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 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

Chapter 6

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. One or more objects may be created from a(n):

a. field
b. class
c. method
d. instance

ANS: B

2. Class objects normally have __________ that perform useful operations on their data, but primitive variables do
not.
a. fields
b. instances
c. methods
d. relationships

ANS: C

3. In the cookie cutter metaphor, think of the ________ as a cookie cutter and ________ as the cookies.
a. object; classes
b. class; objects
c. class; fields
d. attribute; methods

ANS: B

4. Which of the following are classes from the Java API?

a. Scanner
b. Random
c. PrintWriter
d. All of the above

ANS: D

5. When you are working with a ____________, you are using a storage location that holds a piece of data.
a. primitive variable
b. reference variable
c. numeric literal
d. binary number

ANS: A

6. What is stored by a reference variable?

a. A binary encoded decimal
b. A memory address
c. An object
d. A string
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

ANS: B

7. Most programming languages that are in use today are:

a. procedural
b. logic
c. object-oriented
d. functional

ANS: C

8. Java allows you to create objects of this class in the same way you would create primitive variables.
a. Random
b. String
c. PrintWriter
d. Scanner

ANS: B

9. A UML diagram does not contain:

a. the class name.
b. the method names.
c. the field names.
d. object names

ANS: D

10. Data hiding, which means that critical data stored inside the object is protected from code outside the object, is
accomplished in Java by:
a. using the public access specifier on the class methods
b. using the private access specifier on the class methods
c. using the private access specifier on the class definition
d. using the private access specifier on the class fields

ANS: D

11. For the following code, which statement is not true?

public class Sphere

{
private double radius;
public double x;
private double y;
private double z;
}

a. x is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.

b. radius is not available to code written outside the Circle class.
c. radius, x, y, and z are called members of the Circle class.
d. z is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

ANS: D

12. You should not define a class field that is dependent upon the values of other class fields:
a. in order to avoid having stale data
b. because it is redundant
c. because it should be defined in another class
d. in order to keep it current

ANS: A

13. What does the following UML diagram entry mean?

+ setHeight(h : double) : void

a. this is a public attribute named Height and is a double data type

b. this is a private method with no parameters and returns a double data type
c. this is a private attribute named Height and is a double data type
d. this is a public method with a parameter of data type double and does not return a value

ANS: D

14. Methods that operate on an object's fields are called:

a. instance variables
b. instance methods
c. public methods
d. private methods

ANS: B

15. The scope of a private instance field is:

a. the instance methods of the same class
b. inside the class, but not inside any method
c. inside the parentheses of a method header
d. the method in which they are defined

ANS: A

16. A constructor:
a. always accepts two arguments
b. has return type of void
c. has the same name as the class
d. always has an access specifier of private

ANS: C

17. Which of the following statements will create a reference, str, to the String, “Hello, World”?
a. String str = "Hello, World";
b. string str = "Hello, World";
c. String str = new "Hello, World";
d. str = "Hello, World";
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

ANS: A

18. Two or more methods in a class may have the same name as long as:
a. they have different return types
b. they have different parameter lists
c. they have different return types, but the same parameter list
d. you cannot have two methods with the same name

ANS: B

19. Given the following code, what will be the value of finalAmount when it is displayed?

public class Order

{
private int orderNum;
private double orderAmount;
private double orderDiscount;

public Order(int orderNumber, double orderAmt,

double orderDisc)
{
orderNum = orderNumber;
orderAmount = orderAmt;
orderDiscount = orderDisc;
}
public int getOrderAmount()
{
return orderAmount;
}
public int getOrderDisc()
{
return orderDisc;
}
}

public class CustomerOrder

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
int ordNum = 1234;
double ordAmount = 580.00;
double discountPer = .1;
Order order;
double finalAmount = order.getOrderAmount() –
order.getOrderAmount() * order.getOrderDisc();
System.out.println("Final order amount = $" +
finalAmount);
}
}
a. 528.00
b. 580.00
c. There is no value because the constructor has an error.
d. There is no value because the object order has not been created.
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

ANS: D

20. A class specifies the ________ and ________ that a particular type of object has.
a. relationships; methods
b. fields; object names
c. fields; methods
d. relationships; object names

ANS: C

21. This refers to the combining of data and code into a single object.
a. Data hiding
b. Abstraction
c. Object
d. Encapsulation

ANS: D

22. Another term for an object of a class is

a. access specifier
b. instance
c. member
d. method

ANS: B

23. In your textbook the general layout of a UML diagram is a box that is divided into three sections. The top
section has the _______; the middle section holds _______; the bottom section holds _______.
a. class name; attributes or fields; methods
b. class name; object name; methods
c. object name; attributes or fields; methods
d. object name; methods; attributes or fields

ANS: A

24. For the following code, which statement is not true?

public class Circle

{
private double radius;
public double x;
private double y;
}

a. x is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.

b. radius is not available to code written outside the Circle class.
c. radius, x, and y are called members of the Circle class.
d. y is available to code that is written outside the Circle class.

