f her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her
son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and
her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote
herself to them.

But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of
thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the
wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp
pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait
upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household
duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if
she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have
the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar
discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of
surprises and disappointments.

But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and
well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their
household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had
done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly
reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the
whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite
unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it
could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the
L50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum
to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every
luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small
enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she
and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than
that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every
year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought!

There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had
offered an advance of L10 only, saying they were doing very well for
her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and
offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the
best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she
had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too
true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and
truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously.