
turned to stone at all, but all alive and quivering with pain and fear
and anxiety. It was her life that was spell-bound. A thousand times she
revolved the possibility of going into some work by which she could make
money; and always had to give it up. She saw nobody, knew nobody, could
apply to no one. She had used up all her writing paper in letters; and
never an answer did she get. She began to think indeed her world was
bewitched. Winter was looming up in the distance, not so very far off
neither; was she to pass it _here_, alone with Prissy Purcell and her
husband? Sometimes Rotha's courage gave way and she shed bitter tears;
other times, when she was dressing her flowers in the long beds, or when
she was looking into the tulip tree with some sweet word of the Bible in
her mind, she could even smile at her prospect, and trust, and be quiet,
and wait. However, as the autumn wore on, I am afraid the quiet was more
and more broken up and the trust more sorrowful.
It was on one of these evenings of early October, that Mr. Southwode
presented himself, after so long an interval, at Mrs. Busby's door.
Nothing was changed, to all appearance, in the house; it might have been
but yesterday that he walked out of it for the last time; and nothing was
changed in the appearance of Mr. Southwode himself. Just as he came three
years ago, he came now.
Mrs. Busby was alone in her drawing room, and advanced to meet him with
outstretched hand and an expression of great welcome. She had not changed
either, unless for the better. Her visiter recognized, as he had often
done before, the expression of sense and character in her face, the quiet
suavity of her manner, the many indications that here was what is called
a fine woman. About the goodness of this fine woman he was not so sure;
but he paid her a tribute of involuntary respect for her abilities, her
cleverness, and her good manners.
"Mr. Southwode! I am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed as she advanced
to meet him, cordially, and yet with quiet dignity; not too cordial. "You
have been a stranger to New York a great while."
"Yes," he said. "Much longer than I anticipated."
"I thought we should hardly ever see you here again."
"Why not?" he asked with a smile.
"Want of sufficient attraction. You know, we are apt to think here that
Englishmen, if they are well placed in their own country, do not want
anything of other countries. They are on the very height of civilization,
and of everything else. They have enough. And certainly, America cannot
offer them much."
"America is a large field for work,"--Mr. Southwode observed.
"Ah yes; but what country is not? I dare say you find enough to do on the
other side. Do you not?"
"I have no difficulty on that score," Mr. Southwode confessed; "on either
side of the Atlantic."
"We were very glad to hear of the successful termination of your
lawsuit," Mrs. Busby went on. "I may congratulate you, may I not? I know
you do not set an over value on the goods of fortune; but at the same
time, it always seems to me that the possessor of great means has a great
advantage. It is true, wealth is a flood in which many people's heads and
hearts are submerged; but that would never be your case, I judge."
"I would rather be drowned in some other medium," he allowed.
"Well, we heard right? The decisions were in your favour, and
triumphantly?"
"They were in my favour, and unconditionally. I did not feel that there
was much to triumph about, or can be, in a family lawsuit."
"No; they are very sad things. I am very glad you are out of them, and so
well out of them."
"Thank you. How are my young friends in the family?"
"The girls? Quite well, thank you, They are unluckily neither of them at
home."
"Not at home! I am sorry for that. How has _my_ child developed?" he
asked with a slight smile.
"She has grown into a young woman," Mrs. Busby answered, with one of
those utterly imperceptible, yet thoroughly perceived, changes of manner
which speak of a mental check received or a mental protest made. It was
not a change of manner either; nothing so tangible; I cannot tell what it
was in her expression that Mr. Southwode instantly saw and felt, and that
put him upon his guard and upon his mettle at once. Mrs. Busby had drawn
her shawl closer round her; that was all the outward gesture. She always
wore a shawl. In winter it was thick and in summer it was gossamer; but
one way or another a shawl seemed essential to Mrs. Busby's well-being.
What Mr. Southwode gathered from her words was a covert rebuke and
rebuff. He was informed that Rotha was grown up.
"It is hard to realize that," he said lightly. "It seems but the other
day that I left her; and since then, nothing else has changed!"
"She has changed," said Mrs. Busby drily.
"May I ask, how?--besides the physical difference, which to be sure was
to be looked for?"
"I do not know that there is any other particular change."
"That would disappoint me," said Mr. Southwode. "I hoped to find a good
deal of mental growth and improvement as the fruit of these three years.
She has been at school all the time?"
"Yes."
"What is her school record?"
"Very fairly good," said Mrs. Busby, turning her eyes now upon the young
man, whom for the last few minutes they had avoided. "I did not know you
were so much interested in Rotha, Mr. Southwode."
"She was my charge, you are aware. Her mother left her to my care."
"Until she was placed in mine," said Mrs. Busby with dignity. "I hope you
believe that I am able to take good care of her?"