ANS: D

25. It is common practice in object-oriented programming to make all of a class's

 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

a. methods private
b. fields private
c. fields public
d. fields and methods public

ANS: B

26. After the header, the body of the method appears inside a set of:
a. brackets, []
b. parentheses, ()
c. braces, {}
d. double quotes, ""

ANS: C

27. In UML diagrams, this symbol indicates that a member is private:

a. *
b. #
c. -
d. +

ANS: C

28. In UML diagrams, this symbol indicates that a member is public.

a. /
b. @
c. -
d. +

ANS: D

29. In a UML diagram to indicate the data type of a variable enter:

a. the variable name followed by the data type
b. the variable name followed by a colon and the data type
c. the class name followed by the variable name followed by the data type
d. the data type followed by the variable name

ANS: B

30. When an object is created, the attributes associated with the object are called:
a. instance fields
b. instance methods
c. fixed attributes
d. class instances

ANS: A

31. When an object is passed as an argument to a method, what is passed into the method’s parameter variable?
a. the class name
b. the object’s memory address
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

c. the values for each field

d. the method names

ANS: B

32. A constructor is a method that:

a. returns an object of the class.
b. never receives any arguments.
c. with the name ClassName.constructor.
d. performs initialization or setup operations.

ANS: D

33. The scope of a public instance field is:

a. only the class in which it is defined
b. inside the class, but not inside any method
c. inside the parentheses of a method header
d. the instance methods and methods outside the class

ANS: D

34. Which of the following statements will create a reference, str, to the string, “Hello, world”?

(1) String str = new String("Hello, world");

(2) String str = "Hello, world";

a. 1
b. 2
c. 1 and 2
d. Neither 1 or 2

ANS: C

35. Overloading means multiple methods in the same class

a. have the same name, but different return types
b. have different names, but the same parameter list
c. have the same name, but different parameter lists
d. perform the same function

ANS: C

36. Given the following code, what will be the value of finalAmount when it is displayed?

public class Order

{
private int orderNum;
private double orderAmount;
private double orderDiscount;

public Order(int orderNumber, double orderAmt,

double orderDisc)
{
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

orderNum = orderNumber;
orderAmount = orderAmt;
orderDiscount = orderDisc;
}

public double finalOrderTotal()

{
return orderAmount - orderAmount *
orderDiscount;
}
}

public class CustomerOrder

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
Order order;
int orderNumber = 1234;
double orderAmt = 580.00;
double orderDisc = .1;
order = new Order(orderNumber, orderAmt, orderDisc);
double finalAmount = order.finalOrderTotal();
System.out.println("Final order amount = $" +
finalAmount);
}
}
a. 528.00
b. 580.00
c. 522.00
d. There is no value because the object order has not been created.

ANS: C

37. A class’s responsibilities include:

a. the things a class is responsible for doing c. both A and B

b. the things a class is responsible for knowing d. neither A or B

ANS: C

38. Instance methods do not have this key word in their headers:
a. public
b. static
c. private
d. protected

ANS: B

39. Which of the following is not involved in finding the classes when developing an object-oriented application?

a. Describe the problem domain. c. Write the code.

b. Identify all the nouns. d. Refine the list of nouns to include only those
that are relevant to the problem.
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

ANS: C

40. This is a group of related classes.

a. archive c. collection
b. package d. attachment

ANS: B

41. Quite often you have to use this statement to make a group of classes available to a program.

a. import c. link
b. use d. assume

ANS: A

42. Look at the following statement.

import java.util.Scanner;

This is an example of

a. a wildcard import c. unconditional import

b. an explicit import d. conditional import

ANS: B

43. Look at the following statement.

import java.util.*;

This is an example of:

a. a wildcard import c. unconditional import

b. an explicit import d. conditional import

ANS: A

44. The following package is automatically imported into all Java programs.

a. java.java c. java.util
b. java.default d. java.lang

ANS: D

TRUE/FALSE

1. An object can store data.

ANS: T
 Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e © 2012 Pearson Education

2. A class in not an object, but a description of an object.

ANS: T

3. An access specifier indicates how the class may be accessed.

ANS: T

4. A method that stores a value in a class's field or in some other way changes the value of a field is known as a
mutator method.

ANS: T

5. Instance methods should be declared static.

ANS: F

6. A constructor is a method that is automatically called when an object is created.

ANS: T

7. Shadowing is the term used to describe where the field name is hidden by the name of a local or parameter
variable.

ANS: T

8. The public access specifier for a field indicates that the attribute may not be accessed by statements outside
the class.

