in words even more gracious and alluring, 'but fifteen shillings is so very
little for board and lodging.'

'Oh, don't let _that_ trouble you, dear Miss Shepperson,' cried the other
gaily. 'In a family, so little difference is made by an extra person. I
assure you it is a perfectly businesslike arrangement; otherwise my
husband, who is prudence itself, would never have sanctioned it. As you
know, we are suffering a temporary embarrassment. I wrote to you yesterday
before my husband's return from business. When he came home, I learnt, to
my dismay, that it might be rather _more_ than a month before he was able
to send you a cheque. I said: "Oh, I must write again to Miss Shepperson. I
can't bear to think of misleading her." Then, as we talked, that idea came
to me. As I think you will believe, Miss Shepperson, I am not a scheming or
a selfish woman; never, never have I wronged any one in my life. This
proposal, I cannot help feeling, is as much for your benefit as for ours.
Doesn't it really seem so to you? Suppose you come up with me and look at
the room. It is not in perfect order, but you will see whether it pleases
you.

Curiosity allying itself with the allurement which had begun to work upon
her feelings, Miss Shepperson timidly rose and followed her smiling guide
upstairs. The little spare room on the second floor was furnished simply
enough, but made such a contrast with the bedchamber in the Acton
lodging-house that the visitor could scarcely repress an exclamation. Mrs.
Rymer was voluble with promise of added comforts. She interested herself in
Miss Shepperson's health, and learnt with the utmost satisfaction that it
seldom gave trouble. She inquired as to Miss Shepperson's likings in the
matter of diet, and strongly approved her preference for a plain, nutritive
regimen. From the spare room the visitor was taken into all the others, and
before they went downstairs again Mrs. Rymer had begun to talk as though
the matter were decided.

'You will stay and have lunch with me,' she said. 'Oh yes, indeed you will;
I can't dream of your going out into this weather till after lunch. Suppose
we have the tots into the drawing-room again? I want them to make friends
with you at once. I _know_ you love children.--Oh, I have known that for a
long time!'

Miss Shepperson stayed to lunch. She stayed to tea. When at length she took
her leave, about six o'clock, the arrangement was complete in every detail.
On this day week she would transfer herself to the Rymers' house, and enter
upon her new life.

She arrived on Saturday afternoon, and was received by the assembled family
like a very dear friend or relative. Mr. Rymer, a well-dressed man, polite,
good-natured, with a frequent falsetto laugh, talked over the teacups in
the pleasantest way imaginable, not only putting Miss Shepperson at ease,
but making her feel as if her position as a member of the household were
the most natural thing in the world. His mere pronunciation of her name
gave it a dignity, an importance quite new to Miss Shepperson's ears. He
had a way of shaping his remarks so as to make it appear that the homely,
timid woman was, if anything, rather the superior in rank and education,
and that their simple ways might now and then cause her amusement. Even the
children seemed to do their best to make the newcomer feel at home. Cissy,
whose age was nine, assiduously handed toast and cake with a most engaging
smile, and little Minnie, not quite six, deposited her kitten in Miss
Shepperson's lap, saying prettily, 'You may stroke it whenever you like.'

Miss Shepperson, to be sure, had personal qualities which could not but
appeal to people of discernment. Her plain features expressed a simplicity
and gentleness which more than compensated for the lack of conventional
grace in her manners; she spoke softly and with obvious frankness, nor was
there much fault to find with her phrasing and accent; dressed a little
more elegantly, she would in no way have jarred with the tone of average
middle-class society. If she had not much education, she was altogether
free from pretence, and the possession of property (which always works very
decidedly for good or for evil) saved her from that excess of deference
which would have accentuated her social shortcomings. Undistinguished as
she might seem at the first glance, Miss Shepperson could not altogether be
slighted by any one who had been in her presence for a few minutes. And
when, in the course of the evening, she found courage to converse more
freely, giving her views, for instance, on the great servant question, and
on other matters of domestic interest, it became clear to Mr. and Mrs.
Rymer that their landlady, though a soft-hearted and simple-minded woman,
was by no means to be regarded as a person of no account.

The servant question was to the front just now, as Mrs. Rymer explained in
detail. She, 'of course,' kept two domestics, but was temporarily making
shift with only one, it being so difficult to replace the cook, who had
left a week ago. Did Miss Shepperson know of a cook, a sensible,
trustworthy woman? For the present Mrs. Rymer--she confessed it with a
pleasant little laugh--had to give an eye to the dinner herself.

