I.

It was a summer's evening, some two years or so previous to the events

told of in the last chapter, and the sun was setting in clouds of

crimson and gold. On the green lawn at the back of Rose Villa--a pretty

detached house, about twenty minutes' walk from the town of Lefford--sat

a lady in a gay dress. She was dark and plain, with crinkled black hair,

and a rough voice. A girl of twelve, fair, pretty, and not in the least

like her, sat on the same bench. Three younger girls were scampering

about at some noisy play; and a boy, the youngest of all, lay on the

grass, whistling, and knotting a whip-cord. The sun's slanting rays

tinted all with a warm hue.

"Get up, Dicky," said the lady to the boy.

Dicky, aged five, whistled on, without taking any notice.

"Did you hear mamma tell you to get up, Dicky?" spoke the fair girl by

her mother's side. "Get up, sir."

"Shan't," said Dicky.

"_You_ go in for me, Mina," said Mrs. Knox. "I want to know the time.

Arnold took my watch into town this morning to have the spring mended."

Mina seemed in no more hurry to obey than Dicky was. Just then a low

pony-chaise, driven by a boy-groom, rattled out from the stable-yard at

the side of the house. Mina looked across at it.

"It must be about a quarter-past eight," she said. "You told James not

to be later than that in going to the station."

"You might go and see," spoke Mrs. Knox: "James is not sure to be to

time. How _glad_ I shall be when that governess is here to take the

trouble of you children off me!" she added, fretfully. Mina did not take

the hint about going in: she made off to her sisters instead.

This house had once been a doctor's residence. Soon after Thomas

Knox, surgeon and apothecary, set up in practice at Lefford, now

five-and-twenty years ago, he married Mary Arnold. Rose Villa was hers,

and some money besides, and they came to live at it, Mr. Knox keeping on

his surgery in Lefford. They had one son, who was named Arnold. When

Arnold was ten years old, his mother died. A year later his father

married a second wife, Miss Amelia Carey: after which these five other

young ones came to town. Arnold was to be a doctor like his father. His

studies were in progress, when one morning a letter came to him in

London--where he was walking Bartholomew's Hospital under that clever

man, William Lawrence--saying that his father was alarmingly ill. Arnold

reached Lefford just in time to see him die. The little one, Dicky, was

a baby then in long-clothes. Arnold was only nineteen. No chance that he

could set up in, and keep together the practice, which fell through.

So he went back to London to study on, and pass, and what not; and

by-and-by he came down again Dr. Knox: for he had followed the fashion

just then getting common, of taking the M.D. degree. Arnold Knox had

his share of good plain sense, and of earnestness too; but example is

catching, and he only followed that of his fellow-students in going in

thus early for the degree. He arrived at Lefford "Dr. Knox." Mr. Tamlyn

laughed at him, before his face and behind his back, asking him what

experience he had had that he should hasten to tack on M.D. to his name:

why, not more experience than a country apothecary's apprentice. Arnold,

feeling half ashamed of himself, for he was very modest, pleaded the new

custom. Custom! returned old Tamlyn; in _his_ days medical men had

_worked_ for their honours before taking them. Arnold engaged himself as

assistant to Mr. Tamlyn, who had dropped into the best part of Dr.

Knox's practice since that gentleman's death, in addition to his own.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Knox, the widow, had continued to live at Rose Villa.

It belonged to Arnold, having descended to him in right of his mother.

Mr. Knox had bequeathed by will five hundred pounds to Arnold for the

completion of his studies; and all the rest of his money to his wife and

second family. Lefford talked of it resentfully, saying it was an unjust

will: for a good portion of the money had been Mary Arnold's and ought

to have gone to her son. It was about three hundred and fifty pounds

a-year in all; and Mrs. Knox bewailed and bemoaned her hard fate at

having to bring up her children upon so little. She was one of those who

_must_ spend; and her extravagance had kept her husband poor, in spite

of his good practice.