ANS: F

9. A method that gets a value from a class's field but does not change it is known as a mutator method.

ANS: F

10. Instance methods do not have the key word static in their headers.

ANS: T

11. The term "default constructor" is applied to the first constructor written by the author of a class.

ANS: F

12. When a local variable in an instance method has the same name as an instance field, the instance field hides the
local variable.

ANS: F

13. The term "no-arg constructor" is applied to any constructor that does not accept arguments.

ANS: T

14. The java.lang package is automatically imported into all Java programs.

ANS: T
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
entreaty, than the most eloquent appeal in words,—Marion
withdrew; as the light of the returning lantern flashed into the room.
“All still and peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose,” said Mr.
Britain, as he locked and barred the door. “One of the effects of
having a lively imagination. Halloa! Why, what’s the matter?”
Clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and
concern, was sitting in a chair: pale, and trembling from head to
foot.
“Matter!” she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows, nervously,
and looking anywhere but at him. “That’s good in you, Britain, that
is! After going and frightening one out of one’s life with noises, and
lanterns, and I don’t know what all. Matter! Oh, yes.”
“If you’re frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemmy,” said Mr.
Britain, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, “that
apparition’s very soon got rid of. But you’re as bold as brass in
general,” he said, stopping to observe her; “and were, after the
noise and the lantern too. What have you taken into your head? Not
an idea, eh?”
But as Clemency bade him good night very much after her usual
fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed
herself immediately, Little Britain, after giving utterance to the
original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman’s
whims, bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle
strolled drowsily away to bed.
When all was quiet, Marion returned.
“Open the door,” she said; “and stand there close beside me, while I
speak to him, outside.”
Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled
purpose, such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the
door: but before turning the key, looked round on the young
creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it.
The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in
its pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of
the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and
honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of
that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly
on the tender heart of Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with
sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into tears, she threw her
arms round Marion’s neck.
“It’s little that I know, my dear,” cried Clemency, “very little; but I
know that this should not be. Think of what you do!”
“I have thought of it many times,” said Marion, gently.
“Once more,” urged Clemency. “Till to-morrow.”
Marion shook her head.
“For Mr. Alfred’s sake,” said Clemency, with homely earnestness.
“Him that you used to love so dearly, once!”
She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating “Once!”
as if it rent her heart.
“Let me go out,” said Clemency, soothing her. “I’ll tell him what you
like. Don’t cross the door-step to-night. I’m sure no good will come
of it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr. Warden was ever brought
here! Think of your good father, darling: of your sister.”
“I have,” said Marion, hastily raising her head. “You don’t know what
I do. You don’t know what I do. I must speak to him. You are the
best and truest friend in all the world for what you have said to me,
but I must take this step. Will you go with me, Clemency,” she kissed
her on her friendly face, “or shall I go alone?”
Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned
the key, and opened the door. Into the dark
and doubtful night that lay beyond the
threshhold, Marion passed quickly,
holding by her hand.
In the dark night he joined her, and
they spoke together
earnestly and long: and the
hand that held so fast by
Clemency’s, now trembled,
now turned deadly cold, now
clasped and closed on hers,
in the strong feeling of the
speech it emphasized
unconsciously. When they
returned, he followed to the
door; and pausing there a
moment, seized the other
hand, and pressed it to his
lips. Then stealthily
withdrew.
The door was barred and
locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father’s roof.
Not bowed down by the secret that she brought there, though so
young; but with that same expression on her face, for which I had
no name before, and shining through her tears.
Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to
her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely
reached, she fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on
her heart, could pray!
Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending
over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile:
though sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that
Grace had been a mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child!
Could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest
—it seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly
even in sleep—and breathe upon the parted lips, God bless her!
Could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one dream, in which
she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite
alone, and they had all forgotten her.

