one of the
benches. Many boats were going by, a majority of them containing only
two persons--a young man who pulled, and a girl who held the strings of
the tiller. Some of these couples Monica disregarded; but occasionally
there passed a skiff from which she could not take her eyes. To lie
back like that on the cushions and converse with a companion who had
nothing of the _shop_ about him!

It seemed hard that she must be alone. Poor Mr. Bullivant would gladly
have taken her on the river; but Mr. Bullivant--

She thought of her sisters. Their loneliness was for life, poor things.
Already they were old; and they would grow older, sadder, perpetually
struggling to supplement that dividend from the precious capital--and
merely that they might keep alive. Oh!--her heart ached at the misery
of such a prospect. How much better if the poor girls had never been
born.

Her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been. She knew
herself good-looking. Men had followed her in the street and tried to
make her acquaintance. Some of the girls with whom she lived regarded
her enviously, spitefully. But had she really the least chance of
marrying a man whom she could respect--not to say love?

One-and-twenty a week hence. At Weston she had kept tolerable health,
but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the slavery of
Walworth Road threatened her with premature decay. Her sisters
counselled wisely. Coming to London was a mistake. She would have had
better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme discretion with
which she was obliged to conduct herself.

While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her sweet
face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that is to say.
Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with grizzled
whiskers and rather a stern visage. Monica sighed.

Was it possible that he had heard her? He looked this way, and with
curiosity. Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long
time. Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned
unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at
her, and he spoke. The gravity of his appearance and manner, the
good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm her;
a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.

How old might he be? After all, he was probably not fifty--perchance
not much more than forty. His utterance fell short of perfect
refinement, but