Kitabı oku: «London's Heart: A Novel», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XX
AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION
But although the tone of Muzzy's acquiescence in the turning over of a new leaf was almost abject, his manner denoted inward disturbance. His restless eyes became more restless in the endeavour to look steadily into Mr. Sheldrake's face, and his lips twitched nervously as he passed the back of his hand across them with the air of one who is thirsty. The sudden interest which Mr. Sheldrake exhibited in Lizzie and her lover was evidently distressing to him, and he waited anxiously for an explanation. Mr. Sheldrake did not notice these symptoms; he was too much engrossed in his own musing, the satisfactory nature of which was evidenced by the bright look he turned upon Muzzy.
"This girl, this Lizzie," he said, following the current of his thoughts, "who has no parents – she has none?"
"None, sir."
"Must find it dull work living up in a garret by herself."
"Lizzie is happy enough," said Muzzy; "I have never heard her complain; she is a good girl, sir."
"Doubtless; but nevertheless would jump at the opportunity of living in a pretty detached house in the suburbs, say in St. John's-wood or Kensington, or better still near to the river-a pretty house, cosily furnished, with a garden round it. How would that suit you, old man?"
Muzzy stared in amazement at his employer, who continued gaily,
"Respectably dressed, living a quiet respectable life, as a widower, say with an only child, a daughter – "
"Sir!" exclaimed Muzzy, rising in his agitation.
"Steady, old man! A daughter ready-made, Lizzie the charmer-what can be better? If you object to father and daughter say uncle and niece; it will serve the purpose equally well. Fifty neat stories can be made up to suit the case, if there is need of explanation. Of course it will not be kept secret that the man who enables you to do this is Mr. David Sheldrake-that he is your best friend-and that in your declining days (excuse me for referring to the unpleasant fact) you owe it to him that you are enabled to live in ease and comfort."
"I don't understand, sir."
"It isn't so very difficult, either. I want a place where I can come for an hour's quiet now and again, and where my friends would be welcome. You have served me well up to this point – "
"I have tried to do so, sir," murmured Muzzy.
"And in serving me well, have served yourself at the same time. Continue to do so, but ask no questions, and don't look a gift horse in the mouth." (This was somewhat sternly spoken; for notwithstanding Muzzy's humble acquiescence in his employer's plans, there was something in his manner that did not please Mr. Sheldrake.) "I may have a purpose to serve in what I propose, and I may not. That is my business. The prospect I open out to you is not an unpleasant one. It is better than the workhouse." (Muzzy shivered.) "I will put you in such a house as I have described, where you may enjoy the comforts of a home, instead of living the pig's life you are living now. But only on the understanding, mind you, that Lizzie lives with you." (The same increased restlessness in Muzzy's eyes, the same nervous twitching of his lips, the same action of his hand across his parched mouth, were observable in Muzzy's manner, at this fresh reference to Lizzie.) "Tell her that a stroke of good fortune has fallen to you suddenly, and that you owe it to me to give or to withhold. Ask her to share your home as your daughter or your niece. You want nothing from her. If she wishes to continue her needlework, let her do so; it will be a pleasanter place to do it than here, and it will keep her in pocket-money. As for you, I promise that you shall not be quite idle; for I intend to pay you your salary, besides keeping the house, and you must do something to earn it. I daresay we shall start a new firm, at the new address, one, say, that undertakes discretionary investments-a good game, old man" (this with a laugh) – "and so shall manage to pay expenses. Then if you like to do a little private betting on your own account, you can do so. You may make a hit with that system of yours which you say you have discovered."
"I could make a fortune, sir," cried Muzzy eagerly, "a fortune, if I had a little money to speculate with."
"So that's settled," said Mr. Sheldrake easily, "and you can speak to Lizzy to-night."
But Muzzy's diversion from the cause of his uneasiness was only momentary.
"I thank you, sir," he said, hesitating over his words, "for all this. Whatever position you place me in, I shall endeavour to serve you faithfully."
