Corporate Finance Canadian 7th

Edition Ross Solutions Manual

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://testbankdeal.com/download/corporate-finance-canadian-7th-edition-ross-soluti
ons-manual/
Corporate Finance Canadian 7th Edition Ross Solutions Manual

Chapter 2: Accounting Statements and Cash Flow

2.1. To find shareholders’ equity, we must construct a balance sheet as follows:

Balance Sheet
Current assets $5,300 Current liabilities $3,900
Net fixed assets 26,000 Long-term debt 14,200
Shareholders’ equity ..??....
Total assets $31,300 Total liabilities & equity $31,300

We know that total liabilities and shareholders’ equity must equal total assets of $31,300. We
also know that total liabilities & shareholders’ equity is equal to current liabilities plus long-
term debt plus shareholders’ equity, so shareholders’ equity is:

Shareholders’ equity = $31,300 –$14,200 – $3,900 = $13,200

Net Working Capital = Current Assets – Current Liabilities = $5,300 – $3,900 = $1,400

2.2 The income statement for the company is:

Income Statement
Sales $493,000
Costs 210,000
Depreciation 35,000
EBIT $248,000
Interest 19,000
EBT $229,000
Taxes 80,150
Net income $148,850

One equation for net income is:

Net income = Dividends + Addition to retained earnings

Rearranging, we get:
Addition to retained earnings = Net income – Dividends
Addition to retained earnings = $148,850 – $50,000
Addition to retained earnings = $98,850

2.3 To find the book value of current assets, we use:

Net Working Capital = Current Assets – Current Liabilities.

Rearranging to solve for current assets, we get:

Current Assets = Net Working Capital + Current Liabilities
Current Assets = $800,000 + $2,100,000 = $2,900,000

2-1

Visit TestBankDeal.com to get complete for all chapters

 The market value of current assets and net fixed assets is given, so:

Book value Current Assets = $2,900,000 Market value Current Assets = $2,800,000
Book value Net Fixed Assets = $5,000,000 Market value Net Fixed Assets = $6,300,000
Book value assets = $7,900,000 Market value assets = $9,100,000

2.4 To calculate Operating cash flow, we first need the income statement:

Income Statement
Sales $18,700
Costs 10,300
Depreciation 1,900
EBIT $6,500
Interest 1,250
Taxable income $5,250
Taxes 2,100
Net income $3,150

Operating cash flow = EBIT + Depreciation – Taxes

Operating cash flow = $6,500 + $1,900 – $2,100
Operating cash flow = $6,300

2.5 Net capital spending = Net Fixed Assetsend – Net Fixed Assetsbeg + Depreciation
Net capital spending = $1,730,000 – $1,650,000 + $284,000
Net capital spending = $364,000

2.6 The long-term debt account will increase by $35 million, the amount of the new long-term debt
issue. Since the company sold 10 million new shares of stock with a $1 par value, the common stock
account will increase by $10 million. The capital surplus account will increase by $48 million, the
value of the new common shares sold above its par value. Since the company had a net income of $9
million, and paid $2 million in dividends, the addition to retained earnings was $7 million, which
will increase the accumulated retained earnings account. So, the new long-term debt and
stockholders’ equity portion of the balance sheet will be:

Long-term debt $ 100,000,000

Total long-term debt $100,000,000

Shareholders equity
Preferred shares $ 4,000,000
Common shares ($1 par value) 25,000,000
Accumulated retained earnings 142,000,000
Capital surplus 93,000,000
Total equity $264,000,000

Total Liabilities & Equity $ 364,000,000

2.7 Cash flow to creditors = Interest paid – Net new borrowing

Cash flow to creditors = $127,000 – (Long-term debtend – Long-term debtbeg)

Answers to End-of-Chapter Problems 2-2

 Cash flow to creditors = $127,000 – ($1,520,000 – $1,450,000)
Cash flow to creditors = $127,000 – $70,000
Cash flow to creditors = $57,000

2.8 Cash flow to stockholders = Dividends paid – Net new equity

Cash flow to stockholders = $275,000 – [(Commonend + APISend) – (Commonbeg + APISbeg)]
Cash flow to stockholders = $275,000 – [($525,000 + $3,700,000) – ($490,000 + $3,400,000)]
Cash flow to stockholders = $275,000 – ($4,225,000 – $3,890,000)
Cash flow to stockholders = –$60,000

Note, APIS is the additional paid-in surplus.

