We go on talking till I have
a picture in my head, and can hardly believe at the end that the
original is Stowting. Even you don't know half how good mamma is;
in other things too, which I must not mention. She teaches me how
it is not necessary to be very rich to do much good. I begin to
understand that mamma would find useful occupation and create
beauty at the bottom of a volcano. She has little weaknesses, but
is a real generous-hearted woman, which I suppose is the finest
thing in the world.' Though neither mother nor son could be called
beautiful, they make a pretty picture; the ugly, generous, ardent
woman weaving rainbow illusions; the ugly, clear-sighted, loving
son sitting at her side in one of his rare hours of pleasure, half-
beguiled, half-amused, wholly admiring, as he listens. But as he
goes home, and the fancy pictures fade, and Stowting is once more
burthened with debt, and the noisy companions and the long hours of
drudgery once more approach, no wonder if the dirty green seems all
the dirtier or if Atlas must resume his load.
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