"It will be your interest to do so," was the masterful rejoinder, "or something unpleasant might happen."
"But I want to ask you – "
"I told you not to ask questions, old man," interrupted Mr. Sheldrake, with a frown.
"I must ask you this one," said Muzzy, with a courage which surprised even himself.
"If you must, you must. What is it?"
"Lizzie's a good girl, sir."
"Who said she wasn't?"
"She has been almost a daughter to me, sir. I have lived a lonely life for many, many years, until she took the room next to me, and then after a little while everything seemed changed. If you were to ask me who in the whole world I would sooner serve than any other, I would mention her-excepting you, sir, of course."
"What are you driving at, old man?"
"Rather than any harm should come to her through me, I would never see her again. I would go away. And you don't know, sir, what it is to live alone; to feel that you are growing older and older, and to be tormented with bad dreams and bad fancies; and not to have one person in the world to give you a smile or a cheerful word."
"Drives you to drink, eh?"
"What else can a lonely man do, sir?"
"That's just the reason I'm offering you this chance with Lizzie, and just the reason why you should jump at it. But you haven't asked me your question yet."
Muzzy could not for a few moments muster sufficient courage to put it; but at last he said in an imploring tone,
"You don't mean any harm to Lizzie, sir?"
Mr. Sheldrake laughed loud and laughed long; he seemed to be relieved from an embarrassment by Muzzy's question.
"Why, man," he said boisterously, "I've never set eyes on this charmer of yours, so how can I mean any harm to her? Nay, more; I should not have the slightest objection to this lover of hers who's chatting with her now visiting her at the house – "
"I don't want him there," cried Muzzy jealously.
"He'll come, depend upon it, old man. Why, Muzzy, if you were not too old to play the lover, I should say you were jealous. Let the youngsters alone; let them enjoy themselves. You were young yourself once, and I've no doubt played the gay Lothario often enough. Let me see-Muzzy means Musgrave, doesn't it?"
"That's my name, sir."
"Well, Mr. Musgrave, I'll wish you good-night. You can report progress to me at the office to-morrow. Show me a light."
Muzzy waited on his patron with the candle until Mr. Sheldrake was out of the house; then listened for a moment in the passage to ascertain if Lizzie's companion was still with her, and hearing the sound of conversation, returned to his room, leaving the door ajar. The prospect opened to him by Mr. Sheldrake was very pleasant. A house in the suburbs, with a garden, and with Lizzie for a companion-it was paradise. "I should like to live by the riverside," he thought; then looked at his shabby clothes, and at his worn face in a cracked looking-glass, and wondered whether Mr. Sheldrake was really in earnest. "I never saw him so serious as he was to-night," he muttered. "He has some new money-making scheme in his head, and he wants the old man's assistance. Yes, that is it. I thought at first that he meant harm to Lizzie; and rather than that, rather than that – " he thought out the alternative, still looking in the glass. "As father and daughter," he said. "Father and daughter!" What memories of the past did those words conjure up? If any, not pleasant ones. For he sighed and grew more thoughtful, and, letting the glass slide upon the table, covered his eyes with his hand, and looked through the darkness into the time gone by. Into life's seasons. Spring, when the buds were coming. Yes. Summer, when the buds had blossomed. No. The leaves withered as they grew. Autumn. Cold, despairing, cheerless. Winter. It was winter now, and no sweet winds came from the time gone by to temper the bleak present. His musings were disturbed by the opening of Lizzie's door. "Good night," he heard the man say. "Good night," Lizzie replied, in a pleasant voice. Silence then, for a few moments; and then Lizzie's voice asking in the passage,
"Daddy, are you awake?"
"Yes, Lizzie; come in."
CHAPTER XXI
LIZZIE TELLS A VERY SIMPLE STORY
Smiling youth and wasted age stood gazing at each other for a moment. The girl's cheeks were flushed; bright happiness danced in her eyes. She came like a sunbeam into the room; joyous light and life irradiated from her.
