“Is, with all that it contained, a heap of ashes!”
“Good Heaven!”—and my mother crossed herself,—“are we not ruined, Denis?”
“No, no, love; not exactly ruined. I had the vanity to call my abiding place ‘a castle.’ Well, we must change the name; and surely ‘cottage’ will sound as sweetly.”
“Pshaw!” said the lady, “is that all?”
“Why—I can spare a horse or two,—part with a dozen dogs,—and then, my love, we will require the fewer servants.”
“And the carriage,—what need of it?” exclaimed the lady.
“Well, well; possibly if things come to the worst, it too might be dispensed with.”
“And then my jewels, Denis!”—and my mother’s eyes brightened with delight—“ay, those useless baubles. I have heard that they are precious! They shall be sold, and—”
“Never—by Heaven!” exclaimed my father, as he spurned the chair over the carpet, and strode across the room. In another minute his calmness had returned, and my mother was sitting on his knee, smiling away with woman’s tact, every recollection of annoyance; and propounding with the sweetest philosophy upon earth, visionary plans for future happiness.
Again the postman’s knock was heard, and another letter was presented. My father flung it unopened on the table. “Curse the particulars!” he exclaimed, “what matters it whether the old roof-tree fell by carelessness or villany?”