“Well?” she said, sitting down again. ‘Prudence? This name I have heard it spoken. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. ‘But for my dowry, what else? One cannot expect that an Englishman will marry any jeune demoiselle without a dowry.
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