She was a picture of neatness and prettiness; she was dressed in a pretty-coloured stuff dress, and a piece of blue ribbon round her neck, to which a locket was attached, gave the slightest suspicion of coquettishness to her appearance. She held a candlestick in her hand, but the candle in it was not lighted. Although she stood still for a brief space, gazing at the old man, her thoughts were not upon him There was a listening look in her face, and as she raised her hand she murmured, "I wonder! I wonder!" and said aloud in soft tones,
"May I look out of your window, daddy?"
Muzzy's window looked upon the street. Lizzie, not waiting for permission, went to the window, and looked out, and stood there in silence so long, that Muzzy shuffled to her side. He saw nothing, however, for the form which Lizzie had been watching was out of sight. If she had spoken her thoughts, the words would have been: "The dear fellow! It does my heart good to see him linger about the house. I used to see that with Mary, and Mary used to watch through the blind." (Here, to be faithful to her musings, would have come a laugh that was almost a whisper-like a ripple on a lake-like a gurgling stream dancing down a hill.) "He turned back three times to look at the house. Now, if he had known that I was here, he wouldn't have gone away for a long time. How handsome he is!"
A deeper flush was in her cheek, and her eyes sparkled still more brightly, as with a happy sigh she turned from the window to Muzzy, who was standing by her side.
"You got my key, daddy?" she said.
"Yes, my dear, thank you."
"Did you come home early?"
"At about ten o'clock, my dear."
"Did you see any one? Did anybody ask for me?"
"Nobody asked of me, Liz. You expected somebody, then?"
"O, no; but I wish I had been at home."
She dismissed the subject with a light shake of the head, and said, smiling,
"You've had company, daddy."
"Yes, my dear," he replied, with a wistful look at her pretty face-a strangely jealous look, too, which seemed to imply that he would have been better pleased if she were a little less bright.
"Nice company?" she asked.
"A gentleman-one who has been kind to me."
She nodded with conscious grace, and stood before the old man with an assertion of prettiness upon her which heightened the contrast between her graceful person and his unattractive form. Not that the contrast was in her mind; she did not think of it, but it would have been forced upon an observer.
"We heard you talking," she said.
"You have had company also, Lizzie."
"O, yes." With a blush and a smile.
"We heard you talking, my dear."
"I suppose we made a great noise; Some One talks very loud sometimes."
"You did not make a noise, my dear, but we heard you. Lizzie," he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "your candle was out when you came in."
"It went out in the passage, daddy."
"Or some one blew it out, Lizzie."
"Yes; perhaps-Some One-did." With the pleasantest little laugh in the world.
"Preferring to talk in the dark," he suggested, in a singular tone of discontent.
"Yes; perhaps-Some One-does."
Again the pleasant little laugh. That, which was like music, and her joyous happy manner, and her clear voice and pretty ways, made a home of the otherwise lonely room.
"We have been to the theatre to-night," she said; "Some One and me. I should like to be an actress. I think I should have made a good one."
She let her hair fall loose as she spoke, and put on an arch look to provoke a favourable verdict. Muzzy's hitherto dull mood brightened under her influence.
"What theatre did you go to, my dear?"
"To the Olympic. We saw Daisy Farm. Isn't it a pretty name? Now, one would fancy that everybody was happy at Daisy Farm, because of the name; but it wasn't so. They were all in trouble until the end of the play, and then something very unexpected happened, and everything came right. Is it so in real life?"
"I don't think so."
"But it's nice in a play. I wonder how ever they can cram such a lot of things in a couple of hours; and it all seems so natural! There was one part that Some One did not like; it was where a young man who had been doing wrong-stealing money from his master-robbed his own father (as we all thought he was), so that he could put the money back. Some One got regularly excited over it; but it turned out that the man he robbed wasn't his father, so that was all right. When that was shown and the young man got off, Some One clapped so, that everybody looked at him. He lost his sweetheart, though."
"Who?"
