llow the money to go out of the family. Janet Ilchester
was a quaint girl, a favourite of my aunt Dorothy, and the squire's
especial pet; red-cheeked, with a good upright figure in walking and
riding, and willing to be friendly, but we always quarrelled: she
detested hearing of Kiomi.

'Don't talk of creatures you met when you were a beggar, Harry Richmond,'
she said.

'I never was a beggar,' I replied.

'Then she was a beggar,' said Janet; and I could not deny it; though the
only difference I saw between Janet and Kiomi was, that Janet continually
begged favours and gifts of people she knew, and Kiomi of people who were
strangers.

My allowance of pocket-money from the squire was fifty pounds a year. I
might have spent it all in satisfying Janet's wishes for riding-whips,
knives, pencil-cases, cairngorm buttons, and dogs. A large part of the
money went that way. She was always getting notice of fine dogs for sale.
I bought a mastiff for her, a brown retriever, and a little terrier. She
was permitted to keep the terrier at home, but I had to take care of the
mastiff and retriever. When Janet came to look at them she called them by
their names; of course they followed me in preference to her; she cried
with jealousy. We had a downright quarrel. Lady Ilchester invited me to
spend a day at her house, Charley being home for his Midsummer holidays.
Charley, Janet, and I fished the river for trout, and Janet, to flatter
me (of which I was quite aware), while I dressed her rod as if she was
likely to catch something, talked of Heriot, and then said:

'Oh! dear, we are good friends, aren't we? Charley says we shall marry
one another some day, but mama's such a proud woman she won't much like
your having such a father as you 've got unless he 's dead by that time
and I needn't go up to him to be kissed.'

I stared at the girl in wonderment, but not too angrily, for I guessed
that she was merely repeating her brother's candid speculations upon the
future. I said: 'Now mind what I tell you, Janet: I forgive you this
once, for you are an ignorant little girl and know no better. Speak
respectfully of my father or you never see me again.'

Here Charley sang out: 'Hulloa! you don't mean to say you're talking of
your father.'

Janet whimpered that I had called her an ignorant little girl. If she had
been silent I should have pardoned her. The meanness of the girl in
turning on me when the glaring offence was hers, struck me as