rly
to the magazine at the usual rates. I ought to make at least forty
shillings a week."

Mr. Bullsom sighed.

"Is this owing to any disagreement between you and the girls?" he asked,
sharply.

"Certainly not," she answered.

"You ain't unhappy here? Is there anything we could do? I don't want
to lose you."

Mary was touched. She had expected ridicule or opposition. This was
more difficult.

"Of course I am not unhappy," she answered. "You and aunt have been
both of you most generous and kind to me. But I do feel that a busy
life--and I'm not a bit domestic, you know would be good for me. I
believe, uncle, if you were in my place you would feel just like me. If
you were able to, I expect you'd want to earn your own living."

"You shall go!" he said, decidedly. "I'll help you all I can. You
shall have a bit down to buy furniture, if you want it, or an allowance
till you feel your way. But, Mary, I'm downright sorry. No, I'm not
blaming you. You've a right to go. I--I don't believe I'd live here if
I were you.

"You are very good, uncle," Mary said, gratefully. "And you must
remember it isn't as though I were leaving you alone. You have the
girls."

Mr. Bullsom nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I have the girls. Look here, Mary," he added,
suddenly, looking her in the face, "I want to have a word with you. I'm
going to talk plainly. Be honest with me."

"Of course," she murmured.

"It's about the girls. It's a hard thing to say, but somehow--I'm a bit
disappointed with them."

She looked at him in something like amazement.

"Yes, disappointed," he continued. "That's the word. I'm an uneducated
man myself--any fool can see that--but I did all I could to have them
girls different. They've been to the best school in Medchester, and
they've been abroad. They've had masters in most everything, and I've
had 'em taught riding and driving, and all that sort of thing, properly.
Then as they grew up I built this 'ouse, and came up to live here
amongst the people whom I reckoned my girls'd be sure to get to know.
And the whole thing's a damned failure, Mary. That's the long and short
of it."

"Perhaps--a little later on" Mary began, hesitatingly.

"Don't interrupt me," he said, brusquely. "This is the first honest
talk I've ever had about it, and it's doing me good. The girls'd like
to put it down to your mother and me, but I don't believe it. I'm
ashamed to say it, but I'm afraid it's the girls themselves. There's