A month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. The month

appointed to elapse between that night and the return, was quick of
foot, and went by, like a vapour.
The day arrived. A raging winter day, that shook the old house,
sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. A day to make home doubly
home. To give the chimney corner new delights. To shed a ruddier
glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth; and draw each
fireside group into a closer and more social league, against the
roaring elements without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares
the way for shut-out night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks;
for music, laughter, dancing, light, and jovial entertainment!
All these the Doctor had in store to welcome Alfred back. They knew
that he could not arrive till night; and they would make the night air
ring, he said, as he approached. All his old friends should congregate
about him. He should not miss a face that he had known and liked.
No! They should every one be there!
So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables
spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision
made, of every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas
season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly, and its sturdy
green, the dancing room was garlanded and hung with it; and the
red berries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from
among the leaves.
It was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than
Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful
mind of all the preparations. Many a time that day (as well as many
a time within the fleeting month preceding it), did Clemency glance
anxiously, and almost fearfully, at Marion. She saw her paler,
perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet composure on her face
that made it lovelier than ever.
At night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath
that Grace had proudly twined about it—its mimic flowers were
Alfred’s favorites, as Grace remembered when she chose them—that
old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high,
and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred fold.
“The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage
wreath,” said Grace; “or I am no true prophet, dear.”
Her sister smiled, and held her in her arms.
“A moment, Grace. Don’t leave me yet. Are you sure that I want
nothing more?”
Her care was not for that. It was her sister’s face she thought of,
and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly.
“My art,” said Grace, “can go no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. I
never saw you look so beautiful as now.”
“I never was so happy,” she returned.
“Aye, but there is greater happiness in store. In such another home,
as cheerful and as bright as this looks now,” said Grace, “Alfred and
his young wife will soon be living.”
She smiled again. “It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can
see it in your eyes. I know it will be happy, dear. How glad I am to
know it.”
“Well,” cried the Doctor, bustling in. “Here we are, all ready for
Alfred, eh? He can’t be here until pretty late—an hour or so before
midnight—so there’ll be plenty of time for making merry before he
comes. He’ll not find us with the ice unbroken. Pile up the fire here,
Britain! Let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. It’s a world of
nonsense, Puss; true lovers and all the rest of it—all nonsense; but
we’ll be nonsensical with the rest of ’em, and give our true lover a
mad welcome. Upon my word!” said the old Doctor, looking at his
daughters proudly, “I’m not clear to-night, among other absurdities,
but that I’m the father of two handsome girls.”
“All that one of them has ever done, or may do—may do, dearest
father—to cause you pain or grief, forgive her,” said Marion: “forgive
her now, when her heart is full. Say that you forgive her. That you
will forgive her. That she shall always share your love, and—,” and
the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man’s
shoulder.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said the Doctor, gently. “Forgive! What have I to
forgive? Heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this,
we must hold ’em at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop
’em short upon the road, and bring ’em on a mile or two a day, until
we’re properly prepared to meet ’em. Kiss me, Puss. Forgive! Why,
what a silly child you are. If you had vexed and crossed me fifty
times a day, instead of not at all, I’d forgive you everything, but such
a supplication. Kiss me again, Puss. There! Prospective and
retrospective—a clear score between us. Pile up the fire here! Would
you freeze the people on this bleak December night! Let us be light,
and warm, and merry, or I’ll not forgive some of you!”
So gaily the old Doctor carried it! And the fire was piled up, and the
lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively
tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful
excitement stirring through all the house.
More and more company came flocking in. Bright eyes sparkled
upon Marion; smiling lips gave her joy of his return; sage mothers
fanned themselves, and hoped she mightn’t be too youthful and
inconstant for the quiet round of home; impetuous fathers fell into
disgrace, for too much exaltation of her beauty; daughters envied
her; sons envied him; innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the
occasion; all were interested, animated, and expectant.
Mr. and Mrs. Craggs came arm in arm, but Mrs. Snitchey came
alone. “Why, what’s become of him?” inquired the Doctor.
The feather of a Bird of Paradise in Mrs. Snitchey’s turban, trembled
as if the bird of Paradise were alive again, when she said that
doubtless Mr. Craggs knew. She was never told.
“That nasty office,” said Mrs. Craggs.
“I wish it was burnt down,” said Mrs. Snitchey.
“He’s—he’s—there’s a little matter of business that keeps my partner
rather late,” said Mr. Craggs, looking uneasily about him.
“Oh—h! Business. Don’t tell me!” said Mrs. Snitchey.
“We know what business means,” said Mrs. Craggs.
But their not knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why
Mrs. Snitchey’s Bird of Paradise feather quivered so portentously,
and all the pendant bits on Mrs. Craggs’s ear-rings shook like little
bells.
“I wonder you could come away, Mr. Craggs,” said his wife.
“Mr. Craggs is fortunate, I’m sure!” said Mrs. Snitchey.
“That office so engrosses ’em,” said Mrs. Craggs.
“A person with an office has no business to be married at all,” said
Mrs. Snitchey.
Then Mrs. Snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had
pierced to Craggs’s soul, and he knew it: and Mrs. Craggs observed,
to Craggs, that ‘his Snitcheys’ were deceiving him behind his back,
and he would find it out when it was too late.
Still, Mr. Craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked
uneasily about him until his eye rested on Grace, to whom he
immediately presented himself.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” said Craggs. “You look charmingly. Your—
