ng in Chrysophrasia's cold green eyes which gives me
an unpleasant sensation. She was at Carvel Place when I arrived, and she
is generally there, although she has a little house in Brompton, where
she preserves the objects she most loves, consisting chiefly of earthen
vessels, abominable in color and useless to civilized man; nevertheless,
so great is her influence with her sister's family that even John
speaks of majolica with a certain reverence, as a man lowers his voice
when he mentions some dear relation not long dead. As for Mrs. Carvel,
she is silent when Chrysophrasia holds forth concerning pots and plates,
though I have seen her raise her gentle face and cast up her eyes with a
faint, hopeless smile when her sister was more than usually eloquent
about her Spanow-Morescow things, as she calls them, her
Marstrow-Geawgiow and her Robby-ah. It seems to me that objects of that
description are a trifle too perishable. Perhaps John Carvel wishes Miss
Dabstreak were perishable, too; but she is not.

I would not weary you with too many portraits, my dear lady, and I will
describe the beautiful Hermione another day. As for her mother, Mary
Carvel, she is an angel upon earth, and if her trials have not been many
until lately, her good deeds are without number as the sands of the sea;
for it is a poor country that lies on the borders of Essex, and there
have been bad times in these years. The harvests have failed, and many
other misfortunes have happened, not the least of which is that the old
race of farmers is dying out, and that the young ones cannot live as
their fathers did, but sell their goods and chattels and emigrate, one
after another, to the far, rich West. Some of them prosper, and some of
them die on the road; but they leave the land behind them a waste, and
there are eleven millions of acres now lying fallow in England which
were ploughed and sowed and reaped ten years ago. People are poor, and
Mrs. Carvel takes care of them. Her soft brown eyes have a way of
finding out trouble, and when it is found her great heart cannot help
easing it. She loves her husband and her daughter, understanding them in
different degrees. She loves her son also, but she does not pretend to
understand him; he is the outcome of a new state of things; but he has
no vices, and is thought exceedingly clever. As for her sister, she is
very good to her, but she does not profess to understand her, either.

I had been in Persia and Turkey