2.9 Cash flow from assets = Cash flow to creditors + Cash flow to stockholders
= $57,000 – $60,000
= – $3,000

Cash flow from assets = Operating cash flow – Change in Net Working Capital
– Net capital spending
–$3,000 = Operating cash flow – (–$87,000) – $945,000

Operating cash flow = –$3,000 – $87,000 + $945,000

Operating cash flow = $855,000

2.10 a. The accounting statement of cash flows explains the change in cash during the year. The
accounting statement of cash flows will be:

Statement of cash flows

Operations
Net income $95
Depreciation 90
Changes in other current assets (5)
Accounts payable 10
Total cash flow from operations $190

Investing activities
Acquisition of fixed assets $(110)
Total cash flow from investing
activities $(110)

Financing activities
Proceeds of long-term debt $5
Dividends (75)
Total cash flow from financing
activities $(70)

Change in cash (on balance sheet) $10

Answers to End-of-Chapter Problems 2-3

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “I should think a really humble, benevolent heart might find
much ease and many blessings in the best kind of convent life; not
in those where the discipline is very severe, and the whole time
must be passed in devotion or idleness; but where the rich, and
the poor, and the young, are taken care of, and the hands, as well
as the lips, are allowed to praise God and bless mankind.”
“Are you aware that it is more difficult to be humble and
benevolent where the sole business of life is to be so, than in the
world, where there is a greater variety of objects?”
Mary looked doubtful.
“It is one of the clearest possible proofs,” continued Mr.
Fletcher, “that God designed man for a social state—that in all very
small communities separated from the world, envy and pride have
ever subsisted, and that utter selfishness is the consequence of
entire seclusion.”
The girls would not readily believe this in its full extent: they
were aware that the intellect must be weakened by unsocial habits,
and that, therefore, it was impossible for the best homage of the
heart and mind to ascend from monastic retreats; but they could
scarcely imagine any scope for pride or envy in a state of such
perfect equality; and as for selfishness, how could it consist with
perpetual self-mortification?
“Of the first case you shall judge from your own observation by
and bye,” said Mr. Fletcher; “and as for the other, you need only
read the records which remain of some of the most sainted
anchorites to be convinced. But, tell me now, what is your notion
of the life of a nun; what picture have you in your mind’s eye of
one day of a convent life?”
“The having one’s time and one’s cell to oneself,” said Anna, “is
a pleasant idea. The sun shining in through a high window, and
one’s own bed and chair, and chafing-dish in winter; and one’s
own table with the book and skull and crucifix that nobody
touches, and the certainty that nobody will come to interrupt one’s
reading or thinking.”
“Abundance of selfishness to begin with,” said Mr. Fletcher,
laughing.
“And then to feel such satisfaction with one’s own lot,”
continued Rose, “to look down from such pure solitude upon the
world, and pity those who are struggling and toiling there; and to
remember that one’s safety is owing to one’s virtuous resolution.”
 “Selfishness again, and more pride,” interrupted her father.
“But, Selina, which is the greatest charm in your eyes? for you look
as if the very thought of it inspired you.”
“I was thinking of the grandest day of a whole life—the day of
taking the veil. What a tide of feelings must rush in upon the
young creature’s mind when she sees her family for the last time,
they grieving to part with her, but admiring her for her piety! And
then the glow of resolution, the noble contempt of the world, and
the delight of setting such an example, at such an age! The old
priests admiring and blessing her, the music, sometimes wailing
and sometimes triumphant, as if it would celebrate her funeral
and her marriage at the same time; and the crowd pressing to
catch a glimpse of such a holy heroine——”
Selina stopped short, struck with the expression of disgust in
Mary’s countenance.
“Mary sees what you are blind to,” said Mr. Fletcher: “she sees
that half of this is enthusiasm, and the other half vanity. Mary, I
had rather hear what would be most tempting to you.”
“No part would be tempting,” said Mary, “unless I could have
one dear friend with me; but if there was one to whom I might
speak and listen about those human sympathies which feed the
life of our minds, I could be happy, I think, in praying and
meditating, and doing all the good my heart and hands could
effect. But I must also be free from all spiritual domination: I
would never give up my soul in slavery to abbess or confessor.
Unless I might worship as my spirit prompted, unless I might do
good as the gospel enjoins, and love as human hearts are made to
love, my devotion would be worthless, and I should be fit neither
for heaven nor earth.”
“You will make a poor devotee,” observed Mr. Fletcher, smiling.
“There is no convent on earth that would admit you,” said her
father: “you would not be pure enough; you do not go far enough
beyond the gospel: you must be content with trying to be above
the world while you are in the world.”
The happy father silently observed how his last words called up,
as such thoughts never failed to do, the flush of strong emotion
into his daughter’s cheek. Mary was not unfrequently inspired
with a resolution quite as holy, and much more rational and
modest, than animates a devotee in taking the veil.