Miss—your sister, Miss Marion, is she——”
“Oh she’s quite well, Mr. Craggs.”
“Yes—I—is she here?” asked Craggs.
“Here! Don’t you see her yonder? Going to dance?” said Grace.
Mr. Craggs put on his spectacles to see the better; looked at her
through them, for some time; coughed; and put them, with an air of
satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket.
Now the music struck up, and the dance commenced. The bright fire
crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance
itself, in right good fellowship. Sometimes it roared as if it would
make music too. Sometimes it flashed and beamed as if it were the
eye of the old room: it winked too, sometimes, like a knowing
patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners. Sometimes it
sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by fits and
starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night
again, and fluttering in the wind. Sometimes its genial humour grew
obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room,
among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless
little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad
thing, up the broad old chimney.
Another dance was near its close, when Mr. Snitchey touched his
partner, who was looking on, upon the arm.
Mr. Craggs started, as if his familiar had been a spectre.
“Is he gone?” he asked.
“Hush! He has been with me,” said Snitchey, “for three hours and
more. He went over everything. He looked into all our arrangements
for him, and was very particular indeed. He—Humph!”
The dance was finished. Marion passed close before him, as he
spoke. She did not observe him, or his partner; but looked over her
shoulder towards her sister in the distance, as she slowly made her
way into the crowd, and passed out of their view.
“You see! All safe and well,” said Mr. Craggs. “He didn’t recur to that
subject, I suppose?”
“Not a word.”
“And is he really gone? Is he safe away?”
“He keeps to his word. He drops down the river with the tide in that
shell of a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night—a
dare-devil he is—before the wind. There’s no such lonely road
anywhere else. That’s one thing. The tide flows, he says, an hour
before midnight about this time. I’m glad it’s over.” Mr. Snitchey
wiped his forehead, which looked hot and anxious.
“What do you think,” said Mr. Craggs, “about—”
“Hush!” replied his cautious partner, looking straight before him. “I
understand you. Don’t mention names, and don’t let us seem to be
talking secrets. I don’t know what to think; and to tell you the truth,
I don’t care now. It’s a great relief. His self-love deceived him, I
suppose. Perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. The evidence
would seem to point that way. Alfred not arrived?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Craggs. “Expected every minute.”
“Good.” Mr. Snitchey wiped his forehead again. “It’s a great relief. I
haven’t been so nervous since we’ve been in partnership. I intend to
spend the evening now, Mr. Craggs.”
Mrs. Craggs and Mrs. Snitchey joined them as he announced this
intention. The Bird of Paradise was in a state of extreme vibration;
and the little bells were ringing quite audibly.
“It has been the theme of general comment, Mr. Snitchey,” said Mrs.
Snitchey. “I hope the office is satisfied.”
“Satisfied with what, my dear?” asked Mr. Snitchey.
“With the exposure of a defenceless woman to ridicule and remark,”
returned his wife. “That is quite in the way of the office, that is.”
“I really, myself,” said Mrs. Craggs, “have been so long accustomed
to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity, that I
am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. There is
something honest in that, at all events.”
“My dear,” urged Mr. Craggs, “your good opinion is invaluable, but I
never avowed that the office was the enemy of your peace.”
“No,” said Mrs. Craggs, ringing a perfect peal upon the little bells.
“Not you, indeed. You wouldn’t be worthy of the office, if you had
the candor to.”
“As to my having been away to-night, my dear,” said Mr. Snitchey,
giving her his arm, “the deprivation has been mine, I’m sure; but, as
Mr. Craggs knows—”
Mrs. Snitchey cut this reference very short by hitching her husband
to a distance, and asking him to look at that man. To do her the
favor to look at him.
“At which man, my dear?” said Mr. Snitchey.
“Your chosen companion; I’m no companion to you Mr. Snitchey.”
“Yes, yes, you are, my dear,” he interposed.
“No no, I’m not,” said Mrs. Snitchey with a majestic smile. “I know
my station. Will you look at your chosen companion, Mr. Snitchey; at
your referee; at the keeper of your secrets; at the man you trust; at
your other self, in short.”
The habitual association of Self with Craggs, occasioned Mr. Snitchey
to look in that direction.
“If you can look that man in the eye this night,” said Mrs. Snitchey,
“and not know that you are deluded, practised upon: made the
victim of his arts, and bent down prostrate to his will, by some
unaccountable fascination which it is impossible to explain, and
against which no warning of mine is of the least avail: all I can say is
—I pity you!”
At the very same moment Mrs. Craggs was oracular on the cross
subject. Was it possible she said, that Craggs could so blind himself
to his Snitcheys, as not to feel his true position. Did he mean to say
that he had seen his Snitcheys come into that room, and didn’t
plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery in the
man? Would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his
forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn’t show that there
was something weighing on the conscience of his precious Snitcheys
(if he had a conscience), that wouldn’t bear the light. Did anybody
but his Snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar?—
which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he
had walked in very mildly at the door. And would he still assert to
her at noon-day (it being nearly midnight), that his Snitcheys were
to be justified through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason,
and experience?
Neither Snitchey nor Craggs openly attempted to stem the current
which had thus set in, but both were content to be carried gently
along it, until its force abated; which happened at about the same
time as a general movement for a country dance; when Mr. Snitchey
proposed himself as a partner to Mrs. Craggs, and Mr. Craggs
gallantly offered himself to Mrs. Snitchey; and after some such slight
evasions as “why don’t you ask somebody else?” and “you’ll be glad,
I know, if I decline,” and “I wonder you can dance out of the office”
(but this jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her
place.
It was an old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off,
in like manner, at dinners and suppers; for they were excellent
friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. Perhaps the false Craggs
and the wicked Snitchey were a recognised fiction with the two
wives, as Doe and Roe, incessantly running up and down bailiwicks,
were with the two husbands: or perhaps the ladies had instituted,
