'How not likely, Owen? There's not another woman of the name in England.
In what year used papa to say the event took place?'

'Eighteen hundred and thirty-five.'

'And when were the Houses of Parliament burnt?--stop, I can tell you.'
She searched their little stock of books for a list of dates, and found
one in an old school history.

'The Houses of Parliament were burnt down in the evening of the
sixteenth of October, eighteen hundred and thirty-four.'

'Nearly a year and a quarter before she met father,' remarked Owen.

They were silent. 'If papa had been alive, what a wonderful absorbing
interest this story would have had for him,' said Cytherea by-and-by.
'And how strangely knowledge comes to us. We might have searched for a
clue to her secret half the world over, and never found one. If we had
really had any motive for trying to discover more of the sad history
than papa told us, we should have gone to Bloomsbury; but not caring to
do so, we go two hundred miles in the opposite direction, and there
find information waiting to be told us. What could have been the secret,
Owen?'

'Heaven knows. But our having heard a little more of her in this way (if
she is the same woman) is a mere coincidence after all--a family story
to tell our friends if we ever have any. But we shall never know any
more of the episode now--trust our fates for that.'

Cytherea sat silently thinking.

'There was no answer this morning to your advertisement, Cytherea?' he
continued.

'None.'

'I could see that by your looks when I came in.'

'Fancy not getting a single one,' she said sadly. 'Surely there must be
people somewhere who want governesses?'

'Yes; but those who want them, and can afford to have them, get them
mostly by friends' recommendations; whilst those who want them, and
can't afford to have them, make use of their poor relations.'

'What shall I do?'

'Never mind it. Go on living with me. Don't let the difficulty trouble
your mind so; you think about it all day. I can keep you, Cythie, in a
plain way of living. Twenty-five shillings a week do not amount to
much truly; but then many mechanics have no more, and we live quite as
sparingly as journeymen mechanics... It is a meagre narrow life we are
drifting into,' he added gloomily, 'but it is a degree more tolerable
than the worrying sensation of all the world being ashamed of you, which
we experienced at Hocbridge.'

'I couldn't go back there again,' she sa