Uncle Edward was the eldest son of a first marriage, and twenty years the senior of the widow's late husband. Having lost those who were nearest to him, he began to look round amongst his relatives for some who should cheer his lonely fireside, and selected his half-brother's widow and family.
Once more, Mrs. Manning found herself the virtual mistress of a lovely home, and surrounded by all the comforts to which she had been accustomed during her happy married days. Her boys were getting on in the world, and had wives and homes of their own. Her eldest daughter was also married, and though she had not made a good match, as the world estimates marriages, she was happy in her country home, and the true helpmeet of her husband.
Mrs. Manning had felt keenly disappointed when the Rev. Charles Peyton made his appearance and asked for her daughter. But what could she do? The look of happy confidence on his good, true face told her that he did not come to the mother without being pretty well assured of what the daughter would say on the subject. When she put him off for a little while, until she had talked with Mary herself, it was with little hope that the consent now deferred could be finally withheld.
"It would be a great change for you, Mary. Now you have everything provided that heart need desire. And I have always counted on you girls doing so well," said the mother, with a sigh.
Mrs. Manning looked regretfully into Mary's face, flushed with the sweet consciousness of being truly loved by the one whom she would have chosen from all the world.
"Shall I not be doing well, mother?" she asked, very softly. "What higher lot need a woman desire than to be the wife of a good man—one whom she can reverence and look up to?"
"But you will be poor, Mary. And lately you have known nothing of poverty, though you can remember those years of trial when every penny had to be counted. Ah! I thought you would all take warning by that season of adversity! I can hardly bear to look back upon it now."
"I can," said Mary, "and thank God for it. But for having gone through some trouble, how should I be fitted to sympathise with others? That precious time—for it was precious, darling mother, though to you it seems sad as you look back on it—was just my training ground. But for it I should be frightened to share Charles's responsibilities. Mother, dear, do not say No. Charles seems sure of Uncle Edward's consent."
"My dear child, just think how you will live on two hundred a year! How will you make ends meet?"
"Did you ever hear a story of Uncle Edward's, about an old bachelor friend of his, who was inclined to marry?"