'I only hope you won't make yourself ill, dear,' said Mr. Rymer, bending
towards his wife with a look of well-bred solicitude. 'Miss Shepperson, I
beg you to insist that she lies down a little every afternoon. She has
great nervous energy, but isn't really very strong. You can't think what a
relief it will be to me all day to know that some one is with her.'

On Sunday morning all went to church together; for, to Mrs. Rymer's great
satisfaction, Miss Shepperson was a member of the orthodox community, and
particular about observances. Meals were reduced to the simplest terms; a
restful quiet prevailed in the little house; in the afternoon, while Mrs.
Rymer reposed, Miss Shepperson read to the children. She it was who--the
servant being out--prepared tea. After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Rymer, with many
apologies, left the home together for a couple of hours, being absolutely
obliged to pay a call at some distance, and Miss Shepperson again took care
of the children till the domestic returned.

After breakfast the next day--it was a very plain meal, merely a rasher and
dry toast--the lady of the house chatted with her friend more
confidentially than ever. Their servant, she said, a good girl but not very
robust, naturally could not do all the work of the house, and, by way of
helping, Mrs. Rymer was accustomed to 'see to' her own bedroom.

'It's really no hardship,' she said, in her graceful, sweet-tempered way,
'when once you're used to it; in fact, I think the exercise is good for my
health. But, of course, I couldn't think of asking _you_ to do the same. No
doubt you will like to have a breath of air, as the sky seems clearing.'

What could Miss Shepperson do but protest that to put her own room in order
was such a trifling matter that they need not speak of it another moment.
Mrs. Rymer was confused, vexed, and wished she had not said a word; but the
other made a joke of these scruples.

'When do the children go out?' asked Miss Shepperson. 'Do you take them
yourself?'

'Oh, always! almost always! I shall go out with them for an hour at eleven.
And yet'--she checked herself, with a look of worry--'oh, dear me! I must
absolutely go shopping, and I do so dislike to take the tots in that
direction. Never mind; the walk must be put off till the afternoon. It
_may_ rain; but--'

Miss Shepperson straightway offered her services; she would either shop or
go out with the children, whichever Mrs. Rymer preferred. The lady thought
she had better do the shopping--so her friend's morning was pleasantly
arranged. In a day or two things got into a happy routine. Miss Shepperson
practically became nursemaid, with the privilege of keeping her own bedroom
in order and of helping in a good many little ways throughout the domestic
day. A fortnight elapsed, and Mrs. Rymer was still unable to 'suit herself'
with a cook, though she had visited, or professed to visit, many
registry-offices and corresponded with many friends. A week after that the
subject of the cook had somehow fallen into forgetfulness; and, indeed, a
less charitably disposed observer than Miss Shepperson might have doubted
whether Mrs. Rymer had ever seriously meant to engage one at all. The food
served on the family table was of the plainest, and not always
superabundant in quantity; but the table itself was tastefully ordered,
and, indeed, no sort of carelessness appeared in any detail of the
household life. Mrs. Rymer was always busy, and without fuss, without
irritation. She had a large correspondence; but it was not often that
people called. No guest was ever invited to lunch or dinner. All this while
the master of the house kept regular hours, leaving home at nine and
returning at seven; if he went out after dinner, which happened rarely, he
was always back by eleven o'clock. No more respectable man than Mr. Rymer;
none more even-tempered, more easily pleased, more consistently polite and
amiable. That he and his wife were very fond of each other appeared in all
their talk and behaviour; both worshipped the children, and, in spite of
that, trained them with a considerable measure of good sense. In the
evenings Mr. Rymer sometimes read aloud, or he would talk instructively of
the affairs of the day. The more Miss Shepperson saw of her friends the
more she liked them. Never had she been the subject of so much kind
attention, and in no company had she ever felt so happily at ease.

Time went on, and it was near midsummer. Of late Mrs. Rymer had not been
very well, and once or twice Miss Shepperson fancied that her eyes showed
traces of tears; it was but natural that the guest, often preoccupied with
the thought of the promised settlement, should feel a little uneasy. On
June 23 Mrs. Rymer chose a suitable moment, and with her most confidential
air, invited Miss Shepperson to an intimate chat.

'I want to explain to you,' she said, rather cheerfully than otherwise,
'the exact state of our affairs. I'm sure it will interest you. We have
become such good friends--as I knew we should. I shall be much easier in
mind when you know exactly how we stand.'