 When they were going out, Mr. Fletcher desired Anna, in case of
strong temptation from what she should see to become a nun, to
remember, that in the new jails in England every inmate has a cell,
a bed, and a high window, all to himself; and that he is quite sure
of his reveries being uninterrupted. There was no use in Anna’s
looking indignant, the laugh was against her.
At the convent gate, the gentlemen left their party, and
proceeded to make some visits. Mr. Fletcher wished to introduce
his friend to such of the inhabitants of Tours as he was acquainted
with, and among others, to a gentleman who held a high office
among the magistracy of the city.
Mary and Anna could scarcely believe, when the portress
opened the gate, that they were actually entering a convent. A
feeling of awe crept over them, as if they had set foot in some
sacred enclosure; and this feeling was not lessened by the first
view of the flitting figures which disappeared before them
wherever they went—figures clothed in a dark and most
unbecoming costume, which did not appear so remarkably
convenient as to make up for its want of beauty. When the abbess
joined them in her parlour, however, there was nothing
particularly venerable in her appearance: she seemed very glad to
see Mrs. Fletcher, (who was provided with a plea of business,) and
inclined her head politely when introduced to the strangers. She
asked some questions about their voyage, and their opinion of
France in general, and Tours in particular, and astonished them
by laughing very loud and heartily when there was any
opportunity for laughing at all.
“While you are busy with mamma, ma mère, we will seek Sister
Célestine,” said Rose: “come, Mary, we will leave our two mothers
together.”
“Oh! she is a little heretic!” exclaimed the abbess, laughing, as
the girls left the room.
They first entered the refectory, where the nuns were talking in
groups, having just finished their dinner. One and another ran to
meet their heretical acquaintance, while others stood at a distance,
and stared in a manner which rather abashed the strangers. Some
withdrew, with an appearance of propriety, and two or three stood
reading at the windows, which looked into the convent garden; but
the greater number were evidently remarking on the dress and
countenances of the English girls. Sister Célestine and Sister
Priscille after a while led the way up stairs to their cells. The first
cell looked just like what Anna expected, except that there was no
skull on the table. The book was turned down open: it was a book
of devotion, and in Latin, and the page at which Mary looked
contained a marvellous account of the miraculous deeds of a
female saint. Mary, with some hesitation, enquired of Sister
Célestine if she believed every part of it. She looked rather shocked
at the question, as she replied that, of course, she believed the
whole of it.
“Had she known the book when she was young?” Anna
enquired, thinking that this might account for her credulity.
“No; it was given to her when she entered the convent.”
She had previously learned to read Latin, they supposed.
“Oh dear no! they none of them thought that necessary. The
priest read it over to them first, so that they knew what it was
about, and nothing more was required than that they should read
it over very frequently, so as not to forget it.” This cell had now
lost its charm for Anna.
In the next, they found some disorder: cuttings and snippings of
gay silk were lying beside the crucifix on the table. Sister Priscille,
laughing and blushing, swept them away, owning that she had,
contrary to the rules, carried work into her cell.
“The truth is,” said she, “that poor little Caliste, whom I was
teaching to dress a doll in the school-room this morning, was
obliged to go before we had finished the cloak, and I brought it
here, that she might not be disappointed. But, sisters, I trust to
you not to complain of me to la mère.”
Célestine looked grave, but promised to let her off this time.
Anna could not join Selina’s laugh.
One lively little nun, Sœur Agathe, was very impatient for the
strangers to be conducted to some place at the top of the building,
which she seemed to think better worth seeing than any thing else.
“Presently,” said Célestine, repeatedly; but she would not let them
alone for five minutes together. They looked into several cells as
they passed, in some of which the nuns were reading intently.
Mary would rather have staid behind in one of these than have
proceeded, if she could have done so without disturbing their
inmates; but when, at last, they burst in upon one who was on her
knees at prayers, she recoiled in great distress, and begged that no
more disturbance might be caused on their account.
 “Oh! it does not signify,” said Agathe: “she will know where to
follow us when she has done.”
Mary resolved to say nothing more till she should meet with one
whose countenance and manner should promise better things. At
length they reached the last staircase which Agathe was so anxious
for them to climb: it was steep, and opened out upon some leads
on the roof of the building. Agathe skipped up before them, and
handed out first one and then another, and then looked eagerly for
their admiration.
“What a fine view!” exclaimed Mary, as her eye wandered over
the rich fields and woods, and the verdant hills of Touraine, which
were spread out before her.
“How you must long——” said Anna—but she checked herself, as
she was going to remind the recluses what pleasures they lost by
beholding this fair scene only from a distance.

