cheerful dismissal.
Talking with a friend that day, the High School mistress gave a humorous
description of her lodgings, and when the friend remarked that they must be
very uncomfortable, and that surely she would not stay there, Miss Rodney
replied that she had the firmest intention of staying, and, what was more,
of being comfortable.

'I'm going to take that household in hand,' she added. 'The woman is
foolish, but can be managed, I think, with a little patience. I'm going to
_tackle_ the drunken husband as soon as I see my way. And as for the highly
connected gentleman whose candle I had the honour of lighting, I shall turn
him out.'

'You have your work set!' exclaimed the friend, laughing.

'Oh, a little employment for my leisure! This kind of thing relieves the
monotony of a teacher's life, and prevents one from growing old.'

Very systematically she pursued her purpose of getting Mrs. Turpin 'in
hand.' The two points at which she first aimed were the keeping clean of
her room and the decent preparation of her meals. Never losing temper,
never seeming to notice the landlady's sullen mood, always using a tone of
legitimate authority, touched sometimes with humorous compassion, she
exacted obedience to her directions, but was well aware that at any moment
the burden of a new civilisation might prove too heavy for the Turpin
family and cause revolt. A week went by; it was again Saturday, and Miss
Rodney devoted a part of the morning (there being no school to-day) to
culinary instruction. Mabel and Lily shared the lesson with their mother,
but both young ladies wore an air of condescension, and grimaced at Miss
Rodney behind her back. Mrs. Turpin was obstinately mute. The pride of
ignorance stiffened her backbone and curled her lip.

Miss Rodney's leisure generally had its task; though as a matter of
principle she took daily exercise, her walking or cycling was always an
opportunity for thinking something out, and this afternoon, as she sped on
wheels some ten miles from Wattleborough, her mind was busy with the
problem of Mrs. Turpin's husband. From her clerical friend of St. Luke's
she had learnt that Turpin was at bottom a decent sort of man, rather
intelligent, and that it was only during the last year or two that he had
taken to passing his evenings at the public-house. Causes for this decline
could be suggested. The carpenter had lost his only son, a lad of whom he
was very fond; the boy's death quite broke him down at the time, and
perhaps he had begun to drink as a way for forgetting his trouble. Perhaps,
too, his foolish, slatternly wife bore part of the blame, for his home had
always been comfortless, and such companionship must, in the long-run, tell
on a man. Reflecting upon this, Miss Rodney had an idea, and she took no
time in putting it into practice. When Mabel brought in her tea, she asked
the girl whether her father was at home.

'I think he is, miss,' was the distant reply--for Mabel had been bidden by
her mother to 'show a proper spirit' when Miss Rodney addressed her.

'You think so? Will you please make sure, and, if you are right, ask Mr.
Turpin to be so kind as to let me have a word with him.'

Startled and puzzled, the girl left the room. Miss Rodney waited, but no
one came. When ten minutes had elapsed she rang the bell. A few minutes
more and there sounded a heavy foot in the passage; then a heavy knock at
the door, and Mr. Turpin presented himself. He was a short, sturdy man,
with hair and beard of the hue known as ginger, and a face which told in
his favour. Vicious he could assuredly not be, with those honest grey eyes;
but one easily imagined him weak in character, and his attitude as he stood
just within the room, half respectful, half assertive, betrayed an
embarrassment altogether encouraging to Miss Rodney. In her pleasantest
tone she begged him to be seated.

'Thank you, miss,' he replied, in a deep voice, which sounded huskily, but
had nothing of surliness; 'I suppose you want to complain about something,
and I'd rather get it over standing.'

'I was not going to make any complaint, Mr. Turpin.'

'I'm glad to hear it, miss; for my wife wished me to say she'd done about
all she could, and if things weren't to your liking, she thought it would
be best for all if you suited yourself in somebody else's lodgings.'

It evidently cost the man no little effort to deliver his message; there
was a nervous twitching about his person, and he could not look Miss Rodney
straight in the face. She, observant of this, kept a very steady eye on
him, and spoke with all possible calmness.

