expected to give much
attention to the trivial sufferings of another person.

"Ah, my dear," she would exclaim with a groan, if Ellen ventured to
complain of a racking headache, "when you've lived as long as I have, and
gone through what I've gone through, and have got such a liver as I've
got, you'll know what bad health means. But at your age, and with your
constitution, it's nothing more than fancy."

And then Mrs. Tadman would branch off into a graphic description of her
own maladies, to which Ellen was fain to listen patiently, wondering
vaguely as she listened whether the lapse of years would render her as
wearisome a person as Mrs. Tadman.

She had no sympathy from anyone. Her father came to Wyncomb Farm once a
week or so, and sat drinking and smoking with Mr. Whitelaw; but Ellen
never saw him alone. He seemed carefully to avoid the chance of being
alone with her, guiltily conscious of his part in the contriving of her
marriage, and fearing to hear some complaint about her lot. He pretended
to take it for granted that her fate was entirely happy, congratulated
her frequently upon her prosperity, and reminded her continually that it
was a fine thing to be the sole mistress of the house she lived in,
instead of a mere servant--as he himself was, and as she had been at the
Grange--labouring for the profit of other people.

Up to this time Mr. Carley had had some reason to be disappointed with
the result of his daughter's marriage, so far as his own prosperity was
affected thereby. Not a sixpence beyond that one advance of the two
hundred pounds had the bailiff been able to extort from his son-in-law.
It was the price that Mr. Whitelaw had paid for his wife, and he meant to
pay no more. He told William Carley as much one day when the question of
money matters was pushed rather too far--told him in the plainest
language.

This was hard; but that two hundred pounds had saved the bailiff from
imminent destruction. He was obliged to be satisfied with this advantage,
and to bide his time.

"I'll have it out of the mean hound sooner or later," he muttered to
himself as he walked homewards, after a social evening with the master of
Wyncomb.

One evening Mr. Carley brought his daughter a letter. It was from Gilbert
Fenton, who was quite unaware of Ellen's marriage, and had written to her
at the Grange. This letter afforded her the only pleasure she had known
since fate had united her to Stephen Whitelaw. It told her