Page 196
 Page 230

“Oh no! we long for nothing,” said Agathe, lightly: “a holy life,
you know, and certainty of heaven, are far better than the sin and
misery of the world. But look on this side: you have not seen what
I brought you to see yet.”
They looked, and saw a multitude of the chimneys of Tours, but
little besides. Perceiving them at a loss, Agathe pointed between
two piles of building, crying, “Mais voyez donc! you do not look.
There is the great road from the north; and there is not a carriage
which comes from Paris that we may not see from this place as the
road winds.”
“This exceeds every thing,” thought Mary: “to talk one moment
of a holy life, and the next to be proud and pleased to see the
carriages come from Paris! I wish we could get away.”
Her composure was somewhat restored, however, by a
conversation which she contrived to obtain with one of the more
serious nuns whom she met in her way down. In her she found
neither enthusiasm nor levity: she did not pretend to despise or to
fear the world, or believe that she must be perfectly holy and safe,
because she had left it. She was thankful, she said, for peace and
freedom from care; she had no family ties to bind her to society,
and had felt so forlorn in her youth, from being an orphan, that
she had longed for an asylum above every thing; she had obtained
her desire, and was satisfied. Mary wished to know how far the
improvement of the intellect was checked, and how soon the
natural feelings were deadened or perverted by the discipline and
influences of this strange community; but this was tender ground.
She could scarcely make herself understood without wounding the
feelings of the persons she compassionated. She enquired,
however, whether there was not a great difference of rank and
education among the young persons admitted. Not so much, she
was told, as appeared to be generally thought.
“Since you took the vows, have the candidates been, for the
most part, companions to you?”
“Yes. We have two or three who are sadly vulgar; but the rest
have been educated in a convent like myself, except poor Sister
Thérèse and Sister Magdalen, whom you might see going to her
cell as you came in.”
“Why poor Thérèse? what became of her?”
“She died, poor thing, four years after she came in. I was really
relieved when she was gone, for I am sure she was very wretched.
Some of the sisters said she must have been in love when she took
the vows; but I believe she was not.”
“What made her wretched then?”
“La mère said that it was the pride and wantonness of her own
heart, that made her hanker after the world, and would not let her
be satisfied with being the spouse of Christ. I dare say it might be
so; but it always seemed to me that she made a mistake in coming
here at all. She expected that she should find companions who
would feel holy raptures like her own; and that was too much to
expect. She was never happy but when she was alone, and of
course the sisters did not like her the better for that. She kept her
place in the chapel till she could stand no longer; and yet Father
Ambrose was not pleased with her: he said she was high-minded.”
“That was indeed the truth,” murmured Mary, who thought of a
different kind of highmindedness than Father Ambrose had any
idea of.
“Perhaps it was; yet she was lowly in her prayers: I know this,
because I nursed her when she could not leave her cell; prayer was
like meat and drink to her. ‘I have no stay but Thee,’ was on her
lips perpetually in the long nights when her sickness wasted her.”
“What was her disease?”
 “We never could find out. Father Ambrose told the sisters that it
came from the Evil One, to show that, though a nun, she was not
safe. I hope he did not really think this; but it was very strange, as
he said, that it always loosened its hold upon her when the holy
bell rang. At the first sound of the matin bell, she would look so
peaceful; and often fell asleep presently, though she had been
tossing through the whole night.”
“And how long did this last?”
“Oh! many months: it was four years after she came in, as I told
you, when she died. But,” after a pause, “let me request you to tell
no one here that I have said so much about poor Thérèse; for la
mère thinks so ill of her, that she does not like we should mention
her name.”
The request was needless: Mary would almost as soon have
thought of taking the vows, after what she had heard, as of
speaking to any one of the sisterhood about poor Thérèse.
“And did Sister Magdalen, whom you mentioned, know
Thérèse?” she enquired.
“No; and I have sometimes wondered whether it would have
been a good thing for them if Sister Magdalen had entered a year
sooner. I think she might have saved Thérèse, or perhaps she
might have gone the same way herself. They were a good deal alike
in some things; but, happily, Magdalen is not so high-minded; she
knows better how to submit.”
“Then she has submitted?”
“Yes: when she first took the vows, she used to write a great deal
in her cell; and la mère found that it was sometimes poetry. Then
she used to sing, sometimes in the night, and very often indeed in
the day; but they were not always hymns that she sang. Now, la
mère said this would never do, and that nobody must bring the
vanities of the world within these walls; so she took away the ink
and paper she had, and put the oldest of the sisters into the next
cell, to inform her if she heard her sing any thing but what we all
sing.”
“And how did she bear this?” cried Mary, indignantly.
“She took it very quietly, which was the best thing she could do;
for there was no help for it, you know. At first, she was rather
unsociable, though never so much so as poor Thérèse; but she
came round by degrees, and now, though the sisters still joke her
about her gravity, she is very like the rest, and can be as droll as
the merriest of them: there is no occasion to pity Sister Magdalen
now.” And the nun looked amazed at Mary’s expression of grief.
“You do not mean,” she continued, “that you pity Magdalen as
you pity Thérèse?”