"I should be very sorry to doubt that, and no one who knows Mrs. Busby
could question it for a moment. But a charge is a charge, you know. To
resign it or delegate it is not optional. I regard myself as Rotha's
guardian always, and it was as her guardian that I entrusted her to you."
Mrs. Busby did not answer this, and did not change a muscle in face or
figure.
"And so," Mr. Southwode went on, smiling,--he was amused, and he
appreciated Mrs. Busby,--"it is as her guardian that I am asking an
account of her now."
"I have given it," said Mrs. Busby; and she moved her lips as if they
were dry, which however her utterance was not. It was pleasant.
"The young ladies can hardly be expected home early, I suppose?" said Mr.
Southwode, looking at his watch.
"Hardly"--returned Mrs. Busby in the same way.
"When can I see Rotha to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Busby, speaking leisurely, "you will hardly see
her. She is not at home. I said that before, but you understood me to
speak of the evening merely."
"Where is she then? I can go to her."
"No, you cannot," said Mrs. Busby half smiling, but it was not a smile
Mr. Southwode liked. "She is at a friend's house in the country."
"Not in New York! How long do you expect her to be absent?"
"That I cannot possibly tell. It depends on circumstances that I do not
know."
Mr. Southwode pondered. "Will you favour me with her address?" he asked,
taking out his notebook.
"It is not worth the while," said the lady quietly. "She is at a
considerable distance from New York, too far for you to go to her; and
she may be home any day. It depends, as I said, on what I do not now
know."
"And may be delayed yet for some time, then?"
"Possibly."
"Will you give me her address, Mrs. Busby."
Mr. Southwode's pencil was ready, but instead of giving him something to
do with it, Mrs. Busby rang the bell. Pencil and notebook waited.
"Lesbia, go up to my dressing room and bring me a little green book with
a clasp lying on my table there."
A few minutes of silence and waiting; then Lesbia returned with the
announcement, "There aint no sort o' little book there, Mis' Busby.
There's a heap o' big ones, but they aint green."
"Go again and look in the left hand drawer."
Lesbia came again. "Aint nothin' there but papers."
"That will do. Mr. Southwode, I have not my address book, and without
that I cannot give you what you want. The name of the post-office town is
very peculiar, and I always forget it. But I can write to Rotha to-morrow
and summon her, if you think it necessary."
"Would that be an inexpedient measure?"
"You must judge. I have not thought best to do it; but if it is necessary
I can do it now."
"I will not give you so much trouble. If you will allow me, I will come
again to morrow evening, and get the address."
"To-morrow evening!" said the lady slowly. "I am very sorry, I have an
engagement; I shall not be at home to-morrow evening."
Why did it not occur to Mrs. Busby to say that she would leave the
address for him, if he would call for it? Mr. Southwode quietly put up
his pencil, and remarked that another time would do; and passed on easily
to make inquiries about what New York had been doing since he went away?
Mrs. Busby told him of certain buildings and plans for buildings here and
there, and then suddenly asked,
"When did you come, Mr. Southwode?"
"I landed to-day."
"To-day! Rotha would be very much flattered if she knew how prompt you
have been to seek her out."
It was said with a manner meant to be smoothly insinuating, but which
somehow had missed the smoothness. Mrs. Busby for that moment had lost
the hold she usually kept of herself.
"Rotha would expect no less of me," Mr. Southwode answered calmly.
"Then you and she must have been great friends before you went away?
greater then I knew."
"Did Rotha not credit me with so much?" he asked with a smile, which
covered a sharp observation of the lady, examining him.
"To tell you the truth," said Mrs. Busby, with a manner which was
intended to be gracious, "I did not encourage her. Knowing what
gentlemen, and young gentlemen, generally are, I thought it unlikely that
you would much remember Rotha amid the pressure of your business in
England, and very likely that things might turn out so that she would
never see you again. I expected every day to hear that you were married;
and of course that would have been an end of your interest in her."
"Why do you think so, may I ask?"
"_Why?_ Every woman knows," said Mrs. Busby in amused fashion.
"I will not marry till I find a woman that does not know," said Mr.
Southwode shaking his head.
"Now that is unreasonable, Mr. Southwode."
"I do not think so. Prove it."
"I cannot prove it to a man. I have only a woman's knowledge, of what he
does not understand. And besides, Mr. Southwode, it is quite right and
proper that it should be so. A man shall leave his father and mother and
cleave to his wife; and if his father and mother, surely everybody else."
"As I am not married, the case does not come under consideration," said
the gentleman carelessly. And after a pause he went on--"I have written
several letters to Rotha during the time of my absence, and addressed
them to your care. Did you receive them safe?"
"I received several--I do not at this moment recollect just how many."
"Do you know why they were never answered?"
"I suppose I do," said Mrs. Busby composedly. "Rotha has been exceedingly
engrossed with her studies."
