he envious eyes of women who
had none.

In this way she had made herself popular--and in this way she had won the
county seat for her husband.

When, however, that great end and aim of her existence was accomplished,
Caroline Miller felt that she might now fairly launch out a little. The
time was come when she might reap the advantage of her long years of
repression and patient waiting. Her daughters were growing up, her sons
were all at school. For her children's sake, it was time that she should
take the lead in the county which their father's fortune and new position
entitled them to, and which no one now was likely to grudge them.
Shadonake therefore was bought, and the house straightway pulled down,
and built up again in a style, and with a magnificence, befitting Mr.
Miller's wealth.

Bricks and mortar were Andrew Miller's delight. He was never so happy as
during the three years that Shadonake House was being built; every stone
that was laid was a fresh interest to him; every inch of brick wall a
keen and special delight. He had been disappointed not to have had the
spoliation of Shadonake Bath; it had been a distinct mortification to him
to have to forego the four brick walls which would have replaced its
ancient steps; but then he had made it up to himself by altering the
position of the front door three times before it was finally settled
to his satisfaction.

But all this was over by this time, and when my story begins Shadonake
new House, as it was sometimes called, was built, and furnished and
inhabited in every corner of its lofty rooms, and all along the spacious
length of its many wide corridors.

One afternoon--it is about a week later than that soiree at Walpole
Lodge, mentioned in a previous chapter--Mrs. Miller and her eldest
daughter are sitting together in the large drawing-room at Shadonake. The
room is furnished in that style of high artistic decoration that is now
the fashion. There are rich Persian rugs over the polished oak floor; a
high oak chimney-piece, with blue tiles inserted into it in every
direction, and decorated with old Nankin china bowls and jars; a wide
grate below, where logs of wood are blazing between brass bars;
quantities of spindle-legged Chippendale furniture all over the room,
and a profusion of rich gold embroidery and "textile fabrics" of all
descriptions lighting up the carved oak "dado" and the sombre sage green
of the walls. There are pictures, too, quite of the