Thereupon she spoke of a certain kinsman of her husband, an old and infirm
man, whose decease was expected, if not from day to day, at all events from
week to week. The event would have great importance for them, as Mr. Rymer
was entitled to the reversion of several thousands of pounds, held in use
by his lingering relative.

'Now let me ask you a question,' pursued the lady in friendship's
undertone. 'My husband is _quite_ prepared to settle with you to-morrow. He
wishes to do so, for he feels that your patience has been most exemplary.
But, as we spoke of it last night, an idea came to me. I can't help
thinking it was a happy idea, but I wish to know how it strikes you. On
receiving the sum due to you, you will no doubt place it in a bank, or in
some way invest it. Suppose, now, you leave the money in Mr. Rymer's hands,
receiving his acknowledgment, and allowing him to pay it, with four per
cent, interest, when he enters into possession of his capital? Mind, I only
suggest this; not for a moment would I put pressure upon you. If you have
need of the money, it shall be paid _at once._ But it struck me that,
knowing us so well now, you might even be glad of such an investment as
this. The event to which we are looking forward may happen very soon; but
it _may_ be delayed. How would you like to leave this money, and the sums
to which you will be entitled under our arrangements, from quarter to
quarter, to increase at compound interest? Let us make a little
calculation--'

Miss Shepperson listened nervously. She was on the point of saying that, on
the whole, she preferred immediate payment; but while she struggled with
her moral weakness Mrs. Rymer, anxiously reading her face, struck another
note.

'I mustn't disguise from you that the money, though such a small sum, would
be useful to my husband. Poor fellow! he has been fighting against
adversity for the last year or two, and I'm sure no man ever struggled more
bravely. You would never think, would you? that he is often kept awake all
night by his anxieties. As I tell him, he need not really be anxious at
all, for his troubles will so soon come to an end. But there is no more
honourable man living, and he worries at the thought of owing money--you
can't imagine how he worries! Then, to tell you a great secret--'

A change came upon the speaker's face; her voice softened to a whisper as
she communicated a piece of delicate domestic news.

'My poor husband,' she added, 'cannot bear to think that, when it happens,
we may be in really straitened circumstances, and I may suffer for lack of
comforts. To tell you the whole truth, dear Miss Shepperson, I have no
doubt that, if you like my idea, he would at once put aside that money to
be ready for an emergency. So, you see, it is self-interest in me, after
all.' Her smile was very sweet. 'But don't judge me too severely. What I
propose is, as you see, really a very good investment--is it not?'

Miss Shepperson found it impossible to speak as she wished, and before the
conversation came to an end she saw the matter entirely from her friend's
point of view. She had, in truth, no immediate need of money, and the more
she thought of it, the more content she was to do a kindness to the Rymers,
while at the same time benefiting herself. That very evening Mr. Rymer
prepared a legal document, promising to pay on demand the sum which became
due to Miss Shepperson to-morrow, with compound interest at the rate of
four per cent. While signing this, he gravely expressed his conviction that
before Michaelmas the time for payment would have arrived.

'But if it were next week,' he added, with a polite movement towards his
creditor, 'I should be not a bit the less grateful to our most kind
friend.'

'Oh, but it's purely a matter of business,' said Miss Shepperson, who was
always abashed by such expressions.

'To be sure,' murmured Mrs. Rymer. 'Let us look at it in that light. But it
shan't prevent us from calling Miss Shepperson our dearest friend.'

The homely woman blushed and felt happy.

Towards the end of autumn, when the domestic crisis was very near, the
servant declared herself ill, and at twenty-four hours' notice quitted the
house. As a matter of fact, she had received no wages for several months;
the kindness with which she was otherwise treated had kept her at her post
thus long, but she feared the increase of work impending, and preferred to
go off unpaid. Now for the first time did Mrs. Rymer's nerves give way.
Miss Shepperson found her sobbing by the fireside, the two children
lamenting at such an unwonted spectacle. Where was a new servant to be
found? In a day or two the monthly nurse would be here, and must, of
course, be waited upon. And what was to become of the children? Miss
Shepperson, moved by the calamitous situation, entreated her friend to
leave everything to her. She would find a servant somehow, and meanwhile
would keep the house going with her own hands. Mrs. Rymer sobbed that she
was ashamed to allow such a thing; but the other, braced by a crisis,
displayed wonderful activity and resource. For two days Miss Shepperson did
all the domestic labour; then a maid, of the species known as 'general,'
presented herself, and none too soon, for that same night there was born to
the Rymers a third daughter. But troubles were by no means over. While Mrs.
Rymer was ill--very ill indeed--the new handmaid exhibited a character so
eccentric that, after nearly setting fire to the house while in a state of
intoxication, she had to be got rid of as speedily as possible. Miss
Shepperson resolved that, for the present, there should be no repetition of
such disagreeable things. She quietly told Mr. Rymer that she felt quite
able to grapple with the situation herself.