"She had vacations?"
"O certainly. She had vacations."
"Then can you tell me, Mrs. Busby, why Rotha never wrote to me?"
"I am afraid I cannot tell you," the lady answered slowly, looking into
the fire.
"Do you think Rotha has forgotten me?"
"It is not like her, I should say, to forget. I never hear her mention
you. But then, I see her little except in the vacations, and not always
then; she was often carried off from me."
"By whom, may I ask?"
"O by her school teacher."
"And that was--? Pardon me, but it concerns me to know all about Rotha I
can."
"I am not sure if I am justified in telling you."
"Why not?"
"I think," said Mrs. Busby with an appearance of candour, "my
guardianship is the proper one for her. How can you be her guardian,
while she lives in my house, Mr. Southwode? Or how can you be her
guardian out of it?"
"I promised her mother," he said. "How a promise shall be fulfilled, may
admit of question; but not whether it shall be fulfilled."
"I know of but one way," Mrs. Busby went on, eyeing him now intently. "If
you tell me you are intending to take _that_ way,--then I have no more to
say, of course. But I know of but one way in which it can be done."
Mr. Southwode laughed a little, a low, soft laugh, that in him always
meant amusement. "I did not promise _that_ to her mother," he said, "and
I cannot promise it to you. It might be convenient, but I do not
contemplate it."
"Then, Mr. Southwode, I feel it my duty to request that you fulfil your
promise by acting through me."
It was well enough said; it was not without some ground of reason. If he
could have felt sure of Mrs. Busby, it might have received, partially at
least, his concurrence. But he was as far as possible from feeling sure
of Mrs. Busby; and rather gave her credit for playing a clever mask. Upon
a little pause which followed the last words, there came a ring at the
door and the entrance of the young lady of the house. Antoinette was
grown up excessively pretty, and was dressed to set off her prettiness.
Her mother might be pardoned for viewing her with secret pride and
exultation, if not for the thrill of jealous fear which accompanied the
proud joy. That anybody should stand in this beauty's way!
"Mr. Southwode!" exclaimed the young lady. "It is Mr. Southwode come
back. Why, Mr. Southwode, what has kept you so long? We heard you were
coming five months ago. Why didn't you come then?"
Mrs. Busby wished her daughter had not said that.
"There were reasons--not interesting enough to occupy your ear with
them."
"'Occupy my ear'!" repeated the girl. "That is something new. Mamma,
isn't that deliciously polite! Well, what made you stay away so long, Mr.
Southwode? I like to have my ear occupied."
"Should not people stay where they belong?"
"And do you belong in England?"
"I suppose, in a measure, I may say I do."
"You talk foolishly, Antoinette," her mother put in. "Don't you know that
Mr. Southwode's home is in England?"
"People can change their homes, mamma. Then, you are not going to stay
long, Mr. Southwode?"
"I do not know how long. That is an undecided point."
"And what have you come over for now?"
"Antoinette!" said her mother again. "I do not know if you can excuse
her, Mr. Southwode; she is entirely too out-spoken. That is a question
you have nothing to do with, Nettie."
"Why not, mamma? He has come for something; and if it is business, or
travelling, or hunting, I would like to know."
"Hunting, at this time of year!" said Mrs. Busby.
"I might say it is business," said Mr. Southwode. "In one part of my
business, perhaps you can help me."
Antoinette pricked up her ears delightedly, and eagerly asked how? and
what?
"I made it part of my business to inquire about a little girl that I left
three years ago under your mother's care."
"Rotha!" exclaimed Antoinette; and a cloudy shadow of displeasure and
suspicion forthwith fell over her face; not tinder such good control as
her mother's. "A little girl! She was not so very little."
"What sort of a girl has she turned out to be?"
"Not little now, I can tell you. She is a great deal bigger than I am. So
you came to see about Rotha?"
"What can you tell me about her?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Nothing but the truth," said Mr. Southwode gravely.
"But the truth about what? Rotha is just what she used to be."
"Not changed except in inches?"
"_Inches!_ Feet!--" said Antoinette. "We don't think about inches when we
look at her. I don't know about anything else. If you want an account of
her studies you must ask somebody at school."
"Her teacher was yours?"
"O yes. Lately, you know, we were both in the upper class; and of course
we were together in Mrs. Mowbray's lessons; but then in other things we
were apart."
"How was that?"
"Studied different things," said Antoinette shortly. "Had different
masters. I can't tell you about Rotha's lessons, if you want to know
that." She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke, and tugged at them
with an appearance of vexation, which might be due to their excellent fit
and consequent difficulty of removal.
"Has she proved herself a pleasant inmate of the family?"
"She has been rather an inmate of Mrs. Mowbray's family," said
Antoinette. "Mrs. Mowbray has swallowed her up and carried her off from
us. _We_ don't see much of her."