and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather
than be left out of it altogether. But certain it is, that each wife went
as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in
his: and would have considered it almost impossible for the Firm to
maintain a successful and respectable existence, without her
laudable exertions.
But now the Bird of Paradise was seen to flutter down the middle;
and the little bells began to bounce and jingle in poussette; and the
Doctor’s rosy face spun round and round, like an expressive pegtop
highly varnished; and breathless Mr. Craggs began to doubt already,
whether country dancing had been made “too easy,” like the rest of
life; and Mr. Snitchey, with his nimble cuts and capers, footed it for
Self, and Craggs, and half a dozen more.
Now, too, the fire took fresh courage, favored by the lively wind the
dance awakened, and burnt clear and high. It was the Genius of the
room, and present everywhere. It shone in people’s eyes, it sparkled
in the jewels on the snowy necks of girls, it twinkled at their ears as
if it whispered to them slyly, it flashed about their waists, it flickered
on the ground and made it rosy for their feet, it bloomed upon the
ceiling that its glow might set off their bright faces, and it kindled up
a general illumination in Mrs. Craggs’s little belfry.
Now, too, the lively air that fanned it, grew less gentle as the music
quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit; and a breeze
arose that made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they
had often done upon the trees; and rustled in the room as if an
invisible company of fairies, treading in the footsteps of the good
substantial revellers, were whirling after them. Now, too, no feature
of the Doctor’s face could be distinguished as he spun and spun; and
now there seemed a dozen Birds of Paradise in fitful flight; and now
there were a thousand little bells at work; and now a fleet of flying
skirts was ruffled by a little tempest; when the music gave in, and
the dance was over.
Hot and breathless as the
Doctor was, it only made him
the more impatient for
Alfred’s coming.
“Anything been seen, Britain?
Anything been heard?”
“Too dark to see far, Sir. Too
much noise inside the house
to hear.”
“That’s right! The gayer welcome
for him. How goes the time?”
“Just twelve, Sir. He can’t be
long, Sir.”
“Stir up the fire, and throw
another log upon it,” said the
Doctor. “Let him see his
welcome blazing out upon
the night—good boy!—as he
comes along!”
He saw it—Yes! From the
chaise he caught the light, as
he turned the corner by the old church. He knew the room from
which it shone. He saw the wintry branches of the old trees between
the light and him. He knew that one of those trees rustled musically
in the summer time at the window of Marion’s chamber.
The tears were in his eyes. His heart throbbed so violently that he
could hardly bear his happiness. How often he had thought of this
time—pictured it under all circumstances—feared that it might never
come—yearned, and wearied for it—far away!
Again the light! Distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him
welcome, and to speed him home. He beckoned with his hand, and
waved his hat, and cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and
they could see and hear him, as he dashed towards them through
the mud and mire, triumphantly.
“Stop!” He knew the Doctor, and understood what he had done. He
would not let it be a surprise to them. But he could make it one, yet,
by going forward on foot. If the orchard gate were open, he could
enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old;
and he would be among them in an instant.
He dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver—even that
was not easy in his agitation—to remain behind for a few minutes,
and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the
gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood
panting in the old orchard.
There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of
the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead
garlands. Withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as
he crept softly on towards the house. The desolation of a winter
night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But the red light
came cheerily towards him from the windows: figures passed and
repassed there: and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear,
sweetly.
Listening for hers: attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the
rest, and half-believing that he heard it: he had nearly reached the
door, when it was abruptly opened, and a figure coming out
encountered his. It instantly recoiled with a half-suppressed cry.
“Clemency,” he said, “don’t you know me?”
“Don’t come in,” she answered, pushing him back. “Go away. Don’t
ask me why. Don’t come in.”
“What is the matter?” he exclaimed.
“I don’t know. I—I am afraid to think. Go back. Hark!”
There was a sudden tumult in the house. She put her hands upon
her ears. A wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was
heard; and Grace—distraction in her looks and manner—rushed out
at the door.
“Grace!” He caught her in his arms. “What is it! Is she dead!”
She disengaged herself, as if to recognise his face, and fell down at
his feet.
A crowd of figures came about them from the house. Among them
was her father, with a paper in his hand.
“What is it!” cried Alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and
looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee,
beside the insensible girl. “Will no one look at me? Will no one speak
to me? Does no one know me? Is there no voice among you all, to
tell me what it is!”
There was a murmur among them. “She is gone.”
“Gone!” he echoed.
“Fled, my dear Alfred!” said the Doctor, in a broken voice, and with
his hands before his face. “Gone from her home and us. To-night!
She writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice—
entreats that we will forgive her—prays that we will not forget her—
and is gone.”
“With whom? Where?”
He started up as if to follow in pursuit, but when they gave way to
let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and
sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of Grace’s cold hands
in his own.
There was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder,
and no purpose. Some proceeded to disperse themselves about the
roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some
conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow.
Some approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation;
some admonished him that Grace must be removed into the house,
and he prevented it. He never heard them, and he never moved.
The snow fell fast and thick. He looked up for a moment in the air,
and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and
misery, were suited to them well. He looked round on the whitening
ground, and thought how Marion’s foot-prints would be hushed and
covered up, as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her
blotted out. But he never felt the weather, and he never stirred.
 PART THE THIRD.

