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was.
    What a good, good thing it was that God had sent Mr. O’Brien! It was reawakening her heart to things she must do. Things such as reacquainting herself with the efforts of the latest societies and organizations that toiled on behalf of the poor. A trip to London could help immensely in that; there was nothing like visiting personally to know whether an institute or school was worthy of their funds, for instance. Someday, she dreamed, she would like to get involved in a practical way. Knitting blankets was too antiseptic: she wanted to get her hands dirty in the work, so to speak!
    Like most women whose husbands owned a large estate, she had no hand in the financial doings regarding it. Other than informing their man of business when she wanted to support a charity (who, in turn, would clear it with Phillip, she knew) she did not even have a hand in charitable giving.
    With difficulty, she turned her mind back to Mr. O’Brien, who was saying, “The devil of it is, if I were as wealthy as, well, as you are, sir (and here he turned to Mr. Mornay), it would only help for a short period of time! These people are not trained to look after themselves; they do not know the least thing about homesteading, or simple gardening—those who have a small plot of land, that is. Most do not. But it is appallingly—
mad
—their manner of life!” He stopped, catching himself giving way to helpless anger.
    The women were eyeing him sorrowfully, with understanding. Ariana looked ready to cry, and Beatrice was heart-stricken. Mr. O’Brien collected himself; he knew he had made his point, and now felt almost apologetic.
    â€œMr. O’Brien,” said Ariana, preventing that apology from coming. Her large, pretty eyes, somewhat watery at the moment, peered up at him. “I pray you will dine with us. You have nothing prepared elsewhere, I hope?”
    â€œI believe I passed a respectable-looking inn some miles back, and was going to return to it for my supper, ma’am.”
    â€œOh, do not think of it!” she replied. “You will eat your meal with us.”
    â€œYour offer is very kind,” he said with utter sincerity. He seemed to have found a much more agreeable reception than he had hoped for, and he was startled, but pleased.
    As mistress of Aspindon House, Ariana delighted in any benevolent action she might take. She was not cognizant that her husband was standing now with his back to the room, and staring out at the prospect as though he had never seen it before.
    The maids began cleaning up the tea dishes, and Ariana said, “Mama, why do not you and Beatrice accompany Mr. O’Brien for a walk about the house while Mrs. Perler and I see to the children?”
    â€œThe children?” asked the cleric. His eyes had come alight. “I beg your pardon, I had completely forgotten! Allow me to offer my deepest congratulations. I understand you have just recently welcomed a new little miss into the household!” Even Mr. Mornay turned around for this, for he, like his wife, was inordinately proud of his offspring.
    â€œYes, our baby Miranda; I thank you,” said Ariana, smiling with pleasure. “Our little boy, Nigel, is four; and our little girl, Miranda, is just two months.”
    â€œTwo months! My word, you are just out of your confinement! I do hope I shall have the pleasure of an introduction,” he said in a droll tone.
    All the women were smiling. “But of course!” Ariana said. “You could hardly avoid it in this household, sir, for we allow our children a great deal of time with us.”

    Tristan Barton sat across from his sister in the morning room of the Manor House, while he finished his coffee and toast. Miss Barton was morosely stirring her chocolate, absentmindedly.
    â€œNow we are settled,” he said, “I should like to call upon Mr. Mornay. It’s deuces there’s naught else to do around here, in
the