s
dearest.

The Longfield plan being once started, father and mother and I began to
consult together as to ways and means; what should be given up, and
what increased, of our absolute luxuries, in order that the children
might this summer--possibly every summer--have the glory of "living in
the country." Of these domestic consultations there was never any
dread, for they were always held in public. There were no secrets in
our house. Father and mother, though sometimes holding different
opinions, had but one thought, one aim--the family good. Thus, even in
our lowest estate there had been no bitterness in our poverty; we met
it, looked it in the face, often even laughed at it. For it bound us
all together, hand in hand; it taught us endurance, self-dependence,
and, best of all lessons, self-renunciation. I think, one's whole
after-life is made easier and more blessed by having known what it was
to be very poor when one was young.

Our fortunes were rising now, and any little pleasure did not take near
so much contrivance. We found we could manage the Longfield visit--ay,
and a horse for John to ride to and fro--without any worse sacrifice
than that of leaving Jenny--now Mrs. Jem Watkins, but our cook
still--in the house at Norton Bury, and doing with one servant instead
of two. Also, though this was not publicly known till afterwards, by
the mother's renouncing a long-promised silk dress--the only one since
her marriage, in which she had determined to astonish John by choosing
the same colour as that identical grey gown he had seen hanging up in
the kitchen at Enderley.

"But one would give up anything," she said, "that the children might
have such a treat, and that father might have rides backwards and
forwards through green lanes all summer. Oh, how I wish we could
always live in the country!"

"Do you?" And John looked--much as he had looked at long-tailed grey
ponies in his bridegroom days--longing to give her every thing she
desired. "Well, perhaps, we may manage it some time."

"When our ship comes in--namely, that money which Richard Brithwood
will not pay, and John Halifax will not go to law to make him. Nay,
father dear, I am not going to quarrel with any one of your crotchets."
She spoke with a fond pride, as she did always, even when arguing
against the too Quixotic carrying out of the said crotchets. "Perhaps,
as the reward of forbearance, the money will come some day when we
least expect i