“More, a thousand times more!”
“Mais cela est inconcevable! when I tell you that Sister
Magdalen is so happy! c’est inconcevable!”
And inconceivable it remained to her, while she followed Mary’s
hasty steps down to the abbess’s parlour, where her party were
waiting for her. Lively tongues were busy on all sides, exchanging
adieus, and uttering last jokes. La mère herself rallied Mary on her
gravity, observing that she was almost solemn enough to be a nun.
Mary escaped as soon as she could. While within the gates, a sense
of oppression weighed upon her, as if she were in a prison: when
she trod the grass on which shadows from the trees were dancing,
and felt the breeze blow in her face, tears sprang forth, and she
thought with a less tumultuous grief of the fate of poor Thérèse,
and even of Sister Magdalen.
 CHAPTER X.
Sensibility without Sense.
It was evident to all observers, from the day that Anna and
Selina met, that they were not the friends they had been and had
intended again to be. No complaint was made by either, and their
manner of speaking of and conducting themselves towards each
other was affectionate, though somewhat melancholy. In their
souls, however, they mourned over the change in each other: Anna
thought Selina grown cold and worldly; Selina thought Anna
mysterious and very selfish. The fact was, as Mr. Fletcher declared
to his wife, and as she could not deny, that Anna was too much
engrossed with her own thoughts, and too dead to realities, to
perceive the improvement which change of circumstances had
really wrought in her friend.
It was not long before Anna experienced the usual painful
consequences of her strange habits; and the fact that such
consequences overtook her wherever she went, might have
convinced her how preposterous was her prevailing idea that all
the world was in league against her, because her character was not
understood. At first, the young people paired off as formerly, Rose
and Mary, Selina and Anna; but this arrangement was soon found
undesirable on many accounts. Though Rose was a very good, and,
in some respects, a very superior girl, she was not such a one as
Mary could like to be with all day long while Mrs. Fletcher was
within reach, and while there were points of sympathy between
Selina and herself which seemed to strengthen daily. Neither
could Mary see the use or pleasure of splitting so small a family
party into coteries; she therefore diffused the blessing of her
society (and a great blessing it was) among all, and was duly
prized by all but her own unaccountable sister. Anna, on the
contrary, had no idea of enjoyment in any but a tête-à-tête
conversation; and her mode of conducting a tête-à-tête had
become so strange, that it was no wonder her companion
preferred drawing in her chair among the cheerful circle who were
talking or reading with lightness of heart and forgetfulness of
themselves. Add to this, that Anna’s habits were now such as to
disqualify her for feeling on an equality in well-bred society—that
she was too late for breakfast, too late for dinner, too late for tea,
never ready to walk when others were waiting, and unable to
attend when others were reading or speaking to her—and it cannot
be surprising that, though treated with great kindness, she was left
alone in this, little world, where she had expected to find so much
happiness. Mr. Fletcher was the only person who lost patience
with her. Her father saved her from disgrace as often as he could;
and Mary was devoted to her, though she received no thanks. She
spent more time in dressing Anna, in working for Anna, in helping
Anna, in one way or another, than on her own affairs. It was well
they had brought Susan; for there was full employment for her
also in taking care of her helpless young lady. As for Mrs. Fletcher,
she watched tenderly over her health, which was becoming very
infirm; but of what use were all endeavours to cheer her spirits
and revive her health, when she had no mercy on her own nerves?
It frequently happened, that she came out of a reverie flushed and
feverish, or that her hands were damp and cold, and her voice
broken and almost lost. “What could she be thinking of?” was a
frequent subject of speculation with her friends; but they could
never discover which of the thousand agitating scenes of human
suffering and delight were oftenest presented in vivid apparition
to the poor girl’s diseased imagination. She started in such a
terrified way if spoken to, that Mary had insensibly adopted the
practice of breaking every thing to her, even if the plan were only
for an evening engagement. This was a pity, for the precaution was
useless, as she was startled with less and less things perpetually.
“Anna,” said her sister one day, when she found her leaning over
her drawing-board, doing nothing, “I have something to propose
to you—a little plan which I hope you will not object to.”
Anna looked troubled and bewildered.
“I do not know what you will think of beginning to travel again
already.”
“To travel!” repeated Anna: “to Italy?”
“Oh no!” replied Mary, “not nearly so far; only to Paris. Papa
has just told me that he must go to Paris for a week or so, on
business. Now, I think he is not very well, and we know he dislikes
being alone among strangers, and I think we ought to go with him.
I have not said so to him yet; I thought I would ask you first.”
“What can he be going to Paris for? What can be the reason? Oh,
Mary!”
“Never mind the reason now,” said Mary, observing how her
sister’s hand trembled; “I dare say he will tell us the next time he
comes in; but he was going out and in a hurry when he told me his
plan. You will like to go, will not you?”
“Oh yes! I am ready to go any where, to do any thing,” said
Anna, looking as intrepid as if she were trying to be like Jephtha’s
daughter.
“I do not know what the Fletchers will think of our seeing Paris
before they do, after all; but I am sure they will wish us to go and
take care of papa; and there can be no doubt that he will like to
have us.”
