madam liberality grew up into much the same sort of person that she was when a child. she always had been what is termed old-fashioned, and the older she grew the better her old-fashionedness became her, so that at last her friends would say to her, "ah, if we all wore as well as you do, my dear! you've hardly changed at all since we remember you in short petticoats." so far as she did change the change was for the better. (it is to be hoped we do improve a little as we get older!) she was still liberal and economical. she still planned and hoped indefatigably. she was still tender-hearted in the sense in which gray speaks,

"to each his sufferings, all are men

condemned alike to groan,

the tender for another's pain,

the unfeeling for his own."

she still had a good deal of ill-health and ill-luck, and a good deal of pleasure in spite of both. she was still happy in the happiness of others, and [295]pleased by their praise. but she was less headstrong and opinionated in her plans, and less fretful when they failed. it is possible, after one has cut one's wisdom-teeth, to cure one's self even of a good deal of vanity, and to learn to play the second fiddle very gracefully; and madam liberality did not resist the lessons of life.

god teaches us wisdom in divers ways. why he suffers some people to have so many troubles and so little of what we call pleasure in this world we cannot in this world know. the heaviest blows often fall on the weakest shoulders, and how these endure and bear up under them is another of the things which god knows better than we.

i will not pretend to decide whether grown-up people's troubles are harder to bear than children's troubles, but they are of a graver kind. it is very bitter when the boys melt the nose of one's dearest doll against the stove, and living pets with kind eyes and friendly paws grow aged and die; but the death of friends is a more serious and lasting sorrow, if it is not more real.

madam liberality shed fewer tears after she grew up than she had done before, but she had some heartaches which did not heal.

the thing which did most to cure her of being too managing for the good of other people was [296]darling's marriage. if ever madam liberality had felt proud of self-sacrifice and success, it was about this. but when darling was fairly gone, and "faithful"—very grey with dust and years—kept watch over only one sister in "the girls' room," he might have seen madam liberality's nightly tears if his eyes had been made of anything more sensitive than yellow paint.

desolate as she was, madam liberality would have hugged her grief if she could have had her old consolation, and been happy in the happiness of another. darling never said she was not happy. it was what she left out, not what she put into the long letters she sent from india that cut madam liberality to the heart.

darling's husband read all her letters, and he did not like the home ones to be too tender—as if darling's mother and sister pitied her. and he read darling's letters before they went away by the mail.

from this it came about that the sisters' letters were very commonplace on the surface. and though madam liberality cried when darling wrote, "have swallows built in the summer-house this year? have you put my old doll's chest of drawers back in its place since the room was papered? what colour is the paper?"—the major only said that stuff like that was hardly worth the postage to england. and when [297]madam liberality wrote, "the clump of daffodils in your old bed was enormous this spring. i have not touched it since you left. i made mother's birthday wreath out of the flowers in your bed and mine. jemima broke the slop-basin of the green and white tea-set to-day. it was the last piece left. i am trying to forgive her,"—the major made no harsher remark than, "a storm in a slop-basin! your sister is not a brilliant letter-writer, certainly."

the source of another heartache for madam liberality was poor tom. he was as liberal and hospitable as ever in his own way. he invited his friends to stay with his mother, and when they and tom had gone, madam liberality and her mother lived without meat to get the housekeeping book straight again. their great difficulty in the matter was the uncertain nature of tom's requirements. and when he did write for money he always wrote in such urgent need that there was no refusing him if by the art of "doing without" his wants could be supplied.

but tom had a kindly heart; he sent his sister a gold locket, and wrote on the box, "for the best and most generous of sisters."

madam liberality liked praise, and she dearly liked praise from tom; but on this occasion it failed to soothe her. she said curtly, "i suppose it's not paid for. if we can't afford much, we can afford to [298]live at our own expense, and not on the knavery or the forbearance of tradesmen." with which she threw the locket into a box of odds and ends, and turned the key with some temper.

years passed, and madam liberality was alone. her mother was dead, and tom—poor tom!—had been found drowned. darling was still in india, and the two living boys were in the colonies, farming.