Never a hint did she offer her step-son of paying him rent for his

house; never a word of thanks did she tender for the use of it.

Arnold said nothing: he was thoroughly warm-hearted and generous,

considering every one before himself, and he would not have hurt her

feelings or cramped her pocket for the world. As long as he did not want

the house, she and his half-sisters and brother were welcome to it. When

he came back from London he naturally went to it; it was his home; and

Mrs. Knox did not at all like the addition he made to her housekeeping

expenses: which could not be very much amongst the nine others to

provide for. The very day after Arnold's bargain was made with Mr.

Tamlyn, she asked him how much he was going to pay her for his board.

Half his salary, Arnold promptly replied; seventy-five pounds a-year.

And Mrs. Knox would have liked to say it was not enough.

"Seventy-five pounds a-year!" cackled Lefford, when it got hold of the

news. "Why, it won't cost her half that. And she using his house and

enjoying all the money that was his poor mother's! Well, she has a

conscience, that Widow Knox!"

The arrangement had continued until now. Three years had elapsed since

then, and Arnold was four-and-twenty. Mrs. Knox found herself often in

money difficulties; when she would borrow from Arnold, and never think

of repaying him. She was now going to increase expenses by taking a

nursery-governess. Awfully tiresome those children were, and Mrs. Knox

said they wore her out. She should have managed the little brats better:

not indulged and neglected them by turns. One hour she'd let them

run wild, the next hour was shrieking at them in words next door to

swearing.

The governess engaged was a distant relative of her own, a Miss Janet

Carey. She was an orphan, and had for a year or two been teacher in a

boys' preparatory school, limited to thirty pupils. Mrs. Knox wrote to

offer her twelve pounds a-year and a "very comfortable home at Rose

Villa; to be as one of the family." It must have sounded tempting to

Miss Carey after the thirty little boys, and she gratefully accepted it.

Mrs. Knox had never seen her; she pictured to herself a tall, bony young

woman with weak eyes, for that had been the portrait of her second

cousin, Miss Carey's father.

"Crack! crack! Tally-ho! tally-ho!" shouted Dicky, who had completed his

whip, and got up to stamp and smack it. "Yo-ho! Tally-ho, tally-ho!"

"Oh, do for goodness' sake be quiet, Dick!" screamed Mrs. Knox. "I can't

have that noise now: I told you I had a headache. Do you hear me, then!

Mina, come and take away this horrible whip."

Mina came running at the call. Master Dicky was so much given way to as

a general rule, that to thwart him seemed to his sisters something

delightful. Dicky dodged out of harm's way amongst the shrubs; and

Mina was about to go after him, when some one came through the open

glass-doors of what was called the garden-room.

"Here's Arnold," she cried.

Dr. Knox was a tall, strongly built, fair man, looking older than his

four-and-twenty years. Nobody could help liking his thin face, for it

was a _good_ face, full of sense and thought, but it was not a handsome

one. His complexion was sallow, and his light hair had a habit of

standing up wild.

"You are home betimes," remarked Mrs. Knox.

"Yes; there was nothing more to do," he answered, sitting down in a

rustic garden-chair. "I met James in the pony-chaise: where's he gone?"

"Why, Arnold, don't you know that the governess is coming this evening?"

cried the second girl, Lotty, who was fanning her hot face with a

cabbage-leaf. "James has gone to the station for her."

"I forgot all about the governess," said Dr. Knox. "Lotty, what a heat

you are in!"

"We have been running races," said the child; "and the sun was blazing."

Dicky came tearing up. Something had happened to the whip.

"Look at it, Arnold," he said, throwing his arms and the whip on the

doctor's knees. "The lash won't stay on."

"And you want me to mend it, I suppose."

"Yes. Do it now."

"Is that the way to ask?"

"Please do it now, Arnold."

"If I can. But I fear I can't, Dicky."

"No! You can mend arms and legs."

"Sometimes. Have you a strip of leather? Or some twine?"

