s--yet only perhaps--might feel a little as he did--the mother,
Mrs. Dennistoun, upon whom he thought all this would come like a
thunder-clap, not knowing that she was up-stairs in the family party,
among the lordships and the ladyship too.

He went home and into his handsome library, and shut the door upon
himself, to have it out there--or rather to occupy himself in some more
sensible way and shut this foolish subject out of his mind. It occurred
to him, however, when he sat down that the best thing to do would be
to write an account of it all to Mrs. Dennistoun, who doubtless in the
excitement would have a long time to wait for news of this great change.
He drew his blotting-book towards him with this object, and opened it,
and dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote "My dear Aunt;" but he did not
get much further. He raised his head, thinking how to introduce his
narrative, for which she would in all likelihood be wholly unprepared,
and in so doing looked round upon his book-cases, on one shelf of which
the reflection of a ray of afternoon sunshine caught in the old Louis
Treize mirror over the mantelpiece was throwing a shaft of light. He got
up to make sure that it was only a reflection, nothing that would harm
the binding of a particular volume upon which he set great store--though
of course he knew very well that it could only be a reflection, no
impertinent reality of sunshine being permitted to penetrate there. And
then he paused a little to draw his hand lovingly over the line of
choice books--very choice--worth a little fortune, which he laughed at
himself a little for being proud of, fully knowing that what was inside
them (which generally is the cream of a book, as of a letter, according
to Tony Lumpkin) was in many cases worth nothing at all. And then John
went and stood upon the hearth-rug, and looked round him upon this the
heart of his domain. It was a noble library, any man might have been
proud of it. He asked himself whether it did not suit him better, with
all the comforts and luxuries beyond it, than if he had been like other
men, with an entirely different centre of life up-stairs in the empty
drawing-room, and the burden upon him of setting out children, boys and
girls, upon the world.

When a man asks himself this question, however complacent may be the
reply, it betrays perhaps a doubt whether the assurance he has is so
very sure after all; and he returned to his letter to Mrs. Dennistoun,
which