“Why don’t you go as far as old Catherine, and call her a princess?” he asked.

“Do you want me to ruin her utterly?” exclaimed Aunt Mary.

Uncle Tom put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and looked down into her face, and smiled again.  Although she held herself very straight, the top of her head was very little above the level of his chin.

“It strikes me that you are entitled to some little indulgence in life, Mary,” he said.

One of the curious contradictions of Aunt Mary’s character was a never dying interest, which held no taint of envy, in the doings of people more fortunate than herself.  In the long summer days, after her silver was cleaned and her housekeeping and marketing finished, she read in the book-club periodicals of royal marriages, embassy balls, of great town and country houses and their owners at home and abroad.  And she knew, by means of a correspondence with Cousin Eleanor Hanbury and other intimates, the kind of cottages in which her friends sojourned at the seashore or in the mountains; how many rooms they had, and how many servants, and very often who the servants were; she was likewise informed on the climate, and the ease with which it was possible to obtain fresh vegetables.  And to all of this information Uncle Tom would listen, smiling but genuinely interested, while he carved at dinner.

One evening, when Uncle Tom had gone to play piquet with Mr. Isham, who was ill, Honora further surprised her aunt by exclaiming:  “How can you talk of things other people have and not want them, Aunt Mary?”

“Why should I desire what I cannot have, my dear?  I take such pleasure out of my friends’ possessions as I can.”

“But you want to go to the seashore, I know you do.  I’ve heard you say so,” Honora protested.

“I should like to see the open ocean before I die,” admitted Aunt Mary, unexpectedly.  “I saw New York harbour once, when we went to meet you.  And I know how the salt water smells—­which is as much, perhaps, as I have the right to hope for.  But I have often thought it would be nice to sit for a whole summer by the sea and listen to the waves dashing upon the beach, like those in the Chase picture in Mr. Dwyer’s gallery.”

Aunt Mary little guessed the unspeakable rebellion aroused in Honora by this acknowledgment of being fatally circumscribed.  Wouldn’t Uncle Tom ever be rich?

Aunt Mary shook her head—­she saw no prospect of it.

But other men, who were not half so good as Uncle Tom, got rich.

Uncle Tom was not the kind of man who cared for riches.  He was content to do his duty in that sphere where God had placed him.