Do you grow barley? Malt it, and infuse
it, and sell the liquor for two small profits, one on the grain, and one
on the infusion. Do you grow grass? Turn it into flesh, and sell for two
small profits, one on the herb, and one on the animal.
And really, when backed by money, the results seemed to justify his
principle.
Hope lived by himself, but not far from his child, and often, when she
went abroad, his loving eyes watched her every movement through his
binocular, which might be described as an opera-glass ten inches long,
with a small field, but telescopic power.
Grace Hope, whom we will now call Mary Bartley, since everybody but her
father, who generally avoided _her name_, called her so, was a well-grown
girl of thirteen, healthy, happy, beautiful, and accomplished. She was
the germ of a woman, and could detect who loved her. She saw in Hope an
affection she thought extraordinary, but instinct told her it was not
like a young man's love, and she accepted it with complacency, and
returned it quietly, with now and then a gush, for she could gush, and
why not? "Far from us and from our friends be the frigid philosophy"--of
a girl who can't gush.
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