ince I entered that house. She's kind,
and talks to me as if I was a woman--not a machine. And I wouldn't like
to see any harm happen to her."

"Oh, you may indulge your romantic fondness for Miss Brooke as long as
you like, if you don't let it interfere with Oliver's marriage," said
Francis, with a rather disagreeable laugh. "It's lucky that you did not
go to live with Miss Kenyon instead of the fair Lesley. You might have
felt tempted to tell _her_ your little story."

"Ay, so I might," said the woman, slowly. "For she's a woman, after all.
And a nice life she'll have of it with Oliver Trent. I'm not sure----"

She stopped, and a sombre light came into her deep-set eyes.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't get on that old grievance," said Francis,
hastily, almost rudely. "Don't think about it--don't mention it to me.
It's all very well, Polly, for you to take on so much about your sister;
and, indeed, I'm very sorry for her, and I think that Oliver behaved
abominably--I do, indeed; but, my dear girl, it's no good crying over
spilt milk, and Oliver's my brother, after all----"

"And he's going to pay you two thousand pounds on his wedding-day," said
Mrs. Trent, with cruel curtness. "I know all about it. And I understand.
Why should I be above making my profit out of him like other people? All
right, Francis: I won't spoil your little game at present. And now I
must be getting back."

She took up her bonnet and shawl and began to readjust them. Francis
watched her hands: he saw that they trembled, and he knew that this was
an ominous sign. It sometimes betokened anger, and when she was angry he
did not care to ask her to give him money. And he wanted money now.

But she was not angry in the way that he thought. For after a moment's
silence her hands grew steady again, and her face recovered its usual
calm.

"I've got three pounds here for you, Francis," she said. "And I hope
you'll make it last as long as you can--you will, won't you? For I
shan't have any more for some little time to come."

He nodded and took the sovereigns from her hand. A touch of compunction
visited him as he did so.

"Keep one, Polly," he said. "I don't want them all."

"Oh, yes, you do. And I have no need of money where I am. You'll not
spend it all at billiards, or on brandy, will you?"

"No, Polly, I won't. I promise you."

And he meant to keep his promise. But as matters fell out, he was
blindly, madly drunk before the same night wa