Dicky pulled a piece of string out of some unfathomable pocket. He was

not promoted to trousers yet, but wore white drawers reaching to the

knee and a purple velvet tunic. Dr. Knox took out his penknife.

"What's the matter with that young Tamlyn again?" asked Mrs. Knox in a

fretful tone.

"With Bertie?" returned Dr. Knox, rather carelessly, for he was intent

on the whip. "It is one of the old attacks."

"Of course! I knew it was nothing more," spoke Mrs Knox in resentment.

"There was to have been a party at Mrs. Green's this evening. Just as I

was ready to start for it, her footman came to say it was put off on

account of Miss Tamlyn, who could not come because Master Albert was

ill."

"Miss Tamlyn would not leave Bertie when he is ill for all the parties

in Christendom, mother."

"Miss Tamlyn is welcome to stay with him. But that's no reason why Mrs.

Green should have put the rest of us off. Who's Bessy Tamlyn, that she

should be considered before every one?--stupid old maid!"

Mrs. Knox pushed up her lace sleeves in wrath, and jingled her

bracelets. Evening parties made the solace of her life.

The wheels of the returning chaise were heard, and the children went

rushing round to the front of the house to look at the new governess.

They brought Janet Carey back to the lawn. Mrs. Knox saw a small, slight

young girl with a quiet, nice face and very simple manners. Dr. Knox

rose. Mrs. Knox did not rise. Expecting to see a kind of dark strong

giantess, she was struck with astonishment and remained sitting.

"You are surely not Matthew Carey's daughter?"

"Yes, madam, I am," was the young lady's answer, as a blush stole into

the clear, meek face.

"Dear me! I should never have thought it. Mat Carey was as tall and big

as a lamp-post. And--why!--you told me you were twenty-three!"

"I was twenty-three last March."

"Well, I trust you will be found competent to manage my children. I had

no idea you were so young-looking."

The tone expressed a huge doubt of it. The ill-trained youngsters stood

staring rudely into Miss Carey's face. Dr. Knox, pushing some of them

aside, held out his hand with a smile of welcome.

"I hope you will be able to feel at home here, Miss Carey," he said:

"the children must not be allowed to give you too much trouble. Have you

had a pleasant journey?"

"Take Miss Carey to her room, Mina," sharply struck in Mrs. Knox, not at

all pleased that her step-son should presume to say so much: as if

the house were his. And Mina, followed by the shy and shrinking young

governess, went indoors and up to the roof, and showed her a little

comfortless chamber there.

* * * * *

(But the reader must understand that in writing this paper, I, Johnny

Ludlow, am at a disadvantage. Not having been present myself at Lefford,

I can only relate at second hand what happened at Mrs. Knox's.)

* * * * *

The time went on. Janet Carey proved herself equal to her work: although

Mrs. Knox, judging by her young look and gentle manners, had been struck

by a doubt of her capacity, and politely expressed it aloud. Janet's

duties were something like the labours of Hercules: at least, as varied.

Teaching was only one of them. She helped to dress and undress the

children, or did it entirely if Sally the housemaid forgot to attend;

she kept all the wardrobes and mended the clothes and the socks. She had

to be in all places at once. Helping Mrs. Knox in the parlour, taking

messages to the kitchen, hearing the girls' lessons, and rushing out to

the field to see that Dicky was not worrying the pony or milking the cow

on his own account. It was not an orderly household; two maids were kept

and James. Mrs. Knox had no talent for management, and was frightfully

lazy besides; and Janet, little foreseeing what additional labour

she would bring on herself, took to remedy as far as she could the

shortcomings and confusion. Mrs. Knox saw her value, and actually

thanked her. As a reward, she made Janet her own attendant, her

secretary, and partly her housekeeper. Mrs. Knox's hair, coarse and

stiff, was rather difficult hair to manage; in the morning it was let go

anyhow, and Janet dressed it in the afternoon. Janet wrote Mrs. Knox's

letters; kept her accounts; paid the bills--paid them, that is, when she

could get the money. Janet, you perceive, was made Jack-of-all-trades at

Rose Villa. She was conscious that it was hardly fair, but she did it

cheerfully; and, as Mrs. Knox would say, it was all in the day's work.