'I have not the least desire to change my lodgings, Mr. Turpin. Things are
going on quite well. There is an improvement in the cooking, in the
cleaning, in everything; and, with a little patience, I am sure we shall
all come to understand one another. What I wanted to speak to you about was
a little practical matter in which you may be able to help me. I teach
mathematics at the High School, and I have an idea that I might make
certain points in geometry easier to my younger girls if I could
demonstrate them in a mechanical way. Pray look here. You see the shapes I
have sketched on this piece of paper; do you think you could make them for
me in wood?'

The carpenter was moved to a show of reluctant interest. He took the paper,
balanced himself now on one leg, now on the other, and said at length that
he thought he saw what was wanted. Miss Rodney, coming to his side,
explained in more detail; his interest grew more active.

'That's Euclid, miss?'

'To be sure. Do you remember your Euclid?'

'My own schooling never went as far as that,' he replied, in a muttering
voice; 'but my Harry used to do Euclid at the Grammar School, and I got
into a sort of way of doing it with him.'

Miss Rodney kept a moment's silence; then quietly and kindly she asked one
or two questions about the boy who had died. The father answered in an
awkward, confused way, as if speaking only by constraint.

'Well, I'll see what I can do, miss,' he added abruptly, folding the paper
to take away. 'You'd like them soon?'

'Yes. I was going to ask you, Mr. Turpin, whether you could do them this
evening. Then I should have them for Monday morning.'

Turpin hesitated, shuffled his feet, and seemed to reflect uneasily; but he
said at length that he 'would see about it,' and, with a rough bow, got out
of the room. That night no hilarious sounds came from the kitchen. On
Sunday morning, when Miss Rodney went into her sitting-room, she found on
the table the wooden geometrical forms, excellently made, just as she
wished. Mabel, who came with breakfast, was bidden to thank her father, and
to say that Miss Rodney would like to speak with him again, if his leisure
allowed, after tea-time on Monday. At that hour the carpenter did not fail
to present himself, distrustful still, but less embarrassed. Miss Rodney
praised his work, and desired to pay for it. Oh! that wasn't worth talking
about, said Turpin; but the lady insisted, and money changed hands. This
piece of business transacted, Miss Rodney produced a Euclid, and asked
Turpin to show her how far he had gone in it with his boy Harry. The
subject proved fruitful of conversation. It became evident that the
carpenter had a mathematical bias, and could be readily interested in such
things as geometrical problems. Why should he not take up the subject
again?

'Nay, miss,' replied Turpin, speaking at length quite naturally; 'I
shouldn't have the heart. If my Harry had lived'

But Miss Rodney stuck to the point, and succeeded in making him promise
that he would get out the old Euclid and have a look at it in his leisure
time. As he withdrew, the man had a pleasant smile on his honest face.

On the next Saturday evening the house was again quiet.

Meanwhile, relations between Mrs. Turpin and her lodger were becoming less
strained. For the first time in her life the flabby, foolish woman had to
do with a person of firm will and bright intelligence; not being vicious of
temper, she necessarily felt herself submitting to domination, and darkly
surmised that the rule might in some way be for her good. All the sluggard
and the slattern in her, all the obstinacy of lifelong habits, hung back
from the new things which Miss Rodney was forcing upon her acceptance, but
she was no longer moved by active resentment. To be told that she cooked
badly had long ceased to be an insult, and was becoming merely a worrying
truism. That she lived in dirt there seemed no way of denying, and though
every muscle groaned, she began to look upon the physical exertion of
dusting and scrubbing as part of her lot in life. Why she submitted, Mrs.
Turpin could not have told you. And, as was presently to be seen, there
were regions of her mind still unconquered, instincts of resistance which
yet had to come into play.