Here however Mary was, for once, mistaken: Mr. Byerley would
not hear of any one accompanying him; and, moreover,
communicated not a syllable respecting the business which called
him away. When Mary was packing his portmanteau, he came
himself to see that his precious packet of letters was put in safe.
Mary observed, laughing, that she hoped he would bring her some
new music, for the letters took up so much room, that it would
require a large parcel to fill up their place when they were left
behind. Her father observed that these letters would afford him
abundance of engagements, and that Mary must not be uneasy if
he did not return at the end of one week, or even two.
“If it should be three,” said Mary, “I think we must follow, and
find you.”
“Do not think of such a thing, I charge you,” replied her father,
seriously.
“O no! papa. I did not seriously think of going to Paris by
ourselves; much less of watching any of your proceedings.”
Mr. Byerley’s first letter came as soon as expected, and told of a
pleasant journey: but it contained nothing besides, except the
address to the hotel where he resided. The second letter was
longer in coming, and it seemed to his anxious children as if the
third would never arrive.
But for this anxiety, the time of his absence would have passed
quickly and cheerfully. The tyranny of custom, by which French
young ladies are made mere cyphers in company, was somewhat
relaxed in the case of the English girls. They attended several
evening parties, where they were not condemned, as they probably
might have been in Paris, to sit beside Mrs. Fletcher or one
another, for a whole evening, without being spoken to. The
Protestant clergyman, whose church they attended, had been in
England; and his knowledge of our customs, as well as his
kindness of heart, prompted him to converse with the young
strangers as if they were rational beings, and to endeavour to draw
out their talents.
At first, Mary could scarcely reconcile what she saw of this
gentleman in company with her judgment of his pulpit services.
She had been almost disgusted, the first Sunday, with his sermon,
and with the manner in which it was delivered. She was not
sufficiently aware how the varieties of national taste extend to the
modes of conducting public worship; and the delivery, which to
the usual attendants of M. Mesnil appeared grave and emphatic,
was to her almost theatrical. Out of the pulpit, nothing of this was
discernible. He was ready, on every fair occasion, to advert to the
subjects most closely connected with his profession, and which
were evidently nearest his heart; and the growing intimacy
between his family and that of Mr. Fletcher was founded and
cherished by their sympathy in their religious principles and
sentiments.
M. Mesnil had married a very young and lively lady of Paris,
whose friends were surprised that one so gay and accomplished
should have lost her heart to a grave clergyman, and been ready to
make up her mind to live in the provinces for the rest of her days.
She proved, however, to all who cared to know, that though her
choice was made under the influence of love, it was not made in
folly. She proved an excellent wife, and was an exemplary pastor’s
lady. Fond as she was of her harp, she liked still better the music
of grateful voices; and her smiles wore as sweet, and her eyes
sparkled as brilliantly in the cottages near Tours, as in the saloons
of Paris. Her tastes were as refined as ever, while more simple;
and their gratification was promoted by her husband more eagerly
than they ever were by her admirers in the great city. Her
flowergarden was the delight of them both, and was embellished
by their own hands. They sang together; and each, for the sake of
the other, embraced every opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of
cultivated society, and the delights of natural beauty. Their
children were young—a noble boy of five years old, and two little
girls of three and two. They were well-managed, healthy, happy
children—the best of amusements to the English girls, who were
never weary of the oddity of hearing a foreign language lisped by
infants, and of observing wherein children are alike all over the
world, and wherein natural differences introduce a variety, even
from birth.
The two families were more together than ever after the arrival
of the Byerleys. M. Mesnil undertook to convince his foreign
friends that they were prejudiced against the pulpit oratory of
France, and that it was not enough to venerate Fénélon, whom no
one could help venerating. He made them familiar with the most
eminent French divines, and brought them to acknowledge that
there was more common ground between pious and enlightened
Protestants and Catholics, than they had previously believed. They
walked together very frequently, the children accompanying them.
Little Charles rode a stately goat, as is not uncommon with
children abroad; and this picturesque steed was harnessed with an
elegance answerable to the appearance of his young rider.
Charles’s mamma, however grave she might look while teaching
him to read, looked much more like his eldest sister than his
mother when they played in the fields, or sat down to rest in the
woods.
It seemed strange that Anna should be struck by one so gay, so
totally the opposite of herself, as Madame Mesnil; but it was
evident, from their first meeting, that she was more awake to what
was said, more attentive to what was done by this lady, than by
any body else; and this circumstance gave Mary a gleam of hope of
her sister’s restoration to mental health. On her part, Madame
Mesnil, though she admired and approved Mary to a high degree,
attached herself more to Anna; whether through compassion, or
genuine sympathy, or by dint of imagining qualities which did not
exist, Mary sought not to know, so delighted was she with the fact.
She contrived, as often as possible, to send Anna alone to M.
Mesnil’s; encouraged her to accept invitations to dine tête-à-tête
with Madame, when her husband was out; and, in short, to throw
