Mr. Glentworth smiled, and, half taking a red morocco case out of his pocket, said, "I thought that I could give you what you would like better."
"Nothing," interrupted Isabella, eagerly, who had not noticed his movement—"nothing that I should like half so well."
"My dear child," said he, seriously, even sadly, "you seem to set an undue value on money for one so young; what can you care for money, except for the sake of trifles which, believe me, are of no real value!"
"It is not for the sake of all that Howell and James have in their shop, or Storr and Mortimer besides, that I care for money. I know its value only too well. Money has been the curse of our lives; it is the want of money that keeps poor Mary like a ghost. Had she been rich, she would have escaped that early disappointment, which fell upon her like a blight, and from which she has had no change to distract her thoughts; she is country-bred, and she pines like a caged bird in London. It is want of money that keeps Louisa wasting her best days in fruitless hopes, that will leave her with a step as sad, and a cheek as pale, as that of her elder sister. It is want of money that will fall over Helen and Georgiana like a curse: they will go into society only to repress every warm and kindly feeling—to dread the approach of affection, unless it takes what is called an eligible shape. Their future fate hangs on a chance; if it goes against them, they will be blamed for the failure; but I really have