For, during all this time, Miss Rodney had had her eye on her
fellow-lodger, Mr. Rawcliffe, and the more she observed this gentleman, the
more resolute she became to turn him out of the house; but it was plain to
her that the undertaking would be no easy one. In the landlady's eyes Mr.
Rawcliffe, though not perhaps a faultless specimen of humanity, conferred
an honour on her house by residing in it; the idea of giving him notice to
quit was inconceivable to her. This came out very clearly in the first
frank conversation which Miss Rodney held with her on the topic. It
happened that Mr. Rawcliffe had passed an evening at home, in the company
of his friends. After supping together, the gentlemen indulged in merriment
which, towards midnight, became uproarious. In the morning Mrs. Turpin
mumbled a shamefaced apology for this disturbance of Miss Rodney's repose.

'Why don't you take this opportunity and get rid of him?' asked the lodger
in her matter-of-fact tone.

'Oh, miss!'

'Yes, it's your plain duty to do so. He gives your house a bad character;
he sets a bad example to your husband; he has a bad influence on your
daughters.'

'Oh! miss, I don't think'

'Just so, Mrs. Turpin; you _don't_ think. If you had, you would long ago
have noticed that his behaviour to those girls is not at all such as it
should be. More than once I have chanced to hear bits of talk, when either
Mabel or Lily was in his sitting-room, and didn't like the tone of it. In
plain English, the man is a blackguard.'

Mrs. Turpin gasped.

'But, miss, you forget what family he belongs to.'

'Don't be a simpleton, Mrs. Turpin. The blackguard is found in every rank
of life. Now, suppose you go to him as soon as he gets up, and quietly give
him notice. You've no idea how much better you would feel after it.'

But Mrs. Turpin trembled at the suggestion. It was evident that no ordinary
argument or persuasion would bring her to such a step. Miss Rodney put the
matter aside for the moment.

She had found no difficulty in getting information about Mr. Rawcliffe. It
was true that he belonged to a family of some esteem in the Wattleborough
neighbourhood, but his father had died in embarrassed circumstances, and
his mother was now the wife of a prosperous merchant in another town. To
his stepfather Rawcliffe owed an expensive education and two or three
starts in life. He was in his second year of articles to a Wattle-borough
solicitor, but there seemed little probability of his ever earning a living
by the law, and reports of his excesses which reached the stepfather's ears
had begun to make the young man's position decidedly precarious. The
incumbent of St. Luke's, whom Rawcliffe had more than once insulted, took
much interest in Miss Rodney's design against this common enemy; he could
not himself take active part in the campaign, but he never met the High
School mistress without inquiring what progress she had made. The conquest
of Turpin, who now for several weeks had kept sober, and spent his evenings
in mathematical study, was a most encouraging circumstance; but Miss Rodney
had no thought of using her influence over her landlady's husband to assail
Rawcliffe's position. She would rely upon herself alone, in this as in all
other undertakings.

Only by constant watchfulness and energy did she maintain her control over
Mrs. Turpin, who was ready at any moment to relapse into her old slatternly
ways. It was not enough to hold the ground that had been gained; there must
be progressive conquest; and to this end Miss Rodney one day broached a
subject which had already been discussed between her and her clerical ally.

'Why do you keep both your girls at home, Mrs. Turpin?' she asked.

'What should I do with them, miss? I don't hold with sending girls into
shops, or else they've an aunt in Birmingham, who's manageress of--'

'That isn't my idea,' interposed Miss Rodney quietly. 'I have been asked if
I knew of a girl who would go into a country-house not far from here as
second housemaid, and it occurred to me that Lily--'

A sound of indignant protest escaped the landlady, which Miss Rodney,
steadily regarding her, purposely misinterpreted.

'No, no, of course, she is not really capable of taking such a position.
But the lady of whom I am speaking would not mind an untrained girl, who
came from a decent house. Isn't it worth thinking of?'

Mrs. Turpin was red with suppressed indignation, but as usual she could not
look her lodger defiantly in the face.

'We're not so poor, miss,' she exclaimed, 'that we need send our daughters
into service,'

'Why, of course not, Mrs. Turpin, and that's one of the reasons why Lily
might suit this lady.'

But here was another rock of resistance which promised to give Miss Rodney
a good deal of trouble. The landlady's pride was outraged, and after the
manner of the inarticulate she could think of no adequate reply save that
which took the form of personal abuse. Restrained from this by more than
one consideration, she stood voiceless, her bosom heaving.

