a few more years?'

'I shall do whatever you wish--whatever you bid me, Mr. Lord,' answered
the woman, in a voice of heartfelt loyalty.

'You would stay on, and keep house for them?'

'But would they go on living here?'

'I could make them do so. I could put it down as a condition, in my
will. At all events, I would make Nancy stay. Horace might live where he
liked--though not with money to throw about. They have no relatives that
could be of any use to them. I should wish Nancy to go on living here,
and you with her; and she would only have just a sufficient income, paid
by my old friend Barmby, or by his son. And that till she was--what?
I have thought of six-and-twenty. By that time she would either have
learnt wisdom, or she never would. She must be free sooner or later.'

'But she couldn't live by herself, Mr. Lord.'

'You tell me you would stay,' he exclaimed impulsively.

'Oh, but I am only her servant. That wouldn't be enough.'

'It would be. Your position shall be changed. There's no one living to
whom I could trust her as I could to you. There's no woman I respect so
much. For twenty years you have proved yourself worthy of respect--and
it shall be paid to you.'

His vehemence would brook no opposition.

'You said you would do as I wished. I wish you to have a new position
in this house. You shall no longer be called a servant; you shall be
our housekeeper, and our friend. I will have it, I tell you!' he cried
angrily. 'You shall sit at table with us, and live with us. Nancy still
has sense enough to acknowledge that this is only your just reward; from
her, I know, there won't be a word of objection. What can you have to
say against it?'

The woman was pale with emotion. Her reserve and sensibility shrank from
what seemed to her an invidious honour, yet she durst not irritate the
sick man by opposition.

'It will make Nancy think,' he pursued, with emphasis. 'It will help
her, perhaps, to see the difference between worthless women who put
themselves forward, and the women of real value who make no pretences.
Perhaps it isn't too late to set good examples before her. I've never
found her ill-natured, though she's wilful; it isn't her heart that's
wrong--I hope and think not--only her mind, that's got stuffed with
foolish ideas. Since her grandmother's death she's had no guidance. You
shall talk to her as a woman can; not all at once, but when she's used
to thinking of you in this new way.'

'Yo