HE world had grown six years older since that night

of the return. It was a warm autumn afternoon, and
there had been heavy rain.
The sun burst suddenly from among the
clouds: and the old battle-ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully
at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there,
which spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been
lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations.
How beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant
influence passing on like a celestial presence, brightening
everything! The wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied
tints of yellow, green, brown, red; its different forms of trees, with
raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. The
verdant meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been
blind a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith
 to look up at the shining
sky. Corn-fields, hedge-
rows, fences,
homesteads, the
clustered roofs, the
steeple of the church,
the stream, the
watermill, all sprung out
of the gloomy darkness,
smiling. Birds sang
sweetly, flowers raised
their drooping heads,
fresh scents arose from
the invigorated ground;
the blue expanse above, extended and diffused itself; already the
sun’s slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that
lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colors that
adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its
triumphant glory.
At such a time, one little roadside Inn, snugly sheltered behind a
great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious
bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of
entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but
significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. The ruddy sign-
board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the
sun, ogled the passer-by from among the green leaves, like a jolly
face, and promised good cheer. The horse-trough, full of clear fresh
water, and the ground below it, sprinkled with droppings of fragrant
hay, made every horse that passed prick up his ears. The crimson
curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little
bed-chambers above, beckoned, Come in! with every breath of air.
Upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about
beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting
picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. Upon the window-
sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively
show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of
the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the
surfaces of bottles and tankards.
On the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for
though he was a short man, he was round and broad; and stood
with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to
express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy
confidence—too calm and virtuous to become a swagger—in the
general resources of the Inn. The superabundant moisture, trickling
from everything after the late rain, set him off well. Nothing near
him was thirsty. Certain top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings
of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could
carry—perhaps a trifle more—and may have been the worse for
liquor; but the sweetbriar, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the
windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state
of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome
for them, and had served to develope their best qualities. Sprinkling
dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of
innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted,
softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom
reach, and hurting nothing.
This village Inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon
sign. It was called The Nutmeg Grater. And underneath that
household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming
board, and in the like golden characters, By Benjamin Britain.
At a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face,
you might have known that it was no other than Benjamin Britain
himself who stood in the doorway—reasonably changed by time, but
for the better; a very comfortable host indeed.
“Mrs. B.,” said Mr. Britain, looking down the road, “is rather late. It’s
tea time.”
As there was no Mrs. Britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into the
road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. “It’s
just the sort of house,” said Benjamin, “I should wish to stop at, if I
didn’t keep it.”
Then he strolled towards the garden paling, and took a look at the
dahlias. They looked over at him, with a helpless, drowsy hanging of
their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped
off them.
“You must be looked after,” said Benjamin. “Memorandum, not to
forget to tell her so. She’s a long time coming!”
Mr. Britain’s better half seemed to be by so very much his better half,
that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless
without her.
“She hadn’t much to do, I think,” said Ben. “There were a few little
matters of business after market, but not many. Oh! here we are at
last!”
A chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road: and
seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella spread
out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman,
with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her
knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded about her,
and a certain bright good-nature in her face and contented
awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the
motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the
distance. Upon her nearer approach, this relish of bygone days was
not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the Nutmeg Grater
door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through Mr.
Britain’s open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon
the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one
but Clemency Newcome.
In fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy
comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy
face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown
quite dimpled in her improved condition.
“You’re late, Clemmy!” said Mr. Britain.
“Why, you see, Ben, I’ve had a deal to do!” she replied, looking
busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and
baskets; “eight, nine, ten—where’s eleven? Oh! my baskets, eleven!
It’s all right. Put the horse up, Harry, and if he coughs again give