it seemed to be an aggravation of the calamity of tom's death that he died, as he had lived, in debt. but, as regards madam liberality, it was not an unmixed evil. it is one of our bitterest pangs when we survive those we love that with death the opportunity has passed for being kind to them, though we love them more than ever. by what earthly effort could madam liberality's mother now be pleased, whom so little had pleased heretofore?

but for poor tom it was still possible to plan, to economize, to be liberal—and by these means to pay his debts, and save the fair name of which he had been as reckless as of everything else which he possessed.

madam liberality had had many a hard struggle to get tom a birthday present, but she had never pinched and planned and saved on his behalf as she did now. there is a limit, however, to the strictest economies. it would have taken a longer time to [299]finish her labour of love but for "the other boys." they were good, kind fellows, and having had to earn daily bread where larks do not fall ready cooked into the mouth, they knew more of the realities of life than poor tom had ever learned. they were prosperous now, and often sent a few pounds to madam liberality "to buy a present with."

"and none of your old 'liberality' tricks, mind!" george wrote on one occasion. "fit yourself thoroughly out in the latest fashions, and do us credit!"

but it all went to tom's tailor.

she felt hardly justified in diverting george's money from his purpose; but she had never told the boys of tom's debts. there was something of her old love of doing things without help in this, and more of her special love for tom.

it was not from the boys alone that help came to her. madam liberality's godmother died, and left her fifty pounds. in one lump she had now got enough to finish her work.

the acknowledgments of these last payments came on tom's birthday. more and more courteous had grown the tradesmen's letters, and madam liberality felt a foolish pleasure in seeing how respectfully they all spoke now of "your lamented brother, madam!"

the jeweller's bill was the last; and when madam liberality tied up the bundle, she got out tom's [300]locket and put a bit of his hair into it, and tied it round her throat, sobbing as she did so, "oh, tom, if you could have lived and been happy in a small way! your debts are paid now, my poor boy. i wonder if you know. oh, tom, tom!"

it was her greatest triumph—to have saved tom's fair name in the place where he had lived so foolishly and died so sadly.

but the triumphs of childhood cast fewer shadows. there was no one now to say, "three cheers for madam liberality!"

it was a very cold winter, but madam liberality and jemima, the maid-of-all-work, were warmer than they had been for several previous winters, because they kept better fires. time heals our sorrows in spite of us, and madam liberality was a very cheerful little body now, and as busy as ever about her christmas-boxes. those for her nephews and nieces were already despatched. "the boys" were married; madam liberality was godmother to several children she had never seen; but the benjamin of his aunt's heart was darling's only child—tom—though she had not seen even him.

madam liberality was still in the thick of her plans, which were chiefly to benefit the old people and the well-behaved children of the village. all [301]the christmas-boxes were to be "surprises," and jemima was in every secret but the one which most concerned her.

madam liberality had even some plans for her own benefit. george had talked of coming home in the summer, and she began to think of saving up for a new carpet for the drawing-room. then the last time she went to the town she saw some curtains of a most artistic pattern, and particularly cheap. so much good taste for so little money was rare in provincial shops. by and by she might do without something which would balance the cost of the curtains. and she had another ambition—to provide jemima with black dresses and white muslin aprons for afternoon wear in addition to her wages, that the outward aspect of that good soul might be more in accordance than hitherto with her intrinsic excellence.

she was pondering this when jemima burst in in her cooking apron, followed up the passage by the steam of christmas cakes, and carrying a letter.

"it's a big one, miss," said she. "perhaps it's a christmas-box, miss." and beaming with geniality and kitchen warmth, jemima returned to her labours.

madam liberality made up her mind about the dresses and aprons; then she opened her letter.

it announced the death of her cousin, her godmother's husband. it announced also that, in spite [302]of the closest search for a will, which he was supposed to have made, this could not be found.

possibly he had destroyed it, intending to make another. as it was he had died intestate, and succession not being limited to heirs male, and madam liberality being the eldest child of his nearest relative—the old childish feeling of its being a dream came over her.

she pinched herself, however, to no purpose. there lay the letter, and after a second reading madam liberality picked up the thread of the narrative and arrived at the result—she had inherited fifteen thousand a year.

