first time that the Holt had failed to shine in its produce, but old
Brooks had allowed the whole country round to excel so palpably in all
farm crops, and the gardener had taken things so easily in her absence,
that everything was mediocre, and she was displeased and ashamed.
Moreover, Brooks had controverted her strictest instructions against
harbouring tenants of bad character; he had mismanaged the cattle, and
his accounts were in confusion. He was a thoroughly faithful servant,
but like Ponto and the pony, he had grown masterful with age. Honor
found that her presiding eye had certainly done some good, since going
away had made things so much worse, and she took Sir John with her to the
study to consult him on her difficulties. Phoebe and Lucilla were left
together.

'I am afraid you are not much better,' said Phoebe, looking at the
languid fragile little being, and her depressed air.

'Yes, I am,' she answered, 'in essentials--but, oh! Phoebe, if you could
only teach me to get on with Honor.'

'Oh,' said Phoebe, with a tone of disappointment, 'I hoped all was
comfortable now.'

'So it ought to be! I am a wretch that it is not; but somehow I get
tired to death. I should like it to be my own fault, but with her I
always have a sense of _fluffiness_. There is so much figurativeness and
dreamy sentiment that one never gets to the firm, clear surface.'

'I thought that her great charm,' said Phoebe. 'It is a pity to be so
dull and unimaginative as I am.'

'I like you best as you are! I know what to be at.'

'Besides, her sensibility and poetry are a fund of happy youthfulness.
Abroad, her enjoyment was multiplied, because every place was full of
associations, lighted up by her fancy.

'Made unsubstantial by her fluff! No, I cannot like mutton with the wool
on! It is a shame, though, good creature as she is! I only wanted to
make out the philosophy of the wearied, worried condition that her
conversation is so apt to bring on in me. I can't think it pure
wickedness on my own part, for I esteem, and love, and venerate the good
soul with all my heart. I say, Phoebe, were you never in an inward rage
when she would say she would not _let_ some fact be true, for the sake of
some mythical, romantic figment? You smile. Own that you have felt it.'

'I have thought of Miss Fennimore's theory, that legends are more
veritable exponents of human nature than bare facts.'

'Say it again, Phoebe. It sounds ve