without a breath of pure air, without a
sight of the free heaven. And to both of them that would probably have
meant a grave illness.

Mrs. Morgan was a thin, tremulous woman, with watery eyes and a singular
redness about the prominent part of her face, which seemed to indicate a
determination of blood to the nose. All her married life had been spent
in a cheerless struggle to maintain the externals of gentility. Not
that she was vain or frivolous--indeed her natural tendencies made for
homeliness in everything--but, by birth and by marriage connected with
genteel people, she felt it impossible to abandon that mode of living
which is supposed to distinguish the educated class from all beneath it.
She had brought into the world three sons and three daughters; of the
former, two were dead, and of the latter, one,--in each case, poverty of
diet having proved fatal to a weak constitution. For close upon thirty
years the family had lived in houses of which the rent was out of all
reasonable proportion to their means; at present, with a total income
of one hundred and sixty pounds (Mr. Morgan called himself a commission
agent, and seldom had anything to do), they paid in rent and rates a
matter of fifty-five, and bemoaned the fate which neighboured them with
people only by courtesy to be called gentlefolk. Of course they kept
a servant,--her wages nine pounds a year. Whilst the mother and elder
daughter were at Teignmouth, Mr Morgan, his son, and the younger girl
felt themselves justified in making up for lack of holiday by an extra
supply of butcher's meat.

Well-meaning, but with as little discretion in this as in other things,
Mrs. Morgan allowed scarce an hour of the day to pass without uttering
her gratitude to Nancy Lord for the benefit she was enjoying. To escape
these oppressive thanks, Nancy did her best never to be alone with the
poor lady; but a _tete-a-tete_ was occasionally unavoidable, as, for
instance, on the third or fourth day after their arrival, when Mrs.
Morgan had begged Nancy's company for a walk on the Den, whilst Jessica
wrote letters. At the end of a tedious hour Jessica joined them, and her
face had an unwonted expression. She beckoned her friend apart.

'You'll be surprised. Who do you think is here?'

'No one that will bore us, I hope.'

'Mr. Tarrant. I met him near the post-office, and he stopped me.'

Nancy frowned.

'Are they all here again?'

'No; he says he's alone.--One minute, mamm