The only one who showed consideration for Miss Carey was Dr. Knox. He

lectured the children about giving her so much unnecessary trouble: he

bribed Dicky with lozenges and liquorice from the surgery drawers not to

kick or spit at her; and he was, himself, ever kind and considerate to

her. They only met at dinner and tea, for Dr. Knox snatched a scrambling

breakfast (the servants never got it ready for him in time), and went

off betimes to Lefford. Now and then he would come home tolerably early

in the evening, but he had a great deal to do, and it did not happen

often. Mr. Tamlyn was the parish doctor, and it gave Dr. Knox an

incessant round of tramping: for the less pleasant division of the daily

professional work was turned over to him.

They got to have a fellow-feeling for one another--Janet and Dr. Knox--a

kind of mutual, inward sympathy. Both of them were overworked; in

the lot of each was less of comfort than might have been. Dr. Knox

compassionated Janet's hard place and the want of poetry in her life.

Janet felt hurt to see him made so little of at home, and she knew about

the house being his property, and the seventy-five pounds a-year he paid

for the liberty of living in it,--and she knew that most of the income

enjoyed by Mrs. Knox ought to have been Arnold's income. His breakfast

was scanty; a cup of coffee, taken standing, and some bread-and-butter,

hurriedly eaten. Or he would be off by cockcrow without chance of

breakfast, unless he cut a slice of bread in the pantry: or perhaps

would have to be out all night. Sometimes he would get home to dinner;

one o'clock; more often it was two o-clock, or half-past, or three.

In that case, Sally would bring in a plate of half-cold scraps for

him--anything that happened to be left. Once, when Janet was carving a

leg of mutton, she asked leave to cut off a slice or two that they might

be kept warm for the doctor; but Mrs. Knox blew her up--a fine trouble

_that_ would be! As to tea, the chances were, if he came in to it at

all, that the teapot would be drained: upon which, some lukewarm water

would be dashed in, and the loaf and butter put before him. Dr. Knox

took it all quietly: perhaps he saw how useless complaint would be.

Mr. Tamlyn's was a large, handsome, red-brick house, standing in a

beautiful garden, in the best and widest street of Lefford. The surgery,

built on the side of the house, consisted of two rooms: one containing

the drugs and the scales, and so on; the other where the better class of

patients waited. Mr. Tamlyn's wife was dead, and he had one son, who was

a cripple. Poor Bertie was thrown down by his nurse when he was a child;

he had hardly ever been out of pain since; sometimes the attacks were

very bad. It made him more cross and fractious than a stranger would

believe; rude, in fact, and self-willed. Mr. Tamlyn just worshipped

Bertie. He only lived to one end--that of making money for Bertie, after

he, himself, should be gone. Miss Bessy, Mr. Tamlyn's half-sister, kept

his house, and she was the only one who tried to keep down Bertie's

temper. Lefford thought it odd that Mr. Tamlyn did not raise Dr. Knox's

salary: but it was known he wanted to put by what he could for Bertie.

The afternoon sun streamed full on the surgery-window, and Dr. Knox, who

had just pelted back from dinner, stood behind the counter, making up

bottles of physic. Mr. Tamlyn had an apprentice, a young fellow named

Dockett, but he could not be trusted with the physic department yet, as

he was apt to serve out calomel powder for camomile flowers. Of the

three poor parish patients, waiting for their medicine, two sat and one

stood, as there was not a third chair. The doctor spoke very kindly to

them about their ailments; he always did that; but he did not seem well

himself, and often put his hand to his throat and chest.

The physic and the parish patients done with, he went into the other

room, and threw himself into the easy-chair. "I wonder what's the matter

with me?" he said to himself: and then he got up again, for Mr. Tamlyn

was coming in. He was a short man with a grey face, and iron grey hair.