"The young man in the play. As we were walking home, I said to Some One, 'Supposing that was you, would you have liked to lose your sweetheart in that way?' He turned quite white at the idea, and he looked at me so strangely, and said, 'But you wouldn't throw me off as that heartless girl did in the play, would you, Lizzie?' I said, 'No; that I wouldn't.' 'Not even if I was as bad as that young fellow?' asked Some One, to try me. And then I said – But you can guess what I said, daddy. I don't think I'm a changeable girl, like some."
"Come and sit down, Lizzie," said Muzzy; "I want to talk to you."
The girl obeyed, and as Muzzy did not immediately speak, she fell a-musing. Sweet thoughts were hers evidently, for presently the laugh that was like music came from her, evoked by something pleasant that she had seen or heard in her fancies. The sound aroused her, and looking up she saw Muzzy holding out the flower he had brought home for her.
"For you, Liz."
"O, thank you, dad."
She held it up by the side of her hair to admire it, and asked how it looked there. Out of his full-hearted admiration of her pretty ways he had but one answer, of course. Then she placed it in the bosom of her dress, which was slightly open at the throat, and as the leaves touched her fair akin, she looked down and smiled both on the flower and herself.
"Some One would be jealous," she said, "if he saw it there; especially after what he brought me to-night. Wait a minute; I'll show you."
She ran out of the room, and returned with a large bunch of flowers, fresh and fragrant like herself.
"Are they not beautiful? Am I not a lucky girl? Just think! Two presents of flowers in one night!"
"Mine is a poor one, Lizzie."
"It is very pretty, and I shall put it in water all by itself."
She selected a flower from the bunch, and placed it in her bosom by the side of the other; then bent down until her lips touched it.
"You are fond of flowers, my dear."
"I love everything that is bright. I like to bury my face in them, like this, and shut my eyes, and think. Such beautiful thoughts come!"
Suiting the action to the word, she buried her face in the flowers, and saw pictures of the future as she wished it to be. It was filled with sweet promise, as it nearly always is to youth. And if fulfilment never comes, the dreams bring happiness for the time.
"Try!" she said, raising her face and holding out the flowers to him.
To please her, he closed his eyes among the leaves. But the visions that came to his inner sense of sight were different from those she had seen. For her the future. For him the past. The clouds through which he looked were dark and sombre; and as glimpses of long-forgotten times flashed through them, he sighed as one might have sighed who, wandering for a generation through a strange country filled with discordant and feverish circumstance, finds himself suddenly in a place where all is hushed, and where the soft breeze brings to him the restful sound of sweet familiar bells. But darker clouds soon rolled over these memories, blotting them out.
"Lizzie," he said "suppose you had the chance of living away from the dusty streets in a pretty little house, surrounded by the flowers you love so well!"
"How delightful!" she exclaimed, with her face among the flowers again.
"Open your eyes, Lizzie, while I speak."
"Wait a minute, daddy. Don't speak for sixty seconds. I'm looking at the house."
Muzzy remained silent until she spoke again.
"I see it," she said, "peeping out among the flowers. It is built of old red brick, the windows are very small, and vines are creeping all over the walls."
Thus did her fancy reproduce for her the picture of a country house, which doubtless she had seen at one time or another. Even when she opened her eyes, she saw the vision hanging, as it were in the clouds of a bright memory.
"How would you like to live in such a house, Liz?"
"How would I like to live in a rainbow?" was her merry rejoinder.
"But what I say I mean, my dear."
"And what I say I don't-that is, sometimes. Do you really, really mean it though, dad?"
"Yes, my dear. The gentleman who was with me to-night-a good friend-has opened out such a prospect to me."
"O, I am so glad; for this isn't very nice for you!" she said, glancing round the room.
"Nor for you, my dear," he replied, looking wistfully at her. "Don't you wish for something better?"
"I wish for a great many things-holidays, new dresses, and new hats-and I should like a good deal of money. If fifty pounds were to tumble down the chimney now, shouldn't we be surprised? Ah, but what's the use of wishing, daddy!"
