She is seated in a gloomy but comfortable dining-room, in a house situated in one of the squares at the East End of London. We left her in her large, airy, country home, looking out upon a beautiful view of hill and valley—we find her in a close, dark square, with nothing to enliven the scene without but a few dingy shrubs, a row of tall gaunt houses, and a smoke-discoloured, soot-filled atmosphere. We left her unhappy and discontented—we find her happy and contented. We left her with a mind harassed by uncertain plans, disappointed hopes, and humbled pride—we find her with a mind strengthened by good purposes, holy aspirations, and prayers for humility. Still, we left her and find her Winifred Gwynne. She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.
Reader, be not hasty to pronounce upon the suddenness of these changes. Six years spent principally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless woman in the world, provided she had a heart. And Freda has not only a heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.
She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of papers covered with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools, which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses, without ornament or extraneous adornment. She is somewhat paler and thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.
'How stupid I am!' she exclaims. 'Gladys would reckon them up directly, but she is at the school, and I am ashamed to ask Nita, with all her accounts.'
She pauses a moment and lays down her pen. Her eyes fall upon an unopened letter.
'And I declare I have not broken the seal of my own father's letter,' she mutters, performing this duty as she does so, and running through it with occasional comments.
'"We hope you will come and spend Christmas—" I suppose I must—"and see your little brother, who longs to see sister Freda again—" Humph! but who cut her out of Glanyravon Park and all thereto belonging, though he certainly is a dear little man. "Her ladyship quite well, and desires her love." I suppose I ought to be glad and try to return the love. "Mrs Gwynne Vaughan and her children were here yesterday. She asked for you, and the little ones wished to know when you were coming home—" I am much obliged to her, and am afraid I am not too anxious to see either her or her husband, in spite of their civility. "Little Harold is really a wonderful child! He begins to spell already!" So like my good father. Well, I ought to be thankful he is happy, and that it all turned out so much better than I expected. But I can't help feeling a kind of wicked disappointment when I think that Lady Mary should be quite as good a tactician as a second wife, as she was before she married again. But, I hope, I am happy that she makes poor papa comfortable and doesn't worry him to death. I don't think he loves her now half as well as he does me; still, perhaps she suits him better, because she manages him, and I never could. But the tyfydd [Footnote: Welsh for heir.] is a dear little fellow, and I am really fond of him.'
Miss Gwynne's soliloquy is cut short by a rap at the door, followed by the entrance of Rowland Prothero, who says, as he bows and seems about to retreat,—
'I beg your pardon—I was told Mr Jones was here.'
'Oh, do come in!' says Miss Gwynne, rising, and advancing to meet Rowland; 'I cannot get through these accounts. I have been reckoning and reckoning ever since breakfast, and they will not come right. I should be so much obliged to you if you would just look them over for me.'