"What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours, papa."
"Yes," said my father. "Poor woman!—she carries a portable kitchen and store-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into the one or the other."
"Poor Mrs. Roberts!" said I, laughing. "Now that is the want of cultivation, papa."
"Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Cary."
"Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want!"
"Lost?—what is lost?" said another voice behind us; and turning, we welcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr. Ricardo.
"What is lost?"
"Happiness," said I.
"For the want of what?"