"Arnold," said he, "I wish you'd take my round this afternoon. There are

only three or four people who need be seen, and the carriage is at the

door."

"Is Bertie worse than usual?" asked Arnold; who knew that every

impediment in Mr. Tamlyn's way was caused by Bertie.

"He is in a great deal of pain. I really don't care to leave him."

"Oh, I'll go with pleasure," replied Arnold, passing into the surgery to

get his hat.

Mr. Tamlyn walked with him across the flagged court to the gate, talking

of the sick people he was going to see. Arnold got into the brougham and

was driven away. When he returned, Mr. Tamlyn was upstairs in Bertie's

sitting-room. Arnold went there.

"Anything more come in?" he asked. "Or can the brougham be put up?"

"Dear me, yes; here's a note from Mrs. Stephenson," said Mr. Tamlyn,

replying to the first question. And he spoke testily: for Mrs.

Stephenson was a lady of seventy, who always insisted on his own

attendance, objecting to Dr. Knox on the score of his youth. "Well, you

must go for once, Arnold. If she grumbles, tell her I was out."

On a sofa in the room lay Albert Tamlyn; a lad of sixteen with a fretful

countenance and rumpled hair. Miss Tamlyn, a pleasant-looking lady of

thirty-five, sat by the sofa at work. Arnold Knox went up to the boy,

speaking with the utmost gentleness.

"Bertie, my boy, I am sorry you are in pain to-day."

"Who said I was in pain?" retorted Bertie, ungraciously, his voice as

squeaky as a penny trumpet.

"Why, Bertie, you know you are in great pain: it was I who told Dr. Knox

so," interposed the father.

"Then you had no business to tell him so," shrieked Bertie, with a

hideous grin of resentment. "What is it to him?--or to you?--or to

anybody?"

"Oh, Bertie, Bertie!" whispered Miss Tamlyn. "Oh, my boy, you should not

give way like this."

"You just give your tongue a holiday, Aunt Bessy," fired Bertie. "I

can't be bothered by you all in this way."

Dr. Knox, looking down at him, saw something wrong in the position he

was lying in. He stooped, lifted him quietly in his strong arms, and

altered it.

"There, Bertie, you will be better now."

"No, I'm not better, and why d'you interfere?" retorted Bertie in his

temper, and burst out crying. It was weary work, waiting on that lad;

the house had a daily benefit of it. He had always been given way to:

his whims were studied, his tempers went unreproved, and no patience was

taught him.

Dr. Knox drove to Mrs. Stephenson's. He dismissed the carriage when he

came out; for he had some patients to see on his own score amongst the

poor, and went on to them. They were at tea at Mr. Tamlyn's when he got

back. He looked very ill, and sat down at once.

"Are you tired, Arnold?" asked the surgeon.

"Not very; but I feel out of sorts. My throat is rather painful."

"What's the matter with it?"

"Not much, I dare say. A little ulcerated perhaps."

"I'll have a look at it presently. Bessy, give Dr. Knox a cup of tea."

"Thank you, I shall be glad of it," interposed the doctor. It was not

often he took a meal in the house, not liking to intrude on them. When

he went up this evening he had thought tea was over.

"We are later than usual," said Miss Tamlyn, in answer to some remark he

made. "Bertie dropped asleep."

Bertie was awake, and eating relays of bread-and-butter as he lay,

speaking to no one. The handsome sitting-rooms downstairs were nearly

deserted: Mr. Tamlyn could not bear even to take his meals away from

Bertie.

It was growing dusk when Dr. Knox went home. Mr. Tamlyn told him to take

a cooling draught and to go to bed early. Mrs. Knox was out for the

evening. Janet Carey sat at the old piano in the schoolroom, singing

songs to the children to keep them quiet. They were crowding round her,

and no one saw him enter the room.