"You may have some of these things, Liz, if you like." His serious manner made her more serious and attentive. "Such a house as you saw just now you may have, perhaps. It depends upon you whether I accept the offer that has been made to me to-night."
"Upon me!" she exclaimed.
"Do you remember what I was when you first came here?"
"Why, the same as you are now," she replied, with a laughing evasion of what he was referring to.
"No, my dear," he said humbly, taking her hand in his; "I was a lonely miserable man. There was no light in my life. I used to come home night after night, and drink."
She placed her fingers on his lips, to stop the farther confession; but he gently removed them.
"I had nothing else to do. Bad fancies used to come, and I drank to drive them away; and the more I drank, the worse they became. I don't know what might have been the end of me. This room used to be full of terrible shadows creeping over the walls. I saw them in the dark, stealing upon me. One night, when these fancies were upon me, driving me almost mad-how long ago was it, Lizzie? – I heard a little voice singing in the next room. I didn't know any one had moved in until I heard your voice, and I crept into the passage and listened to you, my dear, and blessed you-ay, I did Lizzie! and I fell asleep with your singing in my ears."
"And I came out," she said, humouring him, "and saw you."
"And saw me, and pitied me," he continued. "I wonder you were not afraid. You came into my room, and saw the bottle on the table; there was liquor in it, and you asked me if you might take it away, and I said Yes. Then you tidied up the room, and made the bed, and I sat wondering at your goodness, and wondering why the shadows didn't come while you were with me. That was the commencement of it, Lizzie; and so we became friends, and my life was not so desolate as it used to. You brightened it for me, by dear."
"No, it wasn't me, daddy; it was yourself-it was leaving off that – that – "
"Drink," he added, as he hesitated. "It was driving me mad!"
"And you have left it off, daddy, and that's the reason why you are better and happier."
"Yes, Lizzie," he said, with a guilty look at her, for the flat bottle, half filled with gin, was in his pocket as he spoke. "I have kept my promise."
"So it's not me, after all," she exclaimed merrily, "that you have to thank."
"It is you, Lizzie. If it were not for you, I should go back to my old ways again; it is only you who keep me from them. I know now what it is to have some one to care for me; if I had known it before-O, if I had known it before! If when we were young, we could see what was before us!"
"Have you never had any one care for you, daddy?" she asked pityingly.
"Don't ask me, child. I mustn't look back-I daren't look back. But it seems to me, Lizzie, that I never knew how dreadful a lonely life was until you came and showed me the misery of it. I cannot leave you now, Lizzie; I should become I am frightened to think what."
His voice, his hands, his whole body trembled as he pleaded for companionship, for protection from his torturing fancies. She was his shelter, and he clung to her. His manhood had been like a ship tossed amidst storms, overhung by dark clouds, battered and bruised by sunken reefs. Suddenly a rift of light appeared, and the old worn ship floated into peaceful waters, and lay there with an almost painful sense of rest upon it-painful because of the fear that the light might vanish as suddenly as it had appeared, and the storm break again.
"What is it you want me to do, daddy?"
"To come and live with me, my dear, if I am fortunate enough to get this house, where there will be rest; to share my home, as my daughter."
"As your daughter!" (Very, very softly spoken, musingly, wonderingly. The turning over of a new leaf, indeed, for her who had never known a father's love.) "Does he know of this-your friend?"
"It was he who suggested it when I spoke of you. He proposed it for my sake."
"It is kind of him; he must have a noble nature. But I don't know, daddy, I don't know!"
"Don't know what, my dear?"
"Whether you would be pleased with me-whether you would be as fond of me as you are now. Ah, you smile, but you might be mistaken in me. I like to have my own way, and I am ill-tempered when I don't. Then, you know, Some One must come and see me."
"If you say so, my dear," he humbly assented, "I can't object."
"I think he would like it," she mused; "he is fond of nice things and nice places."
"Tell me, Lizzie-I have never asked, but I may, because I am an old man-is Some One your sweetheart?"
"Couldn't you guess that, daddy?"
"Yes, my dear, but I wanted to be certain. Do you love him?"
