s him. Why was Anna's
life so dull, and his so full of interest?

CHAPTER IX

THE WOOD HOUSE

Without love there is no interior pleasantness of life.
--SWEDENBORG.

It was a lovely July afternoon when Malcolm Herrick and his friend
arrived at Earlsfield. A smart dog-cart, Cedric's own especial
property, was waiting for them at the station. As they mounted to their
places, and Cedric took the reins from the groom, he pointed out the
good points of the mare with an air of complacency and satisfaction
that somewhat amused Malcolm; but the next moment he said in a boyish
manner, "You see, Herrick, I have not got quite used to my new toy. My
sisters gave me the trap on my last birthday. I have had Brown Becky
for two years. She is good for either driving or riding; but I dropped
a hint once, in Dinah's hearing, that I longed for a dog-cart, and
though she said nothing at the time, she and Elizabeth put their heads
together, and they got Mr. Brodrick, a neighbour of ours, to choose it."

"Your sisters are very good to you," observed Malcolm in rather a
patronising manner. He even smiled to himself furtively at the thought
of the two gentle spinsters. "A good-looking boy like Cedric is always
spoilt by his womankind," he said to himself. "If I ever get on
intimate terms with them, which is very unlikely, I shall tell them
that all this petting and spoiling is not good for the lad, and will
only unfit him for his work in life. Women have no sense of
proportion," he continued rather irritably; "they either do too much or
too little, and the Misses Templeton seem to be no exceptions to the
rule."

They had left Earlsfield behind them, and were now climbing the long,
winding ascent that led to Staplegrove. As the road grew steeper, Brown
Becky slackened her pace.

The heavy storms had tempered the great heat, and though the sky was
cloudless and the sunshine brilliant, the trees meeting overhead gave
them a pleasant shade, and a soft, refreshing breeze blew in their
faces. Malcolm drew a long breath of delight.

"There is nothing like the country after all," he observed. "When I
have made my pile, I shall pitch my tent or build myself a hut far from
the madding crowd, and bid good-bye to Lincoln's Inn, and Piccadilly,
and club-land, and all the delights of modern civilisation."

"Not you, old fellow," returned Cedric sagaciously. "Why, you would be
bored to death in no