'Well, you shall think it over,' said Miss Rodney, 'and we'll speak of it
again in a day or two.'

Mrs. Turpin, without another word, took herself out of the room.

Save for that singular meeting on Miss Rodney's first night in the house,
Mr. Rawcliffe and the energetic lady had held no intercourse whatever.
Their parlours being opposite each other on the ground floor, they
necessarily came face to face now and then, but the High School mistress
behaved as though she saw no one, and the solicitor's clerk, after one or
two attempts at polite formality, adopted a like demeanour. The man's
proximity caused his neighbour a ceaseless irritation; of all objectionable
types of humanity, this loafing and boozing degenerate was, to Miss Rodney,
perhaps the least endurable; his mere countenance excited her animosity,
for feebleness and conceit, things abhorrent to her, were legible in every
line of the trivial features; and a full moustache, evidently subjected to
training, served only as emphasis of foppish imbecility. 'I could beat
him!' she exclaimed more than once within herself, overcome with
contemptuous wrath, when she passed Mr. Rawcliffe. And, indeed, had it
been possible to settle the matter thus simply, no doubt Mr. Rawcliffe's
rooms would very soon have been vacant.

The crisis upon which Miss Rodney had resolved came about, quite
unexpectedly, one Sunday evening. Mrs. Turpin and her daughters had gone,
as usual, to church, the carpenter had gone to smoke a pipe with a
neighbour, and Mr. Rawcliffe believed himself alone in the house. But Miss
Rodney was not at church this evening; she had a headache, and after tea
lay down in her bedroom for a while. Soon impatient of repose, she got up
and went to her parlour. The door, to her surprise, was partly open;
entering--the tread of her slippered feet was noiseless--she beheld an
astonishing spectacle. Before her writing-table, his back turned to her,
stood Mr. Rawcliffe, engaged in the deliberate perusal of a letter which he
had found there. For a moment she observed him; then she spoke.

'What business have you here?'

Rawcliffe gave such a start that he almost jumped from the ground. His
face, as he put down the letter and turned, was that of a gibbering idiot;
his lips moved, but no sound came from them.

'What are you doing in my room?' demanded Miss Rodney, in her severest
tones.

'I really beg your pardon--I really beg--'

'I suppose this is not the first visit with which you have honoured me?'

'The first--indeed--I assure you--the very first! A foolish curiosity; I
really feel quite ashamed of myself; I throw myself upon your indulgence.'

The man had become voluble; he approached Miss Rodney smiling in a sickly
way, his head bobbing forward.

'It's something,' she replied, 'that you have still the grace to feel
ashamed. Well, there's no need for us to discuss this matter; it can have,
of course, only one result. To-morrow morning you will oblige me by giving
notice to Mrs. Turpin--a week's notice.'

'Leave the house?' exclaimed Rawcliffe.

'On Saturday next--or as much sooner as you like.'

'Oh! but really--'

'As you please,' said Miss Rodney, looking him sternly in the face. 'In
that case I complain to the landlady of your behaviour, and insist on her
getting rid of you. You ought to have been turned out long ago. You are a
nuisance, and worse than a nuisance. Be so good as to leave the room.'

Rawcliffe, his shoulders humped, moved towards the door; but before
reaching it he stopped and said doggedly--

'I _can't_ give notice.'

'Why not?'

'I owe Mrs. Turpin money.'

'Naturally. But you will go, all the same.'

A vicious light flashed into the man's eyes.

'If it comes to that, I shall _not_ go!'

'Indeed?' said Miss Rodney calmly and coldly. 'We will see about it. In the
meantime, leave the room, sir!'

Rawcliffe nodded, grinned, and withdrew.

Late that evening there was a conversation between Miss Rodney and Mrs.
Turpin. The landlady, though declaring herself horrified at what had
happened, did her best to plead for Mr. Rawcliffe's forgiveness, and would
not be brought to the point of promising to give him notice.

