The old pride he had once felt in his social position and
personal popularity could never lift up its crest again. He had gone
down to the Valley of Humiliation, and there, to his surprise, he found
"that the air was pleasant, and that here a man shall be free from the
noise and hurryings of this life, and shall not be let and hindered in
his contemplation, as in other places he is apt to be." His laborious
simple life suited him, and no entreaties or promises of Mrs. Bolton
could recall him to England.
Eight tranquil years had passed by when Sophy Chantrey detected in her
husband a degree of preoccupation and reticence that had long been
unusual to him. For a few days he kept the secret; but at last, just as
she began to feel she could bear his reserve no longer he spoke out.
"Sophy," he said, "I have had some letters from England."
"From Aunt Bolton?" she asked, with a faint undertone of vexation in her
voice, for Mrs. Bolton's letters always revived bitter memories in her
mind.
"No," he answered, holding out to her a large bulky packet; "they are
from the bishop--our English bishop, you know--just a few lines; and
from the Upton people.
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