the visitors talked little else
but scandal, and talked it clumsily. Most of Isabel's time was spent in
constructing garments by the aid of paper-patterns which were given
away by some periodical; admirable patterns, which, in skilful hands,
no doubt, produced the most useful results; but Isabel was too stupid
to avail herself of their valuable aid, and must always add something
which rendered the garment _outre_ and vulgar.

Mrs. Heron subscribed to a library, and she and Isabel read the latest
six-shilling novels with avidity, stuffing them under the sofa cushion
at the sound of Mr. Heron's approaching footsteps. They always chose
the worst books, and forgot one as soon as they took up another. Ida
examined one and dropped it with disgust; for it happened to be a
problem novel of the most virulent type, a novel which was selling by
scores of thousands, and one which Isabel had recommended to Ida as
"delicious."

Of all the days, Ida found Sunday the worst; for on that day they went
twice to a little chapel at which Mr. Heron "ministered." It was a tin
chapel, which by its construction and position struck a chill to one's
very bones. Here Mr. Heron ranted and growled to his heart's content;
and Ida learnt from his sanctimonious lips that only a small portion of
mankind, his own sect, to wit, was bound for heaven, and that the rest
of the world was doomed to another place, the horrors of which he
appeared to revel in. As she sat in the uncomfortable pew, Ida often
wondered whether her cousin really believed what he preached, or
whether he was a hypocrite of the first water.

All this was very hard to bear; but a burden still heavier was provided
for her in the conduct of her cousin Joseph. On the evening of her
arrival he had been gracious enough to bestow upon her an admiration of
which she was then unconscious; but his admiration grew, and he began
to pay her what persons of his class call "attentions." He came in much
earlier of an evening than he did before, and he sat beside her, and,
with his small eyes fixed on her pale and downcast face, told her
anecdotes of the office and his fellow-clerks. He was under the
impression that he possessed a voice, and with a certain amount of
artfulness he got her to play his accompaniments, bestowing killing
looks at her as he sang the "Maid of Athens," or "My Pretty June"--with
a false note in every third bar. Sometimes he came home to lunch,
explaining to them that there w