'Impossible!' cried the master of the house, who, after many sleepless
nights and distracted days, had a haggard, unshorn face, scarcely to be
recognised. 'I cannot permit it! I will go myself'

Then, suddenly turning again to Miss Shepperson, he grasped her hand,
called her his dear friend and benefactress, and with breaking voice
whispered to her--

'I will help you. I can do the hard work. It's only for a day or two.'

Late that evening he and Miss Shepperson were in the kitchen together: the
one was washing crockery, the other, who had been filling coal-scuttles,
stood with dirty hands and melancholy visage, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Their looks met; Mr. Rymer took a step forward, smiling with confidential
sadness.

'I feel that I ought to speak frankly,' he said, in a voice as polite and
well-tuned as ever. 'I should like to make known to you the exact state of
my affairs.'

'Oh, but Mrs. Rymer has told me everything,' replied Miss Shepperson, as
she dried a tea-cup.

'No; not quite everything, I'm afraid.' He had a shovel in his hand, and
eyed it curiously. 'She has not told you that I am considerably in debt to
various people, and that, not long ago, I was obliged to raise money on our
furniture.'

Miss Shepperson laid down the tea-cup and gazed anxiously at him, whereupon
he began a detailed story of his misfortunes in business. Mr. Rymer was a
commission-agent--that is to say, he was everything and nothing. Struggle
with pecuniary embarrassment was his normal condition, but only during the
last twelvemonth had he fallen under persistent ill-luck and come to all
but the very end of his resources. It would still be possible for him, he
explained, to raise money on the reversion for which he was waiting, but of
such a step he could not dream.

'It would be dishonesty, Miss Shepperson, and, how unfortunate, I have
never yet lost my honour. People have trusted me, knowing that I am an
honest man. I belong to a good family--as, no doubt, Mrs. Rymer has told
you. A brother of mine holds a respected position in Birmingham, and, if
the worst comes to the worst, he will find me employment. But, as you can
well understand, I shrink from that extremity. For one thing, I am in debt
to my brother, and I am resolved to pay what I owe him before asking for
any more assistance. I do not lose courage. You know the proverb: "Lose
heart, lose all." I am blest with an admirable wife, who stands by me and
supports me under every trial. If my wife were to die, Miss Shepperson--'
He faltered; his eyes glistened in the gas 'But no, I won't encourage
gloomy fears. She is a little better to-day, they tell me. We shall come
out of our troubles, and laugh over them by our cheerful fireside--you with
us--you, our dearest and staunchest friend.'

'Yes, we must hope,' said Miss Shepperson, reassured once more as to her
own interests; for a moment her heart had sunk very low indeed. 'We are all
doing our best.'

'You above all,' said Mr. Rymer, pressing her hand with his coal-blackened
fingers. 'I felt obliged to speak frankly, because you must have thought it
strange that I allowed things to get so disorderly--our domestic
arrangements, I mean. The fact is, Miss Shepperson, I simply don't know how
I am going to meet the expenses of this illness, and I dread the thought of
engaging servants. I cannot--I will not--raise money on my expectations!
When the money comes to me, I must be able to pay all my debts, and have
enough left to recommence life with. Don't you approve this resolution,
Miss Shepperson?'

'Oh yes, indeed I do,' replied the listener heartily.

'And yet, of course,' he pursued, his eyes wandering, 'we _must_ have a
servant--'

Miss Shepperson reflected, she too with an uneasy look on her face. There
was a long silence, broken by a deep sigh from Mr. Rymer, a sigh which was
almost a sob. The other went on drying her plates and dishes, and said at
length that perhaps they might manage with quite a young girl, who would
come for small wages; she herself was willing to help as much as she
could--

'Oh, you shame me, you shame me!' broke in Mr. Rymer, laying a hand on his
forehead, and leaving a black mark there. 'There is no end to your
kindness; but I feel it as a disgrace to us--to me--that you, a
lady of property, should be working here like a servant. It is
monstrous--monstrous!'