"Antoinette," said her mother here, "Mr. Southwode wants to know Rotha's
address; and I cannot give him the name of the place. Can you help me
recollect it?"
"Never knew it, mamma. I didn't know the place had a name. I can't
recollect what I never heard."
"There must be a post-office," Mr. Southwode remarked.
"Must there? O I suppose there must, somewhere; but I don't know it."
"Lesbia could not find my address book," Mrs. Busby added.
"It is a matter of no consequence," Mr. Southwode rejoined. And he
presently after took his leave. A moment's silence followed his
departure.
"There was no need to tell him you did not know the post-office town,"
said Mrs. Busby. "That was as much as to say, you never write."
"What should I write for?" returned Antoinette defiantly. "Mamma! was
that all he came for? to ask about Rotha?"
"All that he came here for," said Mrs. Busby, with lines in her brow and
a compressed mouth. "I wish you had not told him where Rotha went to
school, either."
"Why?"
"Just as well not to say it."
"But what harm? He could ask, if he wanted to know; and then you would
have to tell. What does he want her address for?"
"I don't know; but I can manage that, well enough. He knows nothing about
Tanfield."
"Mamma! I wish Rotha had never come to us!" cried Antoinette with tears
in her eyes.
"Don't be foolish, Antoinette. Mr. Southwode will be here again in a day
or two; and then leave things to me."
Mr. Southwode meantime walked slowly and thoughtfully to the corner of
the street. By that time his manner changed; and he hailed a horse car
and sprang into it like a man who was suffering from no indecision in
either his views or purposes. Oddly enough, the very name which
Antoinette had comforted herself with thinking he did not know, had
suddenly occurred to him, together with a long-ago proposition of Mrs.
Busby to her sister in the latter's time of need. He had pretty well made
up his mind.
Half an hour later Mr. Southwode was announced to Mrs. Mowbray.
Mrs. Mowbray recollected him; she never forgot anybody, or failed to
catalogue anybody rightly in the vast collections and stores of her
memory. She received Mr. Southwode therefore with the gracious courtesy
and dignity which was habitual with her, and with the full measure also
of her usual reserve and quick observation.
After a few commonplaces respecting his absence and his return, Mr.
Southwode begged to ask if Mrs. Busby's niece, Miss Carpenter, were in
her house or school?
"Miss Carpenter is not with me," Mrs. Mowbray answered guardedly.
"But she has been with you, if I understand aright?"
"She has been with me until lately."
"Are you informed that she will not return?"
"By no means! I am expecting to see her or hear from her every day. O by
no means. Miss Carpenter ought to remain with me several years yet. I
shall be much disappointed if she do not. It is one great mistake of
parents now-a-days, that they do not give me time enough. The first two
or three years can but lay a foundation, on which to build afterwards."
"May I ask, if the foundation has been successfully laid in Miss
Carpenter's case? I am interested to know; because Mrs. Carpenter when
she died left her child to my care; and I hold myself responsible for
what concerns her."
Mrs. Mowbray hesitated slightly. "Where was Mrs. Busby?" she asked then.
"Here; but there was no intercourse between the sisters."
"Was it not by her mother's wish that Miss Carpenter was placed with her
aunt?"
"No. I acted on no authority but my own."
"What sort of a woman was Mrs. Carpenter?"
"A very admirable woman. A sweet, sound, noble nature, with a great deal
of quiet strength."
"Is her daughter like her?"
"Not in the least. I do not mean that she lacks some of her mother's good
qualities; but they are developed differently, and with a wholly
different background of temperament."
"Was there a feud between the sisters, or anything like it?"
Mr. Southwode hesitated. "I know the story," he said. "Mrs. Carpenter
never complained; but I think another woman would, in her place."
"Will you allow me to ask, how she came to entrust her child to you?"
"I was the only friend at hand. And now," Mr. Southwode went on smiling,
"may I be permitted to ask another question or two? When have you heard
from Miss Carpenter?"
"Not a word all summer. In the spring my school was broken up, on account
of sickness in the house; I sent Rotha home to her aunt; and since then I
have heard nothing from her. Not a word."
"You do not know then of course where she is?"
"With her aunt, I suppose, of course. Is she not with Mrs. Busby?"
"She is making a visit somewhere, Mrs. Busby tells me." And he hesitated.
"Has Rotha's home been happy with her aunt?"
"That is a question I never ask. Rotha does not complain."
"I need not ask whether her abode has been happy _here_," said the
gentleman smiling again; "but, has she been a satisfactory member of your
school?"
"Perfectly so! Of my school and family."
"You are satisfied with her studies, her progress in them, I mean?"
"Perfectly. I never taught any one with more pleasure or better results."
"I am very glad to hear that," said Mr. Southwode. And he took his leave.
The very next train for Tanfield carried him northward.