the first rational idea which came to her was that there was no difficulty now about getting the curtains; and the second was that their chief merit was a merit no more. what is the good of a thing being cheap when one has fifteen thousand a year?

madam liberality poked the fire extravagantly, and sat down to think.

the curtains naturally led her to household questions, and those to that invaluable person, jemima. that jemima's wages should be doubled, trebled, quadrupled, was a thing of course. what post she was to fill in the new circumstances was another matter. remembering podmore, and recalling the fatigue of dressing herself after her pretty [303]numerous illnesses, madam liberality felt that a lady's-maid would be a comfort to be most thankful for. but she could not fancy jemima in that capacity, or as a housekeeper, or even as head housemaid or cook. she had lived for years with jemima herself, but she could not fit her into a suitable place in the servants' hall.

however, with fifteen thousand a year, madam liberality could buy, if needful, a field, and build a house, and put jemima into it with a servant to wait upon her. the really important question was about her new domestics. sixteen servants are a heavy responsibility.

madam liberality had very high ideas of the parental duties involved in being the head of a household. she had suffered—more than jemima—over jemima's lack of scruple as to telling lies for good purposes. now a footman is a young man who has, no doubt, his own peculiar temptations. what check could madam liberality keep upon him? possibly she might—under the strong pressure of moral responsibility—give good general advice to the footman; but the idea of the butler troubled her.

when one has lived alone in a little house for many years one gets timid. she put a case to herself. say that she knew the butler to be in the [304]habit of stealing the wine, and suspected the gardener of making a good income by the best of the wall fruit, would she have the moral courage to be as firm with these important personages as if she had caught one of the school-children picking and stealing in the orchard? and if not, would not family prayers be a mockery?

madam liberality sighed. poor dear tom! he had had his faults certainly; but how well he would have managed a butler!

this touched the weak point of her good fortune to the core. it had come too late to heap luxuries about dear "mother"; too late to open careers for the boys; too late to give mad frolics and girlish gaieties to light hearts, such as she and darling had once had. ah, if they could have enjoyed it together years ago!

there remained, however, madam liberality's old consolation: one can be happy in the happiness of others. there were nephews and nieces to be provided for, and a world so full of poor and struggling folk that fifteen thousand a year would only go a little way. it was, perhaps, useful that there had been so many articles lately in the papers about begging letters, and impostors, and, the evil effects of the indiscriminate charity of elderly ladies; but the remembrance of them made madam liber[305]ality's head ache, and troubled her dreams that night.

it was well that the next day was sunday. face to face with those greater interests common to the rich and the poor, the living and the dead, madam liberality grew calmer under her new cares and prospects. it did not need that brief pause by her mother's grave to remind her how little money can do for us: and the sight of other people wholesomely recalled how much it can effect. near the church porch she was passed by the wife of a retired chandler, who dressed in very fine silks, and who was accustomed to eye madam liberality's old clothes as she bowed to her more obviously than is consistent with good breeding. the little lady nodded very kindly in return. with fifteen thousand a year one can afford to be quite at ease in an old shawl.

the next day was christmas eve. madam liberality caught herself thinking that if the legacy had been smaller—say fifty pounds a year—she would at once have treated herself to certain little embellishments of the old house, for which she had long been ambitious. but it would be absurd to buy two or three yards of rosebud chintz, and tire herself by making covers to two very old sofa-cushions, when the point to be decided was in which [306]of three grandly furnished mansions she would first take up her abode. she ordered a liberal supper, however, which confirmed jemima in her secret opinion that the big letter had brought good news.

when, therefore, another letter of similar appearance arrived, jemima snatched up the waiter and burst breathlessly in upon madam liberality, leaving the door open-behind her, though it was bitterly cold and the snow fell fast.

and when madam liberality opened this letter she learned that her cousin's will had been found, and that (as seems to be natural) he had left his money where it would be associated with more money and kept well together. his heir was a cousin also, but in the next degree—an old bachelor, who was already wealthy; and he had left madam liberality five pounds to buy a mourning ring.