At the flattering description of herself Miss Shepperson smiled; her soft
eyes beamed with the light of contentment.

'Don't you give a thought to that, Mr. Rymer,' she exclaimed. 'Why, it's a
pleasure to me, and it gives me something to do--it's good for my health.
Don't you worry. Think about your business, and leave me to look after the
house. It'll be all right.'

A week later Mrs. Rymer was in the way of recovery, and her husband went to
the City as usual. A servant had been engaged--a girl of sixteen, who knew
as much of housework as London girls of sixteen generally do; at all
events, she could carry coals and wash steps. But the mistress of the
house, it was evident, would for a long time be unable to do anything
whatever; the real maid-of-all-work was Miss Shepperson, who rose every
morning at six o'clock, and toiled in one way or another till weary
bedtime. If she left the house, it was to do needful shopping or to take
the children for a walk. Her reward was the admiration and gratitude of the
family; even little Minnie had been taught to say, at frequent intervals:
'I love Miss Shepperson because she is good!' The invalid behaved to her as
to a sister, and kissed her cheek morning and evening. Miss Shepperson's
name being Dora, the baby was to be so called, and, as a matter of course,
the godmother drew a sovereign from her small savings to buy little Miss
Dora a christening present. It would not have been easy to find a house in
London in which there reigned so delightful a spirit of harmony and
kindliness.

'I was so glad,' said Mrs. Rymer one day to her friend, the day on which
she first rose from bed, 'that my husband took you into his confidence
about our affairs. Now you know everything, and it is much better. You know
that we are very unlucky, but that no one can breathe a word against our
honour. This was the thought that held me up through my illness. In a very
short time all our debts will be paid--every farthing, and it will be
delightful to remember how we struggled, and what we endured, to keep an
honest name. Though,' she added tenderly, 'how we should have done without
_you_, I really cannot imagine. We might have sunk--gone down!'

For months Mrs. Rymer led the life of a feeble convalescent. She ought to
have had change of air, but that was out of the question, for Mr. Rymer's
business was as unremunerative as ever, and with difficulty he provided the
household with food. One gleam of light kept up the courage of the family:
the aged relative was known to be so infirm that he could only leave the
house in a bath-chair; every day there might be news even yet more
promising. Meanwhile, the girl of sixteen exercised her incompetence in the
meaner departments of domestic life, and Miss Shepperson did all the work
that required care or common-sense, the duties of nursemaid alone taking a
great deal of her time. On the whole, this employment seemed to suit her;
she had a look of improved health, enjoyed more equable spirits, and in her
manner showed more self-confidence. Once a month she succeeded in getting a
few hours' holiday, and paid a visit to one or the other of her sisters;
but to neither of them did she tell the truth regarding her position in the
house at Hammersmith. Now and then, when every one else under the roof was
asleep, she took from a locked drawer in her bedroom a little account-book,
and busied herself with figures. This she found an enjoyable moment; it was
very pleasant indeed to make the computation of what the Rymers owed to
her, a daily-growing debt of which the payment could not now be long
delayed. She did not feel quite sure with regard to the interest, but the
principal of the debt was very easily reckoned, and it would make a nice
little sum to put by. Certainly Miss Shepperson was not unhappy.

Mrs. Rymer was just able to resume her normal habits, to write many
letters, teach her children, pay visits in distant parts of London--the
care of the baby being still chiefly left to Miss Shepperson--when, on a
pleasant day of spring, a little before lunch-time, Mr. Rymer rushed into
the house, calling in an agitated voice his wife's name. Miss Shepperson
was the only person at home, for Mrs. Rymer had gone out with the children,
the servant accompanying her to wheel baby's perambulator; she ran up from
the kitchen, aproned, with sleeves rolled to the elbow, and met the excited
man as he descended from a vain search in the bedrooms.

'Has it happened?' she cried--for it seemed to her that there could be only
one explanation of Mr. Rymer's behaviour.

'Yes! He died this morning--this morning!'

They clasped hands; then, as an afterthought, their eyes fell, and they
stood limply embarrassed.

'It seems shocking to take the news in this way,' murmured Mr. Rymer; 'but
the relief; oh, the relief! And then, I scarcely knew him; we haven't seen
each other for years. I can't help it! I feel as if I had thrown off a load
of tons! Where is Adelaide? Which way have they gone?'

