els, and palings which bound the home precincts.
Had not she her own children and affairs? her brood of fowls, her
Sunday-school, her melon-beds, her rose-garden, her quarrel with the
parson, etc., to attend to? Mr. Newcome, arriving on a Saturday night;
hears he is gone, says "Oh!" and begins to ask about the new gravel-walk
along the cliff, and whether it is completed, and if the China pig
fattens kindly upon the new feed.

Clive, in the avuncular gig, is driven over the downs to Brighton to his
maternal aunt there; and there he is a king. He has the best bedroom,
Uncle Honeyman turning out for him sweetbreads for dinner; no end of jam
for breakfast; excuses from church on the plea of delicate health; his
aunt's maid to see him to bed; his aunt to come smiling in when he rings
his bell of a morning. He is made much of, and coaxed, and dandled and
fondled, as if he were a young duke. So he is to Miss Honeyman. He is
the son of Colonel Newcome, C.B., who sends her shawls, ivory chessmen,
scented sandalwood workboxes and kincob scarfs; who, as she tells
Martha the maid, has fifty servants in India; at which Martha constantly
exclaims, "Lor', mum, what can he do with 'em, mum?" who, when in
consequence of her misfortunes she resolved on taking a house at
Brighton, and letting part of the same furnished, sent her an order for
a hundred pounds towards the expenses thereof; who gave Mr. Honeyman,
her brother, a much larger sum of money at the period of his calamity.
Is it gratitude for past favours? is it desire for more? is it vanity of
relationship? is it love for the dead sister--or tender regard for her
offspring which makes Mrs. Martha Honeyman so fond of her nephew? I
never could count how many causes went to produce any given effect or
action in a person's life, and have been for my own part many a time
quite misled in my own case, fancying some grand, some magnanimous, some
virtuous reason, for an act of which I was proud, when lo! some pert
little satirical monitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug
which I was cherishing--the peacock's tail wherein my absurd vanity had
clad itself--and says, "Away with this boasting! I am the cause of your
virtue, my lad. You are pleased that yesterday at dinner you refrained
from the dry champagne? My name is Worldly Prudence, not Self-denial,
and I caused you to refrain. You are pleased because you gave a guinea
to Diddler? I am Laziness, not Generosity, which inspired