to Brooke Burgess, and that it could not be
open to them both. And so she went;--having resided under her aunt's
roof between nine and ten months.

"Good-bye, Aunt Stanbury," said Dorothy, kissing her aunt, with a
tear in her eye and a sob in her throat.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye." And Miss Stanbury, as she pressed her
niece's hand, left in it a bank-note.

"I'm much obliged, aunt; I am indeed; but I'd rather not." And the
bank-note was left on the parlour table.

CHAPTER LVIII.

DOROTHY AT HOME.

Dorothy was received at home with so much affection and such
expressions of esteem as to afford her much consolation in her
misery. Both her mother and her sister approved of her conduct.
Mrs. Stanbury's approval was indeed accompanied by many expressions
of regret as to the good things lost. She was fully alive to the
fact that life in the Close at Exeter was better for her daughter
than life in their little cottage at Nuncombe Putney. The outward
appearance which Dorothy bore on her return home was proof of this.
Her clothes, the set of her hair, her very gestures and motions had
framed themselves on town ideas. The faded, wildered, washed-out
look, the uncertain, purposeless bearing which had come from her
secluded life and subjection to her sister had vanished from her.
She had lived among people, and had learned something of their gait
and carriage. Money we know will do almost everything, and no doubt
money had had much to do with this. It is very pretty to talk of the
alluring simplicity of a clean calico gown; but poverty will shew
itself to be meagre, dowdy, and draggled in a woman's dress, let
the woman be ever so simple, ever so neat, ever so independent, and
ever so high-hearted. Mrs. Stanbury was quite alive to all that her
younger daughter was losing. Had she not received two offers of
marriage while she was at Exeter? There was no possibility that
offers of marriage should be made in the cottage at Nuncombe Putney.
A man within the walls of the cottage would have been considered as
much out of place as a wild bull. It had been matter of deep regret
to Mrs. Stanbury that her daughter should not have found herself able
to marry Mr. Gibson. She knew that there was no matter for reproach
in this, but it was a misfortune,--a great misfortune. And in the
mother's breast there had been a sad, unrepressed feeling of regret
that young people should so often lose their chances in the world
through ov