more formally,--who has been most
kind to me. He is private secretary to Sir Harry, and told me all manner
of things about the Government offices, and the Dons that rule them.
If I was a clever or a sharp fellow, I suppose this would have done me
infinite service; but, as old Dr. Kinward says, it was only 'putting the
wine in a cracked bottle;' and all I can remember is the kindness that
dictated the attention.

"Skeff is some relation--I forget what--to old Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney,
and, like all the world, expects to be her heir. He talks of coming
over to see her when he gets his leave, and said--God forgive him for
it--that he 'd run down and pass a day with us. I could n't say 'Don't,'
and I had not heart to say 'Do!' I had not the courage to tell him
frankly that we lived in a cabin with four rooms and a kitchen, and
that butler, cook, footman, and housemaid were all represented by a
barefooted lassie, who was far more at home drawing a fishing-net than
in cooking its contents. I was just snob enough to say, 'Tell us when we
may look out for you;' and without manliness to add, 'And I 'll run away
when I hear it.' But he 's a rare good fellow, and teases me every day
to dine with him at the Arthur,--a club where all the young swells of
the Government offices assemble to talk of themselves, and sneer at
their official superiors.

"I 'll go out, if I can, and see Dolly before I leave, though she told
me that the family did n't like her having friends,--the flunkeys called
them followers,--and of course I ought not to do what would make her
uncomfortable; still, one minute or two would suffice to get me some
message to bring the doctor, who 'll naturally expect it I'd like,
besides, to tell Dolly of my good fortune,--though it is, perhaps, not
a very graceful thing to be full of one's own success to another, whose
position is so painful as hers, poor girl. If you saw how pale she has
grown, and how thin; even her voice has lost that jolly ring it had, and
is now weak and poor. She seems so much afraid--of what or whom I can't
make out--but all about her bespeaks terror. You say very little of the
Abbey, and I am always thinking of it. The great big world, and this
great big city that is its capital, are very small things to _me_,
compared to that little circle that could be swept by a compass, with a
centre at the Burnside, and a leg of ten miles long, that would take in
the Abbey and the salmon-weir, the rabbit-warre