Shyly, tenderly, archly she looked at the old man, and answered him with her eyes. They fell into silence for a little while after that, the mind of each being occupied.
"You don't remember your father, Lizzy?"
"No."
"Your mother?"
"No, I never saw her."
"Have you any other friends besides Some One?"
"Yes, there's Mary, and my best friend, my aunt. She has been very kind to me, and must come and see me too. Indeed, I must ask her permission, for she has been like a mother to me. Mother! ah, to have a good kind mother to love, and who loves you-what happiness! I have dreamt of it often-have wished that such a happiness was mine. But it never was, daddy-never, never was, and never, never can be!"
"Lizzie," he said timidly, "tell me something of your life before I knew you."
In their new relations towards each other she had seated herself at his feet. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes were towards the flowers in her breast. Graceful as the leaves of the flowers was this young girl; not more delicate was their colour than the colour in her face. The tender contact of this fresh young life was a new revelation to him, and he held his breath for fear he should awake and find that he was dreaming.
"Of my life!" she mused, speaking more to herself than to him. "What can I remember? How young was I as I see myself, in my first remembrance, playing with two other children in a field near the house in which I lived? Two years, or a little more. The house belonged to Mrs. Dimmock, and I did not know then that she was not my mother; but as I grew I learned-I don't know how; it wasn't told me, but the knowledge came-that the little girls I played with were not my sisters, although they were her children. Mrs. Dimmock was not a very kind woman, at least not to me. She would pet and fondle her own children, and I used to cry in secret because of it, and because she did not love me as she did them. My aunt came to see me often, and often brought me toys and sweets. If she had been my mother she could not have been kinder to me, but then of course I should have lived with her. She saw that I fretted because it wasn't the same with me as it was with the other children, and she tried in every way to make up for it; but she couldn't. What I wanted was a mother that I could love with all my heart, and who could love me with all hers-as Mrs. Dimmock loved her children, although she was harsh and unkind to me. My aunt did not know that she did not treat me well; I didn't tell her. When I grew up, I went to a day-school, and learnt other things besides reading and writing; I think it was in that way, trying to make me superior to other girls, that my aunt endeavoured to lessen any sorrow I may have felt. I can play the piano, daddy-you wouldn't have thought that, would you! Mrs. Dimmock was jealous, I could see, because I was learning more than her girls; and the girls, too, didn't like it. I think it was partly maliciousness on my part that made me proud to know more than they did; if they had been kind to me, I shouldn't have cared to triumph over them in that way. Well, everything went on so until I was fourteen years of age, when one day something occurred. I hadn't been expected home so soon; the street-door was open, and as I went into the passage I heard my aunt and Mrs. Dimmock speaking together, and from my aunt's voice I guessed that she was crying. 'I can't help your misfortunes,' Mrs. Dimmock said; 'I've got children of my own, and I must look after them first. I'm keeping the girl now for less than her food costs; she eats more than my two girls put together.' I knew that she meant me by 'the girl,' and I turned hot and cold, for I felt like a charity girl. Mrs. Dimmock spoke very spitefully, and I knew that she did so because I gave myself superior airs over her daughters. I daresay it was wrong of me to do so, but I couldn't help it, they were such mean things! One of them let a girl in school be beaten for something that she did, and I knew it. But we used to quarrel about all sorts of things, and of course Mrs. Dimmock always took their parts, so that you may guess, daddy, I was not very happy. I heard sufficient of the conversation between my aunt and Mrs. Dimmock to make me tingle all over. It served me right, for listeners never do hear any good of themselves; but it was as well I did hear, notwithstanding, as you will see presently. My aunt was in arrears for my board and lodging, and she was compelled to hear patiently-for my sake, I felt it! – all the hard things that Mrs. Dimmock said to her. 'I shall be able to pay you by and by,' my aunt said, O, so humbly! 'I can't afford to wait till by and by, ma'am,' Mrs. Dimmock answered, 'and I can't live on promises-they're like pie-crusts, made to be broken. It is a shame that such a big girl as her should be eating charity bread.' Just think, daddy, how I felt when I heard that! 