st, to explain that his intention
was good. Bella! the passion of love must be judged by the person who
inspires it; and I cannot even go so far as to feel pity for Wilfrid if
he has stooped to the humiliation of--there is another way of regarding
it, know. Let him be sincere and noble; but not his own victim. He
scarcely holds up his head. We are now for Devon. Tracy is with us; and
we never did a wiser thing than when we decided to patronize poets. If
kept in order--under--they are the aristocracy of light
conversationalists. Adieu! We speed for beautiful Devon. 'Me love to
Pole, and I'm just,' etc. That will do this time; next, she will speak
herself. That I should wish it! But the world is full of change, as I
begin to learn. What will ensue?"

CHAPTER XXXV

When Mrs. Chump had turned her back on Brookfield, the feelings of the
outcast woman were too deep for much distinctly acrimonious sensation
toward the ladies; but their letters soon lifted and revived her, until,
being in a proper condition of prickly wrath, she sat down to compose a
reply that should bury them under a mountain of shame. The point,
however, was to transfer this mountain from her bosom, which laboured
heavily beneath it, to their heads. Nothing could appear simpler. Here is
the mountain; the heads are yonder. Accordingly, she prepared to
commence. In a moment the difficulty yawned monstrous. For the mountain
she felt was not a mountain of shame; yet that was the character of
mountain she wished to cast. If she crushed them, her reputation as a
forgiving soul might suffer: she could not pardon without seeing them
abased. Thus shaken at starting, she found herself writing: "I know that
your father has been hearing tales told of me, or he would have written,
and he has not; so you shall never see me, not if you cried to me from
the next world--the hot part."

Perusing this, it was too tremendous. "Oh, that's awful!" she said,
getting her body a little away from the manuscript. "Ye couldn't curse
much louder."

A fresh trial found her again rounding the fact that Mr. Pole had not
written to her, and again flying into consequent angers. She had some dim
conception of the sculpture of an offended Goddess. "I look so," she said
before the glass "I'm above ye, and ye can't hurt me, and don't come
anigh me: but here's a cheque--and may ye be haunted in your dreams!--but
here's a cheque."

There was pain in her heart, for she had felt faith in