He rushed out again, to meet his wife. For several minutes Miss Shepperson
stood motionless, in a happy daze, until she suddenly remembered that chops
were at the kitchen fire, and sped downstairs.

Throughout that day, and, indeed, for several days to come, Mrs. Rymer
behaved very properly indeed; her pleasant, refined face wore a becoming
gravity, and when she spoke of the deceased she called him _poor_ Mr.
So-and-so. She did not attend the funeral, for baby happened to be ailing,
but Mr. Rymer, of course, went. He, in spite of conscientious effort to
imitate his wife's decorum, frequently betrayed the joy which was in his
mind; Miss Shepperson heard him singing as he got up in the morning, and
noticed that he ate with unusual appetite. The house brightened. Before the
end of a week smiles and cheerful remarks ruled in the family; sorrows were
forgotten, and everybody looked forward to the great day of settlement.

It did not come quickly. In two months' time Mr. Rymer still waited upon
the pleasure of the executors. But he was not inactive. His brother at
Birmingham had suggested 'an opening' in that city (thus did Mrs. Rymer
phrase it), and the commission-agent had decided to leave London as soon as
his affairs were in order. Towards the end of the third month the family
was suffering from hope deferred. Mr. Rymer had once more a troubled face,
and his wife no longer talked to Miss Shepperson in happy strain of her
projects for the future. At length notice arrived that the executors were
prepared to settle with Mr. Rymer; yet, in announcing the fact, he
manifested only a sober contentment, while Mrs. Rymer was heard to sigh.
Miss Shepperson noted these things, and wondered a little, but Mrs. Rymer's
smiling assurance that now at last all was well revived her cheerful
expectations.

With a certain solemnity she was summoned, a day or two later, to a morning
colloquy in the drawing-room. Mr. Rymer sat in an easy-chair, holding a
bundle of papers; Mrs. Rymer sat on the sofa, the dozing baby on her lap;
over against them their friend took her seat. With a little cough and a
rustle of his papers, the polite man began to speak--

'Miss Shepperson, the day has come when I am able to discharge my debt to
you. You will not misunderstand that expression--I speak of my debt in
money. What I owe to you--what we all owe to you--in another and a higher
sense, can never be repaid. That moral debt must still go on, and be
acknowledged by the unfailing gratitude of a lifetime.'

'Of a lifetime,' repeated Mrs. Rymer, sweetly murmuring, and casting
towards her friend an eloquent glance.

'Here, however,' resumed her husband, 'is the pecuniary account. Will you
do me the kindness, Miss Shepperson, to glance it over and see if you find
it correct?'

Miss Shepperson took the paper, which was covered with a very neat array of
figures. It was the same calculation which she herself had so often made,
but with interest on the money due to her correctly computed. The weekly
sum of fifteen shillings for board and lodging had been deducted,
throughout the whole time, from the rent due to her as landlady. Mr. Rymer
stood her debtor for not quite thirty pounds.

'It's _quite_ correct,' said Miss Shepperson, handing back the paper with a
pleased smile.

Mr. Rymer turned to his wife.

'And what do _you_ say, dear? Do _you_ think it correct?'

Mrs. Rymer shook her head.

'No,' she answered gently, 'indeed I do not.'

Miss Shepperson was startled. She looked from one to the other, and saw on
their faces only the kindliest expression.

'I really thought it came to about that,' fell from her lips. 'I couldn't
quite reckon the interest--'

'Miss Shepperson,' said Mr. Rymer impressively, 'do you really think that
we should allow you to pay us for your board and lodging--you, our valued
friend--you, who have toiled for us, who have saved us from endless trouble
and embarrassment? That indeed would be a little too shameless. This
account is a mere joke--as I hope you really thought it. I insist on giving
you a cheque for the total amount of the rent due to you from the day when
you first entered this house.'

'Oh, Mr. Rymer!' panted the good woman, turning pale with astonishment.

'Why, of course!' exclaimed Mrs. Rymer. 'Do you think it would be
_possible_ for us to behave in any other way? Surely you know us too well,
dear Miss Shepperson!'

'How kind you are!' faltered their friend, unable to decide in herself
whether she should accept this generosity or not--sorely tempted by the
money, yet longing to show no less generous a spirit on her own side. 'I
really don't know--'

Mr. Rymer imposed silence with a wave of the hand, and began talking in a
slow, grave way.

