Mr.
Chiverton had found it a spacious country mansion, and had converted it
into a palace of luxury and a museum of art--one reason why Morte had
thriven and Chiver-Chase become almost without inhabitant. Bessie
Fairfax was half bewildered amongst its magnificences, but its
winter-garden was to her the greatest wonder of all. She was not,
however, sufficiently acclimatized to an artificial temperature to enjoy
it long. "It is delicious, but as we are not hot-house ferns, a good
stretch over that upland would be, perhaps, more delicious still: it is
cold, but the sun shines," she said after two turns under the moist
glass.
"We must not change the air too suddenly," Mrs. Chiverton objected. "The
wind is very boisterous."
"There is a woman at work in it; is it your widow?" Bessie asked,
pointing down a mimic orange-grove.
"Yes--poor thing! how miserably she is clothed! I must send her out one
of my knitted kerchiefs."
"Oh yes, do," said Bessie; and the woollen garment being brought, she
was deputed to carry it to the weeding woman.
On closer view she proved to be a lean, laborious figure, with an
anxious, weather-beaten face, which cleared a little as she received the
mistress's gift. It was a kerchief of thick gray wool, to cross over in
front and tie behind.
"It will be a protection against the cold for my chest; I suffered with
the inflammation badly last spring," she said, approving it.
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