Janet happened to be singing the very song she sang later to us that

night at Miss Deveen's--"Blow, blow, thou wintry wind." Although she had

now been at Rose Villa nearly a twelvemonth, for early summer had come

round again, Dr. Knox had never heard her sing. Mrs. Knox hated singing

altogether, and especially despised Janet's: it was only when Janet was

alone with the children that she ventured on it, hoping to keep them

still. Arnold Knox sat in utter silence; entranced; just as we were at

Miss Deveen's.

"You sing 'I've been roaming,' now," called out Dicky, before the song

was well over.

"No, not that thing," dissented Mina. "Sing 'Pray, Goody,' Janet." They

had long since called her by her Christian name.

The whole five (the other three taking sides), not being able to agree,

plunged at once into a hot dispute. Janet in vain tried to make peace by

saying she would sing both songs, one after the other: they did not

listen to her. In the midst of the noise, Sally looked in to say James

had caught a magpie; and the lot scampered off.

Janet Carey heaved a sad sigh, and passed her hand over her weary brow.

She had had a tiring day: there were times when she thought her duties

would get beyond her. Rising to follow the rebellious flock, she caught

sight of Dr. Knox, seated back in the wide old cane chair.

"Oh! I--I beg your pardon. I had no idea any one was here."

He came forward smiling; Janet had sat down again in her surprise.

"And though I am here? Why should you beg my pardon, Miss Carey?"

"For singing before you. I did not know--I am very sorry."

"Perhaps you fancy I don't like singing?"

"Mine is such poor singing, sir. And the songs are so old. I can't play:

I often only play to them with one hand."

"The singing is so poor--and the songs are so old, that I was going to

ask of you--to beg of you--to sing one of them again for me."

She stood glancing up at him with her nice eyes, as shy as could be,

uncertain whether he was mocking her.

"Do you know, Miss Carey, that I never ask a young lady for a song now.

I don't care to hear the new songs, they are so poor and frivolous: the

old ones are worth a king's ransom. _Won't_ you oblige me?"

"What shall I sing?"

"The one you have just sung. 'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.'"

He drew a chair close, and listened; and seemed lost in thought when it

was over. Janet could not conveniently get up without pushing the stool

against him, and so sat in silence.

"My mother used to sing that song," he said, looking up. "I can recall

her every note as well as though I had heard her yesterday. 'As friends

remembering not'! Ay: it's a harsh world--and it grows more harsh and

selfish day by day. I don't think it treats _you_ any too well, Miss

Carey."

"Me, sir?"

"Who remembers you?"

"Not many people. But I have never had any friends to speak of."

"Will you give me another song? The one I heard Mina ask you for--'Pray,

Goody.' My mother used to sing that also."

"I don't know whether I must stay. The children will be getting into

mischief."

"Never mind the children. I'll take the responsibility."

Janet sang the song. Before it was finished the flock came in again.

Dicky had tried to pull the magpie's feathers out, so James had let it

fly.

After this evening, it somehow happened that Dr. Knox often came home

early, although his throat was well again. He liked to make Miss Carey

sing; and to talk to her; and to linger in the garden with her and the

children in the twilight. Mrs. Knox was rarely at home, and had no idea

how sociable her step-son was becoming. Lefford and its neighbourhood

followed the unfashionable custom of giving early soirées: tea at six,

supper at nine, at home by eleven. James used to go for his mistress; on

dark nights he took a lighted lantern. Mrs. Knox would arrive at home,

her gown well pinned up, and innocent of any treasonable lingerings

out-of-doors or in. It was beyond Janet's power to get Mina and Lotty to

bed one minute before they chose to go: though her orders from Mrs. Knox

on the point were strict. As soon as their mother's step was heard they

would make a rush for the stairs. Janet had to follow them, as that

formed part of her duty: and by the time Mrs. Knox was indoors, the

rooms were free, and Arnold was shut up in his study with his medical

books and a skeleton.