'Miss Shepperson, to-day I may account myself a happy man. Listen to a very
singular story. You know that I was indebted to others besides you. I have
communicated with all those persons; I have drawn up a schedule of
everything I owe; and--extraordinary coincidence!--the sum-total of my
debts is exactly that of the reversion upon which I have entered, _minus_
three pounds fourteen shillings.'

'Strange!' murmured Mrs. Rymer, as if delightedly.

'I did not know, Miss Shepperson, that I owed so much. I had forgotten
items. And suppose, after all, the total had _exceeded_ my resources! That
indeed would have been a blow. As it is, I am a happy man; my wife is
happy. We pay our debts to the last farthing, and we begin the world
again--with three pounds to the good. Our furniture must go; I cannot
redeem it; no matter. I owe nothing; our honour is saved!'

Miss Shepperson was aghast.

'But, Mrs. Rymer,' she began, 'this is dreadful! What are you going to do?'

'Everything is arranged, dear friend,' Mrs. Rymer replied. 'My husband has
a little post in Birmingham, which will bring him in just enough to support
us in the most modest lodgings. We cannot hope to have a house of our own,
for we are determined never again to borrow--and, indeed, I do not know who
would lend to us. We are poor people, and must live as poor people do. Miss
Shepperson, I ask one favour of you. Will you permit us to leave your house
without the customary notice? We should feel very grateful. To-day I pay
Susan, and part with her; to-morrow we must travel to Birmingham. The
furniture will be removed by the people who take possession of it--'

Miss Shepperson was listening with a bewildered look. She saw Mr. Rymer
stand up.

'I will now,' he said, 'pay you the rent from the day--'

'Oh, Mr. Rymer!' cried the agitated woman. 'How _can_ I take it? How can I
leave you penniless? I should feel it a downright robbery, that I should!'

'Miss Shepperson,' exclaimed Mrs. Rymer in soft reproach, 'don't you
understand how much better it is to pay all we owe, even though it does
leave us penniless? Why, even darling baby'--she kissed it--'would say so
if she could speak, poor little mite. Of course you will accept the money;
I insist upon it. You won't forget us. We will send you our address, and
you shall hear of your little godchild--'

Her voice broke; she sobbed, and rebuked herself for weakness, and sobbed
again. Meanwhile Mr. Rymer stood holding out banknotes and gold. The
distracted Miss Shepperson made a wild gesture.

'How _can_ I take it? How _can_ I? I should be ashamed the longest day I
lived!'

'I must insist,' said Mr. Rymer firmly; and his wife, calm again, echoed
the words. In that moment Miss Shepperson clutched at the notes and gold,
and, with a quick step forward, took hold of the baby's hand, making the
little fingers close upon the money.

'There! I give it to little Dora--there!'

Mr. Rymer turned away to hide his emotion. Mrs. Rymer laid baby down on the
sofa, and clasped Miss Shepperson in her arms.

*       *       *       *       *

A few days later the house at Hammersmith was vacant. The Rymers wrote from
Birmingham that they had found sufficient, though humble, lodgings, and
were looking for a tiny house, which they would furnish very, very simply
with the money given to baby by their ever dear friend. It may be added
that they had told the truth regarding their position--save as to one
detail: Mr. Rymer thought it needless to acquaint Miss Shepperson with the
fact that his brother, a creditor for three hundred pounds, had generously
forgiven the debt.

Miss Shepperson, lodging in a little bedroom, with an approving conscience
to keep her company, hoped that her house would soon be let again.




A DAUGHTER OF THE LODGE


For a score of years the Rocketts had kept the lodge of Brent Hall. In the
beginning Rockett was head gardener; his wife, the daughter of a
shopkeeper, had never known domestic service, and performed her duties at
the Hall gates with a certain modest dignity not displeasing to the stately
persons upon whom she depended. During the lifetime of Sir Henry the best
possible understanding existed between Hall and lodge. Though Rockett's
health broke down, and at length he could work hardly at all, their
pleasant home was assured to the family; and at Sir Henry's death the
nephew who succeeded him left the Rocketts undisturbed. But, under this new
lordship, things were not quite as they had been. Sir Edwin Shale, a
middle-aged man, had in his youth made a foolish marriage; his lady ruled
him, not with the gentlest of tongues, nor always to the kindest purpose,
and their daughter, Hilda, asserted her rights as only child with a force
of character which Sir Edwin would perhaps have more sincerely admired had
it reminded him less of Lady Shale.

