CHAPTER 4.
_"The little griefs--the petty wounds-- The stabs of daily care-- 'Crackling of thorns beneath the pot,' As life's fire burns--now cold, now hot-- How hard they are to bear!_ _"But on the fire burns, clear and still; The cankering sorrow dies; The small wounds heal; the clouds are rent, And through this shattered mortal tent Shine down the eternal skies."_ "Dr.Grey, as to-day is your 'at home'-- at least, as much of an 'at home' as is possible under the circumstances--I wished to inquire, once for all, what is to be done about the Fergusons ?" "About whom?
I beg pardon.

Henrietta, but what were you talking about ?" Which, as she had been talking "even on" all breakfast-time, either to or at the little circle, including Letitia and Arthur, was not an unnecessary question.
"I referred to your wife's friends and late employers, the Fergusons, of High Street.

As she was married from their house, and as, of course, they will only be too glad to keep up her acquaintance, they will doubtless appear to-day.

In that case, much as we should regret it, your sister and myself must decline being present.

We can not possibly admit such people into our society.