may be
considered unpleasant in their manners. It is those who are too
familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity.

Austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; Jane, on the contrary,
whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued
inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive
air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. People of
course said that Austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor Mrs
Austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to
mirth.

Austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and
looking after his game. In one point the neighbouring gentlemen were
surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be
prevailed upon to convict a poacher. He was appointed a magistrate, and
being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a
great acquisition to the county. His wife was much sought after, but it
was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears
stood in her eyes. Before they had been a year in their new position,
they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their
establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits
to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could
have desired to be. But were they happy? Alas! no. Little did those
who envied Austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was
on his mind--what a corroding care was wearing out his existence.
Little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been
once more the poacher in the village of Grassford, to have removed from
his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once
more have his son by his side. And poor Jane, her thoughts were day and
night upon one object--where was her child? It deprived her of rest at
night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it
would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments;
it was one incessant incubus--one continual source of misery. Of her
husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for
the deed he had done--how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and
how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery--a worm that
would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. But her
boy--her noble, self-sacrificed little Joey!--he and his destiny were