'Very well, Mrs. Turpin,' said Miss Rodney at length, 'either he leaves the
house or I do.'

Resolved, as she was, _not_ to quit her lodgings, this was a bold
declaration. A meeker spirit would have trembled at the possibility that
Mrs. Turpin might be only too glad to free herself from a subjection which,
again and again, had all but driven her to extremities. But Miss Rodney had
the soul of a conqueror; she saw only her will, and the straight way to it.

'To tell you the truth, miss,' said the landlady, sore perplexed, 'he's
rather backward with his rent--'

'Very foolish of you to have allowed him to get into your debt. The
probability is that he would never pay his arrears; they will only
increase, the longer he stays. But I have no more time to spare at present.
Please understand that by Saturday next it must be settled which of your
lodgers is to go.'

Mrs. Turpin had never been so worried. The more she thought of the
possibility of Miss Rodney's leaving the house, the less did she like it.
Notwithstanding Mr. Rawcliffe's 'family,' it was growing clear to her that,
as a stamp of respectability and a source of credit, the High School
mistress was worth more than the solicitor's clerk. Then there was the
astonishing change that had come over Turpin, owing, it seemed, to his talk
with Miss Rodney; the man spent all his leisure time in 'making shapes and
figuring'--just as he used to do when poor Harry was at the Grammar School.
If Miss Rodney disappeared, it seemed only too probable that Turpin would
be off again to 'The Swan With Two Necks.' On the other hand, the thought
of 'giving notice' to Mr. Rawcliffe caused her something like dismay; how
could she have the face to turn a real gentleman out of her house? Yes, but
was it not true that she had lost money by him--and stood to lose more? She
had never dared to tell her husband of Mr. Rawcliffe's frequent
shortcomings in the matter of weekly payments. When the easy-going young
man smiled and nodded, and said, 'It'll be all right, you know, Mrs.
Turpin; you can trust _me_, I hope,' she could do nothing but acquiesce.
And Mr. Rawcliffe was more and more disposed to take advantage of this
weakness. If she could find courage to go through with the thing, perhaps
she would be glad when it was over.

Three days went by. Rawcliffe led an unusually quiet and regular life.
There came the day on which his weekly bill was presented. Mrs. Turpin
brought it in person at breakfast, and stood with it in her hand, an image
of vacillation. Her lodger made one of his familiar jokes; she laughed
feebly. No; the words would not come to her lips; she was physically
incapable of giving him notice.

'By the bye, Mrs. Turpin,' said Rawcliffe in an offhand way, as he glanced
at the bill, 'how much exactly do I owe you?'

Pleasantly agitated, his landlady mentioned the sum.

'Ah! I must settle that. I tell you what, Mrs. Turpin. Let it stand over
for another month, and we'll square things up at Christmas. Will that suit
you?'

And, by way of encouragement, he paid his week's account on the spot,
without a penny of deduction. Mrs. Turpin left the room in greater
embarrassment than ever.

Saturday came. At breakfast Miss Rodney sent for the landlady, who made a
timid appearance just within the room.

'Good morning, Mrs. Turpin. What news have you for me? You know what I
mean?'

The landlady took a step forward, and began babbling excuses, explanations,
entreaties. She was coldly and decisively interrupted.

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin, that will do. A week to-day I leave.'

With a sound which was half a sob and half grunt Mrs. Turpin bounced from
the room. It was now inevitable that she should report the state of things
to her husband, and that evening half an hour's circumlocution brought her
to the point. Which of the two lodgers should go? The carpenter paused,
pipe in mouth, before him a geometrical figure over which he had puzzled
for a day or two, and about which, if he could find courage, he wished to
consult the High School mistress. He reflected for five minutes, and
uttered an unhesitating decision. Mr. Rawcliffe must go. Naturally, his
wife broke into indignant clamour, and the debate lasted for an hour or
two; but Turpin could be firm when he liked, and he had solid reasons for
preferring to keep Miss Rodney in the house. At four o'clock Mrs. Turpin
crept softly to the sitting-room where her offended lodger was quietly
reading.