them together as much as possible. The self-complacency caused
in Anna’s mind by these circumstances, proved an impulse for a
time. It was but a short-lived impulse; but it inspired her sister
with hope, and herself with a pleasure long lost.
“Where is Anna?” was the enquiry one day, when it was time she
should be urged to dress for her visit to Madame Mesnil.
 “She is gone,” said Mrs. Fletcher: “dressed and gone half an
hour ago; and the volume of Boileau with her that I see you are
looking for. She has finished it.”
“And look at her drawing,” said Selina: “it promises well; does it
not?”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Mary. “O, I wonder when papa will come
back!”
“Make no observations to him, Mary: let him discover it for
himself!”
“Certainly,” replied Mary; “I will anticipate nothing. But I long
to see the hope breaking in upon him.”
There was no need to explain what the “it” and the “hope”
meant. There was a perfect understanding in the family, and the
great anxiety of one was the great anxiety of all.
Mary flew to meet her sister when she came home, for once, not
afraid of startling her by sudden intelligence. Before she could
speak, however, Anna cried out, “A letter from papa? O, say yes!”
“Yes,” said Mary, joyfully, drawing her sister’s arm within her
own. “He will be home to-morrow; so you must tell us to-night
every thing about your visit.”
It was delightful to hear her once again speak gaily, and without
reserve. It was evident that she had played with the children, and
remarked what passed around her.
No one enquired into the particulars of her conversation with
Madame Mesnil. It had evidently done her good, and that was
enough.
 CHAPTER XI.
A new Abode.
Mr. Byerley returned somewhat fatigued with his journey, but in
high spirits. He said but little respecting his doings and the
persons he had seen in Paris, but was very communicative about
all that happened on the road. He had been much entertained by
one man in particular, who had sat beside him all the way from
Paris, and been very anxious to make acquaintance with the
Englishman. He appeared to have very strange, erroneous notions
of England, its government, and political parties.
“I hope he did not lead you to talk too freely,” interrupted Mr.
Fletcher.
“O, no!” replied Mr. Byerley; “and if I had talked treason it
would hardly have signified. You have no idea of the man’s
simplicity.”
“Not so good a one as he has of yours, perhaps. But what are
this simple man’s politics?”
“Just what one might expect from such a person. He is not very
well contented with the state of things in this country, but does not
see how it is to be improved. He seems one of the grumblers, who
set other people to work, but do nothing themselves.”
“What sort of looking man is he?”
“A very common looking person, with a black coat and ugly
brown wig.”
“Well, Byerley, simple as he may be, you are quite as much so,
depend upon it, to talk politics in a diligence.”
“Oh! it all depends upon who listens. This was a good-natured
creature as could be. He was very civil about my accommodation,
and enquired what luggage I had, that he might have an eye to its
being stowed away in the right place.”
 “Is your portmanteau safe?” enquired Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Byerley
only answered by pointing to it as it lay in the hall.
“Your civil friend examined it, I dare say.”
“Yes, such people are always curious. I saw him spelling out my
name and feeling the weight of the trunk; and he remarked the roll
of paper (music for Mary) peeping out of my coat-pocket. He
began fishing to discover what it was.”
“And did you show it him?”
“No: I thought it was time to check his curiosity, so I put it out
of sight.”
“Well, you had better have had your girls with you. I will answer
for it they would know better how to conduct themselves in a
diligence than their father. But come, I have made an appointment
for you at Béranger’s. He is to show us the plan of the new
Institute; and it is time we were gone.”
When the gentlemen returned from the house of M. Béranger,
(the magistrate to whom Mr. Byerley had before been introduced,)
Mr. Fletcher looked very grave, while his friend was laughing.
“Whom do you think we met, just now?” said he.
“The man in the brown wig?”
“Yes; a perilous looking personage, is he not, Fletcher?”
“How oddly Béranger behaved to you!” was Mr. Fletcher’s only
reply.
“Yes, he was as stiff and formal as an Englishman; but I suppose
that is his magisterial air.”
“M. Béranger stiff and formal!” exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher: “I
never saw him so.”
“Nor I till to-day,” replied her husband. “Did you see where your
brown-wigged friend came from, Byerley?”
“I saw him come out of a house, but I did not observe the house
particularly.”
“He came out of Béranger’s office-door.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Byerley, starting: “and yet he told me
that he knew no one in this place, and should proceed on his
journey south in a few hours.”
While this conversation passed, the girls were dressing to go
out. Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher were glad of this, as they did not wish
to communicate to Mary and Anna the vague uneasiness they
began to feel respecting the consequences of this journey.
Mrs. Fletcher walked out with the young people. They were
tempted to prolong their ramble till past the hour of dinner; yet
when they came in, the cloth was not laid, no servant was visible,
and no one answered the bell. Mrs. Fletcher caught a glimpse of
her husband in the garden behind the house. He was pacing
backwards and forwards with hurried steps. She went to him,
trying in vain to prevent Mary from following her. The truth was
soon out. Mr. Byerley had been arrested during their absence, and
conveyed first to a magistrate and then to prison, without being
able to learn the nature of the accusation against him.
Mary strengthened herself for a few moments with the belief
