house
and furniture, was one whom I had been taught to distrust and dread. He
would, perhaps, not even let me go into my room again, and would turn me
out to-morrow, if he came: my clothes--were _they_ even mine, or would
they be given to me, if they were? This uncle had reproached Uncle
Leonard once for what he had done for me. I had even an idea that it was
about my mother's marriage that the quarrel had occurred. And hard as I
had regarded Uncle Leonard, he had been the soft-hearted one of the
brothers, who had sheltered the little girl (after he had thrown off the
mother, and broken her poor heart).

The house in Varick-street would be broken up. What would become of the
cook, and Ann Coddle? It would be easier for them to live than for me.

They could get work to do, for they knew how to work, and people would
employ them. I--I could do nothing, I had been taught to do nothing. I
had never been directed how to hem a handkerchief. I had tried to dust
my room one day, and the effort had tired me dreadfully, and did not
look very well, as a result. I could not teach. I had been educated in a
slipshod way, no one directing anything about it--just what it occurred
to the person who had charge of me to put before me.

I had intended to throw myself upon Sister Madeline. But what then? What
could she have done for me? I had asked her months before if I could not
be a sister, and had been discouraged both by her and by my director. I
believe they thought I was too young and too pretty, and, in fact, had
no vocation. No doubt they thought I might soon look upon things
differently, when my trouble was a little older.

And Richard--I did not give Richard many thoughts that day, for my heart
was sore, when I remembered all his words. He had always thought that I
was to be rich; perhaps that had made him so long patient with me. He
had said I was not clever; he had seemed to be very sorry for me. He
might well be. Sophie had asked him if he were still bound to me. I had
not heard all his answer, but he had spoken in a tone of scorn. I did
not want to think about him.

There was no whither to turn myself for help. And the clergyman, who had
been more than kind to me, who had seemed to help me with words and
counsel out of heaven,--he was cut off from my succor, and I stood
alone--I, who was so dependent, so naturally timid, and so
easily mistaken.

It was a dreary hour of my life, that hour that I sat looking over at
the