'I wanted just to say, miss, that I'm willing to give Mr. Rawcliffe notice
next Wednesday.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Turpin,' was the cold reply. 'I have already taken other
rooms.'

The landlady gasped, and for a moment could say nothing. Then she besought
Miss Rodney to change her mind. Mr. Rawcliffe should leave, indeed he
should, on Wednesday week. But Miss Rodney had only one reply; she had
found other rooms that suited her, and she requested to be left in peace.

At eleven Mr. Rawcliffe came home. He was unnaturally sober, for Saturday
night, and found his way into the parlour without difficulty. There in a
minute or two he was confronted by his landlady and her husband: they
closed the door behind them, and stood in a resolute attitude.

'Mr. Rawcliffe,' began Turpin, 'you must leave these lodgings, sir, on
Wednesday next.'

'Hullo! what's all this about?' cried the other. 'What do you mean,
Turpin?'

The carpenter made plain his meaning; spoke of Miss Rodney's complaint, of
the irregular payment (for his wife, in her stress, had avowed everything),
and of other subjects of dissatisfaction; the lodger must go, there was an
end of it. Rawcliffe, putting on all his dignity, demanded the legal week's
notice; Turpin demanded the sum in arrear. There was an exchange of high
words, and the interview ended with mutual defiance. A moment after Turpin
and his wife knocked at Miss Rodney's door, for she was still in her
parlour. There followed a brief conversation, with the result that Miss
Rodney graciously consented to remain, on the understanding that Mr.
Rawcliffe left the house not later than Wednesday.

Enraged at the treatment he was receiving, Rawcliffe loudly declared that
he would not budge. Turpin warned him that if he had made no preparations
for departure on Wednesday he would be forcibly ejected, and the door
closed against him.

'You haven't the right to do it,' shouted the lodger. 'I'll sue you for
damages.'

'And I,' retorted the carpenter, 'will sue you for the money you owe me!'

The end could not be doubtful. Rawcliffe, besides being a poor creature,
knew very well that it was dangerous for him to get involved in a scandal;
his stepfather, upon whom he depended, asked but a fair excuse for cutting
him adrift, and more than one grave warning had come from his mother during
the past few months. But he enjoyed a little blustering, and even at
breakfast-time on Wednesday his attitude was that of contemptuous defiance.
In vain had Mrs. Turpin tried to coax him with maternal suavity; in vain
had Mabel and Lily, when serving his meals, whispered abuse of Miss Rodney,
and promised to find some way of getting rid of her, so that Rawcliffe
might return. In a voice loud enough to be heard by his enemy in the
opposite parlour, he declared that no 'cat of a school teacher should get
the better of _him_.' As a matter of fact, however, he arranged on Tuesday
evening to take a couple of cheaper rooms just outside the town, and
ordered a cab to come for him at eleven next morning.

'You know what the understanding is, Mr. Rawcliffe,' said Turpin, putting
his head into the room as the lodger sat at breakfast. 'I'm a man of my
word.'

'Don't come bawling here!' cried the other, with a face of scorn.

And at noon the house knew him no more.

Miss Rodney, on that same day, was able to offer her landlady a new lodger.
She had not spoken of this before, being resolved to triumph by mere force
of will.

'The next thing,' she remarked to a friend, when telling the story, 'is to
pack off one of the girls into service. I shall manage it by Christmas,'
and she added with humorous complacency, 'it does one good to be making a
sort of order in one's own little corner of the world.'




*****

A CHARMING FAMILY


'I must be firm,' said Miss Shepperson to herself, as she poured out her
morning tea with tremulous hand. 'I must really be very firm with them.'