that this proceeding originated in a mistake, which would be
presently rectified; but when Mr. Fletcher made no reply to her
expression of hope, she remembered the packet of letters, the
mystery of the journey to Paris, the strange behaviour of the
fellow-traveller, and his egress from the magistrate’s office, and,
finally, the deportment of M. Béranger himself; and no doubt
remained that some political offence was imputed to her father.
Her first desire was to go to him; and she ran into the house that
she might communicate to Anna what had happened, and lose no
time in proceeding to the prison with her sister, who, she could
not doubt, would be eager to accompany her. Anna was, however,
in no condition for such an exertion. Though Rose had
communicated the fact as gently as possible, the feebleminded girl
was frightfully agitated. She had sunk shivering on the ground,
and clung so convulsively to the sofa, that it was impossible to
raise her.
“Anna,” said her sister calmly, “have you not always said that on
great occasions you could command yourself? This is a great
occasion.”
“O, my father! my father!” cried the trembling girl; and the voice
of her wailing thrilled every nerve in Mary’s frame.
“Listen, Anna! My father is, no doubt, looking for us, expecting
us every moment. Will you not go to him?”
“Go to him!” cried Anna, springing up. “Let us go instantly, and
never leave him. Yet—Oh! to see him in a dungeon, among the
wretches there, shut up, perhaps, for life—I cannot, no, I cannot
——” and she sank down on the sofa, utterly exhausted.
 Mary looked at her sister, and then at the door: her feelings
were harrowed by what she saw and heard. She longed to restore
her sister, and yet was impatient to be gone.
“Leave your sister to us,” said Mrs. Fletcher: “you see she cannot
go.”
“But what shall I say to my father, Anna?” said her sister in a
broken voice, as she bent over her. “Look up, and speak to me, or
how shall I comfort my father?” But still Anna did not unclose her
eyes.
“She will soon be better,” said Mrs. Fletcher, trying to smile:
“leave her to me, and go where your heart bids you.”
Mr. Fletcher drew Mary’s arm within his, and hastened with her
to the prison, preparing her by the way for the probable
disappointment she would meet with in being refused admittance.
Mary declared that she would get in, by some means or other; and
in answer to the objection that it might be impossible, she
declared that, in such cases, women had been known to conquer
what are often called impossibilities.
As Mr. Fletcher expected, the jailer had received strict orders to
admit no person whatever to Mr. Byerley’s presence. There was no
use in entreaty, or in any mode of representing the case. He must
obey orders. He did not refuse, however, to answer questions. The
gentleman seemed in good spirits, he said, except that he was
vexed at not having an apartment to himself.
“Not an apartment to himself! Where was he then?”
“In the same room with some debtors.”
“Any body else?”
“Yes; two or three felons, for whom there was not room
elsewhere.”
Mary’s heart sickened as she turned away.
“I will go to M. Béranger’s,” said she: “he will not, he shall not
deny me.”
“This is the way,” said Mr. Fletcher; “you are turning
homewards.”
“Perhaps Anna is able to go now,” replied Mary. “She shall have
her choice, at least; and she will help me to plead with M.
Béranger.”
Anna was better. She lay quietly weeping on the sofa, and
scarcely looked up as her sister entered.
 “I have not seen him: they will not let us in, without leave, Anna.
Will you go with me to obtain leave from M. Béranger? It will do
you good, if you can exert yourself so far.”
Anna looked bewildered. Mrs. Fletcher, unwisely, as Mary
thought, objected that she was unequal to the exertion. This
observation, however, had the effect of rousing Anna.
“Why should not I as well as Mary?” demanded she, starting up.
“He is my father as well as Mary’s. Who shall prevent my
discharging a daughter’s duty to him? It is very unjust: it is very
unkind——.” While thus exclaiming, Mary tied her bonnet for her:
her own hands trembled too much.
Mr. Fletcher’s stronger voice now prevailed. He declared
decidedly that Anna’s appearance would, without doubt, injure
her father’s interests. To a cool and wary magistrate, who did not
understand the vehemence of her feelings, her agitated
appearance would give the idea that there was reason for
apprehension that the result of an examination was dreaded. “We
believe your father to be innocent,” said he; “and the calmness of
our manner ought to testify the confidence of our belief. Look at
your sister, Mary, and say if any stranger would believe that she
had any present confidence whatever to repose upon.”
Anna’s face, flushed with anger and convulsed with fear, was
indeed ill-fitted to enforce any plea founded on a consciousness of
innocence. She was left behind, exclaiming against the injustice,
but, in reality, relieved at being spared the necessity of exertion.
M. Béranger, guessing the nature of Mary’s errand, declined
seeing her, on the plea of business; but Mary, who felt that the
part she now had to take was that of decision, or what would be
called obstinacy by the persons she had to deal with, replied that
she would wait till M. Béranger was at liberty. She took her seat in
the office, and remained two long hours; at the end of which time,
the magistrate, having no hope of getting quit of her, admitted her
and Mr. Fletcher to his presence. Again and again he answered,
that his directions were positive, to allow no access to persons
imprisoned for political offences. Mary reasoned on the
impossibility of her affording any advantage to her father’s cause
by being with him, or of her opposing any hindrance to the course
of justice: she only wanted to be let in alone; she would submit to
be searched; she would carry in nothing but linen; she would not
ask to come out again till her father should be also released. The
magistrate gently represented, that she seemed to consider the last