oss of hope and weary anxiety as to the next effort to be
made were weighing her down. She was naturally high-spirited, but when
high-spirited people do get depressed, they go down to the very deepest
depths; and her interview with Mr. Bircham, by its dry cheerlessness, by
its lack of human interest, had chilled her all through. If he had
even made a remark on the weather, she thought she could have liked him
better; if he had expressed an opinion on any subject, even if she had
disagreed with him, it would have been a relief; as it was, he seemed to
her more like a hard steel pen dressed in broadcloth than a man.

As to his last remark, that could only mean one thing. He did not like
to tell her to her face that she would not suit him, but, he would
communicate with her in a few days, and say it comfortably on paper.

She had never felt quite so desolate and forlorn and helpless as she
felt that day when she left the "Daily Review" office, and found herself
in the noise and bustle of Fleet Street. The midday sun blazed down upon
her in all its strength; the pavements seemed to scorch her feet; the
weary succession of hurrying, pushing, jostling passengers seemed to add
to her sense of isolation. Presently a girl stopped her, and asked the
way to Basinghall Street. She knew it well enough, but felt too utterly
stupid to direct her.

"You had better ask a policeman," she replied, wearily.

Then, recollecting that she had several commissions to do for her
father, besides a great deal to do at the stores, she braced herself
up, and tried to forget Mr. Bircham, and to devote her whole mind to the
petty details of shopping.

The next evening she was in the study with her father when Tom
brought in a bundle of letters. One of them was for Erica. She at once
recognized Mr. Bircham's writing, and a new pang of disappointment shot
through her, though she had really lost all hope on the previous day.
This very speedy communication could only mean that his mind had been
practically made up before. She began to think of her next chance, of
the next quarter she must try, and slowly opened the unwelcome letter.
But in a moment she had sprung to her feet in an ecstasy of happiness.

"Oh, father! Oh, Tom! He will have me!"

Raeburn looked up from his correspondence, and together they read Mr.
Bircham's letter. It was quite as business-like as he himself had been
at the interview.

"Dear Madame, Having fully considered the matte