For any treason that met the eye or the ear, Mrs. Knox might have

assisted at all the interviews. The children might have repeated every

word said to one another by the doctor and Janet, and welcome. The

talk was all legitimate: of their own individual, ordinary interests,

perhaps; of their lost parents; their past lives; the present daily

doings; or, as the Vicar of Wakefield has it, of pictures, taste,

Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. Dr. Knox never said such a thing

to her as, miss, I am in love with you; Janet was the essence of

respectful shyness, and called him sir.

One evening something or other caused one of the soirées to break up

midway, and Mrs. Knox came home by twilight in her pink gauze gown.

Instead of ringing at the front-door, she came round the garden to the

lawn, knowing quite well the elder children were not gone to bed, and

would probably be in the garden-room. Very softly went she, intending to

surprise them. The moon shone full on the glass-doors.

The doors were shut. And she could see no children. Only Janet Carey

sitting at the piano, and Dr. Knox sitting close by her, his eyes

resting on her face, and an unmistakable look of--say friendship--in

them. Mrs. Knox took in the whole scene by the light of the one candle

standing on the table.

She let go the pink skirt and burst open the doors. Imagination is apt

to conjure up skeletons of the future; a whole army of skeletons rushed

into hers, any one of them ten times more ugly than that real skeleton

in the doctor's study. A vision of his marrying Janet and taking

possession of the house, and wanting all his money for himself instead

of paying the family bills with it, was the worst.

Before a great and real dread, passion has to be silent. Mrs. Knox felt

that she should very much like to buffet both of them with hands and

tongue: but policy restrained her.

"Where are the children?" she began, as snappish as a fox; but that was

only usual.

Janet had turned round on the music-stool; her meek hands dropping on

her lap, her face turning all the colours of the rainbow. Dr. Knox just

sat back in his chair and carelessly hummed to himself the tune Janet

had been singing.

"Mina and Lotty are at Mrs. Hampshire's, ma'am," answered Janet. "She

came to fetch them just after you left, and said I might send in for

them at half-past nine. The little ones are in bed."

"Oh," said Mrs. Knox. "It's rather early for you to be at home; is it

not, Arnold?"

"Not particularly, I think. My time for coming home is always uncertain,

you know."

He rose, and went to his room as he spoke. Janet got out the basket of

stockings; and Mrs. Knox sat buried in a brown study.

After this evening things grew bad for Miss Carey. Mrs. Knox watched.

She noted her step-son's manner to Janet, and saw that he liked her ever

so much more than was expedient. What to do, or how to stop it, she did

not know, and was at her wits' end. To begin with, there was nothing to

stop. Had she put together a whole week's looks and words of Arnold's,

directed to Janet, she could not have squeezed one decent iota of

complaint out of the whole. Neither dared she risk offending Arnold.

What with the perpetual soirées out, and the general daily improvidence

at home, Mrs. Knox was never in funds, and Arnold found oceans of

household bills coming in to him. Tradesmen were beginning, as a rule

now, to address their accounts to Dr. Knox. Arnold paid them; he was

good-natured, and sensitively averse to complaining to his step-mother;

but he thought it was hardly fair. What on earth she did with her income

he could not imagine: rather than live in this chronic state of begging,

she might have laid down the pony-carriage.

Not being able to attack the doctor, Mrs. Knox vented all her venom on

Miss Carey. Janet was the dray horse of the family, and therefore could

not be turned away: she was too useful to Mrs. Knox to be parted with.

Real venom it was; and hard to be borne. Her work grew harder, and she

was snubbed from morning till night. The children's insolence to her was

not reproved; Mina took to ordering her about. Weary and heart-sick grew

she: her life was no better than Cinderella's: the only ray of comfort

in it being the rare snatches of intercourse with Dr. Knox. He was like

a true friend to her, and ever kind. He might have been kinder had

he known what sort of a life she really led. But Mrs. Knox was a

diplomatist, and the young fry did not dare to worry people very much,

or to call names before their big brother Arnold.