his delicate and noble face. "I am sure that
if Betsy can come, she will; though of course she must be compensated
well for the waste all her lodgers will make of it. They are very
wicked, and eat most dreadfully if she even takes one day's holiday.
What do you think they even do? She has told me with tears in her eyes
of it. They are all allowed a pat of butter, a penny roll, and two
sardines for breakfast. No sooner do they know that her back is
turned--"

"Erema!" cried my cousin, with some surprise; and being so recalled,
I was ashamed. But I never could help taking interest in very little
things indeed, until my own common-sense, or somebody else, came to tell
me what a child I was. However, I do believe that Uncle Sam liked me all
the better for this fault.

"My dear, I did not mean to blame you," Lord Castlewood said, most
kindly; "it must be a great relief for you to look on at other people.
But tell me--or rather, since you have told me almost every thing you
know--let me, if only in one way I can help you, help you at least in
that way."

Knowing that he must mean money, I declined, from no false pride, but a
set resolve to work out my work, if possible, through my own resources.
But I promised to apply to him at once if scarcity should again befall
me, as had happened lately. And then I longed to ask him why he seemed
to have so low an opinion of Sir Montague Hockin. That question,
however, I feared to put, because it might not be a proper one, and
also because my cousin had spoken in a very strange tone, as if of some
private dislike or reserve on that subject. Moreover, it was too evident
that I had tried his courtesy long enough. From time to time pale shades
of bodily pain, and then hot flushes, had flitted across his face, like
clouds on a windy summer evening. And more than once he had glanced at
the time-piece, not to hurry me, but as if he dreaded its announcements.
It was a beautiful clock, and struck with a silvery sound every quarter
of an hour. And now, as I rose to say good-by, to catch my evening
train, it struck a quarter to five, and my cousin stood up, with his
weight upon his staff, and looked at me with an inexpressible depth of
weary misery.

"I have only a few minutes left," he said, "during which I can say any
thing. My time is divided into two sad parts: the time when I am capable
of very little, and the time when I am capable of nothing; and the
latter part is twice the length of