While the Hall, in Sir Henry's time, remained childless, the lodge prided
itself on a boy and two girls. Young Rockett, something of a scapegrace,
was by the baronet's advice sent to sea, and thenceforth gave his parents
no trouble. The second daughter, Betsy, grew up to be her mother's help.
But Betsy's elder sister showed from early years that the life of the lodge
would afford no adequate scope for _her_ ambitions. May Rockett had good
looks; what was more, she had an intellect which sharpened itself on
everything with which it came in contact. The village school could never
have been held responsible for May Rockett's acquirements and views at the
age of ten; nor could the High School in the neighbouring town altogether
account for her mental development at seventeen. Not without misgivings had
the health-broken gardener and his wife consented to May's pursuit of the
higher learning; but Sir Henry and the kind old Lady Shale seemed to think
it the safer course, and evidently there was little chance of the girl's
accepting any humble kind of employment: in one way or another she must
depend for a livelihood upon her brains. At the time of Sir Edwin's
succession Miss Rockett had already obtained a place as governess, giving
her parents to understand that this was only, of course, a temporary
expedient--a paving of the way to something vaguely, but superbly,
independent. Nor was promotion long in coming. At two-and-twenty May
accepted a secretaryship to a lady with a mission--concerning the rights of
womanhood. In letters to her father and mother she spoke much of the
importance of her work, but did not confess how very modest was her salary.
A couple of years went by without her visiting the old home; then, of a
sudden, she made known her intention of coming to stay at the lodge 'for a
week or ten days.' She explained that her purpose was rest; intellectual
strain had begun rather to tell upon her, and a few days of absolute
tranquillity, such as she might expect under the elms of Brent Hall, would
do her all the good in the world. 'Of course,' she added, 'it's unnecessary
to say anything about me to the Shale people. They and I have nothing in
common, and it will be better for us to ignore each other's existence.'

These characteristic phrases troubled Mr. and Mrs. Rockett. That the family
at the Hall should, if it seemed good to them, ignore the existence of May
was, in the Rocketts' view, reasonable enough; but for May to ignore Sir
Edwin and Lady Shale, who were just now in residence after six months spent
abroad, struck them as a very grave impropriety. Natural respect demanded
that, at some fitting moment, and in a suitable manner, their daughter
should present herself to her feudal superiors, to whom she was assuredly
indebted, though indirectly, for 'the blessings she enjoyed.' This was Mrs.
Rockett's phrase, and the rheumatic, wheezy old gardener uttered the same
opinion in less conventional language. They had no affection for Sir Edwin
or his lady, and Miss Hilda they decidedly disliked; their treatment at the
hands of these new people contrasted unpleasantly enough with the memory of
old times; but a spirit of loyal subordination ruled their blood, and, to
Sir Edwin at all events, they felt gratitude for their retention at the
lodge. Mrs. Rockett was a healthy and capable woman of not more than fifty,
but no less than her invalid husband would she have dreaded the thought of
turning her back on Brent Hall. Rockett had often consoled himself with the
thought that here he should die, here amid the fine old trees that he
loved, in the ivy-covered house which was his only idea of home. And was it
not a reasonable hope that Betsy, good steady girl, should some day marry
the promising young gardener whom Sir Edwin had recently taken into his
service, and so re-establish the old order of things at the lodge?

'I half wish May wasn't coming,' said Mrs. Rockett after long and anxious
thought. 'Last time she was here she quite upset me with her strange talk.'

'She's a funny girl, and that's the truth,' muttered Rockett from his old
leather chair, full in the sunshine of the kitchen window. They had a nice
little sitting-room; but this, of course, was only used on Sunday, and no
particular idea of comfort attached to it. May, to be sure, had always used
the sitting-room. It was one of the habits which emphasised most strongly
the moral distance between her and her parents.

The subject being full of perplexity, they put it aside, and with very
mixed feelings awaited their elder daughter's arrival. Two days later a cab
deposited at the lodge Miss May, and her dress-basket, and her
travelling-bag, and her holdall, together with certain loose periodicals
and a volume or two bearing the yellow label of Mudie. The young lady was
well dressed in a severely practical way; nothing unduly feminine marked
her appearance, and in the matter of collar and necktie she inclined to the
example of the other sex; for all that, her soft complexion and bright
eyes, her well-turned figure and light, quick movements, had a picturesque
value which Miss May certainly did not ignore. She manifested no excess of
feeling when her mother and sister came forth to welcome her; a nod, a
smile, an offer of her cheek, and the pleasant exclamation, 'Well, good