'If she can't pay for her bread-and-butter, let her work for it, if she ain't too fine and proud. If she wants to live on charity, she must go somewhere else and get it; I can't afford to give it to her.' I think, daddy, that if I had been on fire, I. couldn't have run out of the house faster than I did. I had an idea at first of running clean away, but the thought of how kind my aunt had been to me prevented me. Instead of that, I watched for her, and saw her come out of the house and look anxiously about for me. She was always very pale, but her face was whiter than I had ever seen it before. She brightened up when she saw me, and I drew her a long way from the house before I would let her talk. When she began, how I pitied her! She couldn't get along at all, and would have gone away without telling me anything, if I hadn't said that I was in the passage and heard her and Mrs. Dimmock speaking together about me. She looked so frightened when I told her, that I was frightened myself; she was dreadfully anxious to know all that I had heard, and seemed to be relieved that I hadn't heard any more. I supposed that Mrs. Dimmock had been saying worse things of me than I had already heard, and I wasn't sorry that I went out of the house when I did. 'And so you are poor, aunty,' I said to her, 'and I have made you so!' 'No, my dear, no, Lizzie, no, my darling!' she said eagerly. 'You haven't made me so; I had enough, more than enough, and to spare, and I was putting by money for you, my dearest, and saving up for you. But like a foolish woman I put it into a bank, and they have robbed me and a thousand other poor creatures. The bankers were thieves, my darling, thieves! and there's no law to touch them, and I can't get my poor little bit of money out of their pockets! I thought I should have gone mad when I went yesterday, and found the place shut up; and it was no consolation to me to find others that had been robbed hanging about the great stone walls-for I thought: of you, darling, and I was too wretched to feel for others.' I tried to console her. 'Never mind, aunt,' I said; 'you have been very, very kind to me, and I shall never be able to pay you.' 'Yes, you can, my dearest,' she said, crying over me as I kissed her; 'you are paying me now, over and over again.' Then I said I wouldn't be a burden to her any longer, and that Mrs. Dimmock was right when she said that I ought to work for my living. My aunt cried more and more at this, and begged me not to think of it; but my mind was made up. What was to become of me by and by, I thought, unless I learnt to depend upon myself; and when Mrs. Dimmock the next day said that I ought to go into service, I determined to try and be something better than a servant. Well, I was very lucky, daddy. I set my wits to work, and I heard that a woman who kept a little milliner's shop wanted an apprentice. I went to her, and she was so pleased with me that she agreed to take me into the house, and keep me, and teach me the business. I was to be with her for four years, and I wasn't to have any wages during the whole time. I served my time faithfully, and my aunt gave me more than enough money to keep me in clothes. It pleased her to see me look nice, and I liked it myself, daddy; I like nice clothes and things! At the end of the four years, a friend in the same business, Mary-you've heard me speak of her often, daddy-proposed that we should live together; said that we could take one room, which would be enough for us, and that we could get enough work to keep us. There was something so delightful in the idea of being my own mistress, that I jumped for joy at the proposal, and without consulting my aunt I consented. We took a room very near here, daddy, and paid six shillings a week for it. All this was done very quickly, and then I wrote to my aunt to come and see me. She came, but took it so much to heart that I should make so serious a change in my life without consulting her, that I promised never to do anything of the sort again without asking her advice. We were very comfortable together that night, I remember, and she gave us our first order for two black dresses. So Mary and me jogged along. Although our living did not cost us much, we had to be very careful, as we could not earn a great deal of money. Sometimes trade was slack, and we were without work; but my aunt took care that I should always have a little money in my purse. She came to see me more often than she used to do when I was at Mrs. Dimmock's. I knew why. She was uneasy at the idea of two girls living together; thought we couldn't take care of ourselves. That's why, daddy, I think she would be glad to consent to my living in the pretty little house you spoke of. It is almost too good to be true, though. Is it really true?"