him a warm mash to-night. Eight, nine, ten. Why, where’s eleven?
Oh I forgot, it’s all right. How’s the children, Ben?”
“Hearty, Clemmy, hearty.”
“Bless their precious faces!” said Mrs. Britain, unbonneting her own
round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in
the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. “Give us a
kiss, old man.”
Mr. Britain promptly complied.
“I think,” said Mrs. Britain, applying herself to her pockets and
drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers,
a very kennel of dogs’ ears: “I’ve done everything. Bills all settled—
turnips sold—brewer’s account looked into and paid—’bacco pipes
ordered—seventeen pound four paid into the Bank—Doctor
Heathfield’s charge for little Clem—you’ll guess what that is—Doctor
Heathfield won’t take nothing again, Ben.”
“I thought he wouldn’t,” returned Britain.
“No. He says whatever family you was to have, Ben, he’d never put
you to the cost of a halfpenny. Not if you was to have twenty.”
Mr. Britain’s face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard
at the wall.
“A’nt it kind of him?” said Clemency.
“Very,” returned Mr. Britain. “It’s the sort of kindness that I wouldn’t
presume upon, on any account.”
“No,” retorted Clemency. “Of course not. Then there’s the pony—he
fetched eight pound two; and that a’nt bad, is it?”
“It’s very good,” said Ben.
“I’m glad you’re pleased!” exclaimed his wife. “I thought you would
be; and I think that’s all, and so no more at present from yours and
cetrer, C. Britain. Ha ha ha! There! Take all the papers, and lock ’em.
Oh! Wait a minute. Here’s a printed bill to stick on the wall. Wet
from the printer’s. How nice it smells!”
“What’s this?” said Ben, looking over the document.
“I don’t know,” replied his wife. “I haven’t read a word of it.”
“‘To be sold by Auction,’” read the host of the Nutmeg Grater,
“‘unless previously disposed of by private contract.’”
“They always put that,” said Clemency.
“Yes, but they don’t always put this,” he returned. “Look here,
‘Mansion’ &c.—‘offices,’ &c., ‘shrubberies,’ &c., ‘ring fence,’ &c.
‘Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs,’ &c. ‘ornamental portion of the
unencumbered freehold property of Michael Warden, Esquire,
intending to continue to reside abroad’!”
“Intending to continue to reside abroad!” repeated Clemency.
“Here it is,” said Mr. Britain. “Look!”
“And it was only this very day that I heard it whispered at the old
house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her,
soon!” said Clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her
elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened
her old habits. “Dear, dear, dear! There’ll be heavy hearts, Ben,
yonder.”
Mr. Britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn’t
make it out: he had left off trying long ago. With that remark, he
applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window: and
Clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused
herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the
children.
Though the host of the Nutmeg Grater had a lively regard for his
good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind; and she amused him
mightily. Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have
known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed
the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift,
good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. So easy it is, in
any degree of life, (as the world very often finds it,) to take those
cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest
valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their
outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would
look so far, might make us blush in the comparison!
It was comfortable to Mr. Britain, to think of his own condescension
in having married Clemency. She was a perpetual testimony to him
of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and
he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old
precept that virtue is its own reward.
He had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for
her day’s proceedings in the cupboard—chuckling all the time, over
her capacity for business—when, returning with the news that the
two Master Britains were playing in the coach-house, under the
superintendence of one Betsey, and that little Clem was sleeping
“like a picture,” she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival,
on a little table. It was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of
bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-
past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and
polished up to the very utmost.
“It’s the first time I’ve sat down quietly to-day, I declare,” said Mrs.
Britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night;
but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and
cut him his bread-and-butter; “how that bill does set me thinking of
old times!”
“Ah!” said Mr. Britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and
disposing of its contents on the same principle.
“That same Mr. Michael Warden,” said Clemency, shaking her head at
the notice of sale, “lost me my old place.”
“And got you your husband,” said Mr. Britain.
“Well! So he did,” retorted Clemency, “and many thanks to him.”
“Man’s the creature of habit,” said Mr. Britain, surveying her, over his
saucer. “I had somehow got used to you, Clem; and I found I
shouldn’t be able to get on without you. So we went and got made
man and wife. Ha, ha! We! Who’d have thought it!”
“Who indeed!” cried Clemency. “It was very good of you, Ben.”
“No, no, no,” replied Mr. Britain, with an air of self-denial. “Nothing
worth mentioning.”
“Oh yes it was, Ben,” said his wife, with great simplicity; “I’m sure I
think so; and am very much obliged to you. Ah!” looking again at the
bill; “when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, I
couldn’t help telling—for her sake quite as much as theirs—what I
knew, could I?”
“You told it, any how,” observed her husband.
“And Doctor Jeddler,” pursued Clemency, putting down her tea-cup,
and looking thoughtfully at the bill, “in his grief and passion, turned
me out of house and home! I never have been so glad of anything in
all my life, as that I didn’t say an angry word to him, and hadn’t an
angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that truly,
afterwards. How often he has sat in this room, and told me over and
over again, he was sorry for it!—the last time, only yesterday, when
you were out. How often he has sat in this room, and talked to me,