" she said, with a sob.

The Rector, who was always rather absent-minded, and had a dreamy way of
looking far ahead even when he was most roused, scarcely noticed Hilda's
tears. He talked on in a monotonous sort of voice:

"I have not the least doubt that poverty has its alleviations. I have
heard it more than once remarked that the hand-to-mouth existence is the
most stimulating in the world. I should not be surprised, Hilda, if my
sermons took a turn for the better after this visitation. I have
preached to my flock, year in, year out, that the mysterious ways of
Providence are undoubtedly the best--I have got to act up to my
preaching now, that is all."

The Rector sat down again and continued to write a very unbusiness-like
letter to his lawyer; Hilda stood and looked at him with a frown between
her brows, and then went slowly out of the room.

Aunt Marjorie, who had cried herself nearly sick, and whose eyes between
their swollen lids were scarcely visible, came to meet her as she walked
across the hall.

"Oh, my darling," she said, with a fresh sob, "how can I bear to look at
you when I think of all your young life blighted in a moment! Oh, those
wicked Bank Directors. They deserve hanging! yes, I should hang them one
and all. And so you have been with my poor brother? I would not venture
near him. How is he taking it, Hilda? Is he quite off his head, poor,
dear man?"

"How do you think my father would take a blow of this kind?" said Hilda.
"Come into the drawing room, Auntie. Oh, Auntie dear, do try to stop
crying. You don't know what father is. Of course I can't pretend to
understand him, but he is quite noble--he is splendid; he makes me
believe in religion. A man must be very, very good to talk as father
has just done."

"Poor Samuel!" said Aunt Marjorie. "I knew that he would take this blow
either as a saint or as an idiot--I don't know which is the most trying.
You see, Hilda, my love, your father has never had anything to do with
the petty details of housekeeping. This parish brings in exactly three
hundred and fifty pounds a year; how are we to pay the wages of nine
servants, and how are the gardeners to be paid, and the little girls'
governess, and--and how is this beautiful house to be kept up on a
pittance of that sort? Oh, dear; oh, dear! Your father will just say to
me, 'I know, Marjorie, that you will do your best,' and then he'll
forget that there is such a thing as money; but I shall never be