‘But,’ he exclaimed, ‘your brother is in business; and Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew’s—’
‘Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew’s is poor because he gave all to St. Matthew’s,’ said Phœbe; ‘but our business is not a small one, and the property in the country is large.’
He pasted on her last direction in disconsolate silence, then reading, ‘Miss Fulmort, The Underwood, Hiltonbury, Elverslope Station,’ resumed with fresh animation, ‘At least you live near Miss Charlecote?’
‘Yes, we are wedged in between her park and our own—my brother’s, I mean.’
‘That is all right then! She has asked me for Christmas.’
‘I am very glad of it,’ said Phœbe. ‘There, thank you, good night.’
‘Is there nothing more that I can do for you?’
‘Nothing—no, no, don’t hammer that down, you will wake Owen. Good night, good-bye; I shall be gone by half-past six.’
Though Phœbe said good-bye, she knew perfectly well that the hours of the morning were as nothing to the backwoodsman, and with spirits greatly exhilarated by the Christmas invitation, she went to bed, much too sleepy to make out why her wealth seemed so severe a shock to Humfrey Randolf.
The six o’clock breakfast was well attended, for Miss Charlecote was there herself, as well as the Canadian, Phœbe, and Mervyn, who was wonderfully amiable considering the hour in the morning. Phœbe felt in some slight degree less unfeeling when she found that Lucilla’s fading looks had been no more noticed by Miss Charlecote than by herself; but Honor thought Owen’s illness accounted for all, and only promised that the doctor should inspect her.