Goodness knows I've saved him many a pound, and that he'll know when I'm gone; for he's near, is Stephen, and it goes to his heart to part with a shilling." "But why should you ever leave him, Mrs.Tadman ?" Ellen asked kindly.

"I shouldn't think he could have a better housekeeper." "Perhaps not," answered the widow, shaking her head with mysterious significance; "but his wife won't think that; and when he's got a wife he'll want her to be his housekeeper, and to pinch and scrape as I've pinched and scraped for him.

Lord help her!" concluded Mrs.Tadman, with a faint groan, which was far from complimentary to her relative's character.
"But perhaps he never will marry," argued Ellen coolly.
"O, yes, he will, Miss Carley," replied Mrs.Tadman, with another significant movement of her head; "he's set his heart on that, and he's set his heart on the young woman he means to marry." "He can't marry her unless she's willing to be his wife, any how," said Ellen, reddening a little.
"O, he'll find a way to make her consent, Miss Carley, depend upon that.
Whatever Stephen Whitelaw sets his mind upon, he'll do.

But I don't envy that poor young woman; for she'll have a hard life of it at Wyncomb, and a hard master in my cousin Stephen." "She must be a very weak-minded young woman if she marries him against her will," Ellen said laughing; and then ran off to get the tea ready, leaving Mrs.Tadman to her meditations, which were not of a lively nature at the best of times.
That Christmas-day came to an end at last, after a long evening in the oak parlour enlivened by a solemn game at whist and a ponderous supper of cold sirloin and mince pies; and looking out at the wintry moonlight, and the shadowy garden and flat waste of farm-land from the narrow casement in her own room.

Ellen Carley wondered what those she loved best in the world were doing and thinking of under that moonlit sky.