Firmness was not the most legible characteristic of Miss Shepperson's
physiognomy. A plain woman of something more than thirty, she had gentle
eyes, a twitching forehead, and lips ever ready for a sympathetic smile.
Her attire, a little shabby, a little disorderly, well became the occupant
of furnished lodgings, at twelve and sixpence a week, in the unpretentious
suburb of Acton. She was the daughter of a Hammersmith draper, at whose
death, a few years ago, she had become possessed of a small house and an
income of forty pounds a year; her two elder sisters were comfortably
married to London tradesmen, but she did not see very much of them, for
their ways were not hers, and Miss Shepperson had always been one of those
singular persons who shrink into solitude the moment they feel ill at ease.
The house which was her property had, until of late, given her no trouble
at all; it stood in a quiet part of Hammersmith, and had long been occupied
by good tenants, who paid their rent (fifty pounds) with exemplary
punctuality; repairs, of course, would now and then be called for, and to
that end Miss Shepperson carefully put aside a few pounds every year.
Unhappily, the old tenants were at length obliged to change their abode.
The house stood empty for two months; it was then taken on a three years'
lease by a family named Rymer--really nice people, said Miss Shepperson to
herself after her first interview with them. Mr. Rymer was 'in the City';
Mrs. Rymer, who had two little girls, lived only for domestic peace--she
had been in better circumstances, but did not repine, and forgot all
worldly ambition in the happy discharge of her wifely and maternal duties.
'A charming family!' was Miss Shepperson's mental comment when, at their
invitation, she had called one Sunday afternoon soon after they were
settled in the house; and, on the way home to her lodgings, she sighed once
or twice, thinking of Mrs. Rymer's blissful smile and the two pretty
children.

The first quarter's rent was duly paid, but the second quarter-day brought
no cheque; and, after the lapse of a fortnight, Miss Shepperson wrote to
make known her ingenuous fear that Mr. Rymer's letter might have
miscarried. At once there came the politest and friendliest reply. Mr.
Rymer (wrote his wife) was out of town, and had been so overwhelmed with
business that the matter of the rent must have altogether escaped his mind;
he would be back in a day or two, and the cheque should be sent at the
earliest possible moment; a thousand apologies for this unpardonable
neglect. Still the cheque did not come; another quarter-day arrived, and
again no rent was paid. It was now a month after Christmas, and Miss
Shepperson, for the first time in her life, found her accounts in serious
disorder. This morning she had a letter from Mrs. Rymer, the latest of a
dozen or so, all in the same strain--

'I really feel quite ashamed to take up the pen,' wrote the graceful lady,
in her delicate hand. 'What _must_ you think of us! I assure you that
never, never before did I find myself in such a situation. Indeed, I should
not have the courage to write at all, but that the end of our troubles is
already in view. It is _absolutely certain_ that, in a month's time, Mr.
Rymer will be able to send you a cheque in complete discharge of his debt.
Meanwhile, I _beg_ you to believe, dear Miss Shepperson, how very, _very_
grateful I am to you for your most kind forbearance.' Another page of
almost affectionate protests closed with the touching subscription, 'ever
yours, sincerely and gratefully, Adelaide Rymer.'

But Miss Shepperson had fallen into that state of nervous agitation which
impels to a decisive step. She foresaw the horrors of pecuniary
embarrassment. Her faith in the Rymers' promises was exhausted. This very
morning she would go to see Mrs. Rymer, lay before her the plain facts of
the case, and with all firmness--with unmistakable resolve--make known to
her that, if the arrears were not paid within a month, notice to quit would
be given, and the recovery of the debt be sought by legal process. Fear had
made Miss Shepperson indignant; it was wrong and cowardly for people such
as the Rymers to behave in this way to a poor woman who had only just
enough to live upon. She felt sure that they _could_ pay if they liked; but
because she had shown herself soft and patient, they took advantage of her.
She would be firm, very firm.

So, about ten o'clock, Miss Shepperson put on her best things, and set out
for Hammersmith. It was a foggy, drizzly, enervating day. When Miss
Shepperson found herself drawing near to the house, her courage sank, her
heart throbbed painfully, and for a moment she all but stopped and turned,
thinking that it would be much better to put her ultimatum into writing.
Yet there was the house in view, and to turn back would be deplorable
weakness. By word of mouth she could so much better depict the gravity of
her situation. She forced herself onwards. Trembling in every nerve, she
rang the bell, and in a scarce audible gasp she asked for Mrs. Rymer. A
brief delay, and the servant admitted her.

