nerves; and
in the solitude of her own room she spent many an anguished hour trying
to discover some way of escape. She read all the advertisements of
situations vacant in the newspaper; but all the employers seemed to
require technical knowledge and accomplishments which she did not
possess. She knew she could not teach even the youngest of children,
she was unacquainted with the mysterious science of short-hand, and had
never seen a typewriter. No one appeared to want a young lady who could
break horses, tend cattle, or run a farm; and this was the only kind of
work she could do.

So she was forced to the bitter conclusion that she would have to go on
living the life, and eat the bread of the Herons, with as much patience
as she could command, in the hope that some day "something would
happen" to release her from her bondage, which was gradually robbing
her eyes of their brightness and making her thin and listless. It
seemed that nothing ever would happen, that the weeks would drag into
months and the months into years; and one day as she toiled slowly home
from a country walk, she almost felt inclined to turn to that last
refuge of the destitute and answer one of the advertisements for a
lady's help: anything would be better than to go on living the life in
death which was her lot at Laburnum Villa.

As she approached the house, she saw that the gas was lit in the
drawing-room, and the sound of voices, in which a strange one mingled,
penetrated through the thin door as she passed through the hall to her
room. While she was taking off her hat, there came a hurried knock, and
Isabel entered in her best dress. She was flushed and in a flatter of
suppressed excitement.

"Oh, Ida, can you lend me a clean collar?" she asked, in a stage
whisper, and with a giggle which was intended to invite question; but,
as Ida had asked none, Isabel said, with another giggle: "You've heard
me speak of George Powler?"

Ida looked doubtful: Isabel had mentioned so many men, generally by
their Christian names, who were supposed to be smitten by her, that
Ida, often listening absently enough to the foolish girl's confidences,
not seldom "got mixed."

"The one who went to South Australia," Isabel went on, with an
affectation of coy shyness. "We used to see a great deal of him--at
least he used to call--before he went away; and though there really was
nothing serious between us, of course--But one doesn't like to speak of
these things,