it had been said that madam liberality was used to disappointment, but some minutes passed before she quite realized the downfall of her latest visions. then the old sofa-cushions resumed their importance, and she flattened the fire into a more economical shape, and set vigorously to work to decorate the house with the christmas evergreens. she had just finished and gone up-stairs to wash her hands when the church clock struck three.

it was an old house, and the window of the [307]bedroom went down to the floor, and had a deep window-seat. madam liberality sat down in it and looked out. she expected some linsey-woolsey by the carrier, to make christmas petticoats, and she was glad to see the hooded waggon ploughing its way through the snow. the goose-pond was firmly frozen, and everything looked as it had looked years ago, except that the carrier's young son went before the waggon and a young dog went before him. they passed slowly out of sight, but madam liberality sat on. she gazed dreamily at the old church, and the trees, and the pond, and thought of the past; of her mother, and of poor tom, and of darling, and she thought till she fancied that she heard darling's voice in the passage below. she got up to go down to jemima, but as she did so she heard a footstep on the stairs, and it was not jemima's tread. it was too light for the step of any man or woman.

then the door opened, and on the threshold of madam liberality's room stood a little boy dressed in black, with his little hat pushed back from the loveliest of baby faces set in long flaxen hair. the carnation colour of his cheeks was deepened by the frost, and his bright eyes were brighter from mingled daring and doubt and curiosity, as he looked leisurely round the room and said in a slow, [308]high-pitched, and very distinct tone,

"where are you, aunt liberality?"

but, lovely as he was, madam liberality ran past him, for another figure was in the doorway now, also in black, and, with a widow's cap; and madam liberality and darling fell sobbing into each other's arms.

"this is better than fifteen thousand a year," said madam liberality.

it is not necessary to say much more. the major had been killed by a fall from horseback, and darling came back to live at her old home. she had a little pension, and the sisters were not parted again.

it would be idle to dwell on madam liberality's devotion to her nephew, or the princely manner in which he accepted her services. that his pleasure was the object of a new series of plans, and presents, and surprises, will be readily understood. the curtains were bought, but the new carpet had to be deferred in consequence of an extravagant outlay on mechanical toys. when the working of these brought a deeper tint into his cheeks, and a brighter light into his eyes, madam liberality was quite happy; and when he broke them one after another, his infatuated aunt believed this to be a precocious development of manly energies.

the longest lived, if not the favourite, toys with [309]him were the old set of scallop-shells, with which he never wearied of making feasts, to which madam liberality was never weary of being invited. he had more plums than had ever sweetened her childhood, and when they sat together on two footstools by the sofa, and tom announced the contents of the dishes in his shrillest voice and lifted the covers, madam liberality would say in a tone of apology,

"it's very odd, darling, and i'm sure at my time of life it's disgraceful, but i cannot feel old!"

we could hardly take leave of madam liberality in pleasanter circumstances. why should we ask whether, for the rest of her life, she was rich or poor, when we may feel so certain that she was contented? no doubt she had many another hope and disappointment to keep life from stagnating.

as a matter of fact she outlived the bachelor cousin, and if he died intestate she must have been rich after all. perhaps she was. perhaps she never suffered again from insufficient food or warmth. perhaps the illnesses of her later years were alleviated by skill and comforts such as hitherto she had never known. perhaps darling and she enjoyed a sort of second spring in their old age, and went every year to the continent, and grew wonderful flowers in the greenhouse, and sent tom to eton, and provided for their nephews and nieces, and built churches to their [310]mother's memory, and never had to withhold the liberal hand from helping because it was empty; and so passed by a time of wealth to the hour of death.

or perhaps the cousin took good care to bequeath his money where there was more money for it to stick to. and madam liberality pinched out her little presents as heretofore, and kept herself warm with a hot bottle when she could not afford a fire, and was too thankful to have darling with her when she was ill to want anything else. and perhaps darling and she prepared tom for school, and (like many another widow's son) he did them credit. and perhaps they were quite happy with a few common pot-plants in the sunny window, and kept their mother's memory green by flowers about her grave, and so passed by a life of small cares and small pleasures to where

"divided households re-unite."

of one thing we may be quite certain. rich or poor, she was always

madam liberality.