Mrs. Rymer was in the drawing-room, giving her elder child a piano-lesson,
while the younger, sitting in a baby-chair at the table, turned over a
picture-book. The room was comfortably and prettily furnished; the children
were very becomingly dressed; their mother, a tall woman, of fair
complexion and thin, refined face, with wandering eyes and a forehead
rather deeply lined, stepped forward as if in delight at the unexpected
visit, and took Miss Shepperson's ill-gloved hand in both her own, gazing
with tender interest into her eyes.

'How kind of you to have taken this trouble! You guessed that I really
wished to see you. I should have come to you, but just at present I find it
so difficult to get away from home. I am housekeeper, nursemaid, and
governess all in one! Some women would find it rather a strain, but the
dear tots are so good--so good! Cissy, you remember Miss Shepperson? Of
course you do. They look a little pale, I'm afraid; don't you think so?
After the life they were accustomed to--but we won't talk about _that_.
Tots, school-time is over for this morning. You can't go out, my poor
dears; look at the horrid, horrid weather. Go and sit by the nursery-fire,
and sing "Rain, rain, go away!"'

Miss Shepperson followed the children with her look as they silently left
the room. She knew not how to enter upon what she had to say. To talk of
the law and use threats in this atmosphere of serene domesticity seemed
impossibly harsh. But the necessity of broaching the disagreeable subject
was spared her.

'My husband and I were talking about you last night,' began Mrs. Rymer, as
soon as the door had closed, in a tone of the friendliest confidence. 'I
had an idea; it seems to me so good. I wonder whether it will to you? You
told me, did you not, that you live in lodgings, and quite alone?'

'Yes,' replied Miss Shepperson, struggling to command her nerves and
betraying uneasy wonder.

'Is it by choice?' asked the soft-voiced lady, with sympathetic bending of
the head. 'Have you no relations in London? I can't help thinking you must
feel very lonely.'

It was not difficult to lead Miss Shepperson to talk of her
circumstances--a natural introduction to the announcement which she was
still resolved to make with all firmness. She narrated in outline the
history of her family, made known exactly how she stood in pecuniary
matters, and ended by saying--

'You see, Mrs. Rymer, that I have to live as carefully as I can. This house
is really all I have to depend upon, and--and--'

Again she was spared the unpleasant utterance. With an irresistible smile,
and laying her soft hand on the visitor's ill-fitting glove, Mrs. Rymer
began to reveal the happy thought which had occurred to her. In the house
there was a spare room; why should not Miss Shepperson come and live
here--live, that is to say, as a member of the family? Nothing simpler than
to arrange the details of such a plan, which, of course, must be 'strictly
businesslike,' though carried out in a spirit of mutual goodwill. A certain
sum of money was due to her for rent; suppose this were repaid in the form
of board and lodging, which might be reckoned at--should one say, fifteen
shillings a week? At midsummer next an account would be drawn up, 'in a
thoroughly businesslike way,' and whatever then remained due to Miss
Shepperson would be paid at once; after which, if the arrangement proved
agreeable to both sides, it might be continued, cost of board and lodging
being deducted from the rent, and the remainder paid 'with regularity'
every quarter. Miss Shepperson would thus have a home--a real home--with
all family comforts, and Mrs. Rymer, who was too much occupied with house
and children to see much society, would have the advantage of a sympathetic
friend under her own roof. The good lady's voice trembled with joyous
eagerness as she unfolded the project, and her eyes grew large as she
waited for the response.

Miss Shepperson felt such astonishment that she could only reply with
incoherencies. An idea so novel and so strange threw her thoughts into
disorder. She was alarmed by the invitation to live with people who were
socially her superiors. On the other hand, the proposal made appeal to her
natural inclination for domestic life; it offered the possibility of
occupation, of usefulness. Moreover, from the pecuniary point of view, it
would be so very advantageous.

'But,' she stammered at length, when Mrs. Rymer had repeated the suggestion