People who derive no interests from the outer world, who know nothing of what goes on in life, gradually subside into a condition in which reflection takes the place of conversation, and lose all zest and all necessity for that small talk which serves, like the changes of a game, to while away time, and by the aid of which, if we do no more, we often delude the cares and worries of existence.
A kind good-morning when they met, and a few words during the day--some mention of this or that event of the farm or the labourers, and rare enough too--some little incident that happened amongst the tenants, made all the materials of their intercourse, and filled up lives which either would very freely have owned were far from unhappy.
Dick, indeed, when he came home and was weather-bound for a day, did lament his sad destiny, and mutter half-intelligible nonsense of what he would not rather do than descend to such a melancholy existence; but in all his complainings he never made Kate discontented with her lot, or desire anything beyond it.
'It's all very well,' he would say, 'till you know something better.' 'But I want no better.' 'Do you mean you'd like to go through life in this fashion ?' 'I can't pretend to say what I may feel as I grow older; but if I could be sure to be as I am now, I could ask nothing better.' 'I must say, it's a very inglorious life ?' said he, with a sneer.
'So it is, but how many, may I ask, are there who lead glorious lives?
Is there any glory in dining out, in dancing, visiting, and picnicking?
Where is the great glory of the billiard-table, or the croquet-lawn?
No, no, my dear Dick, the only glory that falls to the share of such humble folks as we are, is to have something to do, and to do it.' Such were the sort of passages which would now and then occur between them, little contests, be it said, in which she usually came off the conqueror.
If she were to have a wish gratified, it would have been a few more books--something besides those odd volumes of Scott's novels, _Zeluco_ by Doctor Moore, and _Florence McCarthy_, which comprised her whole library, and which she read over and over unceasingly.

She was now in her usual place--a deep window-seat--intently occupied with Amy Robsart's sorrows, when her father came to read what he had written in answer to Nina.

If it was very brief it was very affectionate.

It told her in a few words that she had no need to recall the ties of their relationship; that his heart never ceased to remind him of them; that his home was a very dull one, but that her cousin Kate would try and make it a happy one to her; entreated her to confer with the banker, to whom he remitted forty pounds, in what way she could make the journey, since he was too broken in health himself to go and fetch her.

'It is a bold step I am counselling you to take.