But her mind misgave her, not because the house was outwardly dreary, but in fear of the inward dreariness of the people—or in fear rather of their dreariness and pride combined. Old Lady Ball, though naturally ill-natured, was not ill-mannered, nor did she give herself any special airs; but she knew that she was a baronet’s wife, that she kept her carriage, and that it was an obligation upon her to make up for the poverty of her house by some little haughtiness of demeanour. There are women, high in rank, but poor in pocket, so gifted with the peculiar grace of aristocracy, that they show by every word spoken, by every turn of the head, by every step taken, that they are among the high ones of the earth, and that money has nothing to do with it. Old Lady Ball was not so gifted, nor had she just claim to such gifts. But some idea on the subject pervaded her mind, and she made efforts to be aristocratic in her poverty. Sir John was a discontented, cross old man, who had succeeded greatly in early life, having been for nearly twenty years in Parliament, but had fallen into adversity in his older days. The loss of that very money of which his niece, Miss Mackenzie was possessed, was, in truth, the one great misfortune which he deplored; but that misfortune had had ramifications and extensions with which the reader need not trouble himself; but which, altogether, connected as they were with certain liberal aspirations which he had entertained in early life, and certain political struggles made during his parliamentary career, induced him to regard himself as a sort of Prometheus. He had done much for the world, and the world in return had made him a baronet without any money! He was a very tall, thin, gray-haired, old man, stooping much, and worn with age, but still endowed with some strength of will, and great capability of making himself unpleasant. His son was a bald-headed, stout man, somewhat past forty, who was by no means without cleverness, having done great things as a young man at Oxford; but in life he had failed. He was a director of certain companies in London, at which he used to attend, receiving his guinea for doing so, and he had some small capital,—some remnant of his father’s trade wealth, which he nursed with extreme care, buying shares here and there and changing his money about as his keen outlook into City affairs directed him. I do not suppose that he had much talent for the business, or he would have grown rich; but a certain careful zeal carried him on without direct loss, and gave him perhaps five per cent for his capital, whereas he would have received no more than four and a half had he left it alone and taken his dividends without troubling himself. As the difference did not certainly amount to a hundred a-year, it can hardly be said that he made good use of his time. His zeal deserved a better success. He was always thinking of his money, excusing himself to himself and to others by the fact of his nine children. For myself I think that his children were no justification to him; as they would have been held to be none, had he murdered and robbed his neighbours for their sake.