had invited several visitors,
so decided that she could not possibly find room to keep her young
cousin during the holidays. Lesbia, therefore, was packed off to
Westhampton, and arrived in a thick fog, to be met by Miss Parry, her
aunt's companion, and conducted to Sycamore Villa, on the London Road.
Lesbia's cup was at present full of new experiences, and this could
hardly be called an exhilarating one. Aunt Newton meant to be kind, but
she was a fussy and fidgetty old lady, and quite unaccustomed to young
people. Everything about the house represented a bygone generation, and
seemed out of touch with modern times. Lesbia liked really old places,
such as the Pilgrims' Inn Chambers where Miss Joyce had her studio, but
Sycamore Villa was mid-Victorian, and its furniture was of the same
period, neither antique nor beautiful. Miss Parry, a little, faded,
pathetic-faced elderly lady, whose duties seemed overwhelming, was not
very lively company for a girl of sixteen. She was generally busy about
the house, and when she came to sit down would concentrate her attention
on her crochet work, and hardly ever opened her lips. It was certainly
unnecessary for her to do so, as Aunt Newton did enough talking for a
dozen people. From the depths of her elbow-chair by the fireside she
would pour forth a continuous stream of reminiscences to which Lesbia
(longing to get on with a book which she was reading) was obliged to
lend an attentive ear, and to respond with "yes" or "no" at the right
points. The stories, though long-winded, were interesting enough at
first telling, but the old lady's memory was failing, and she repeated
them so often that they waxed wearisome to a degree. Lesbia, alas, hated
domestic duties, but at Sycamore Villa she preferred to dust rooms, wash
tea-things, or perform any odd jobs rather than sit and listen to Aunt
Newton's interminable tales of fifty years ago. She acted "errand girl"
for the establishment, and made many journeys backwards and forwards to
the shops to purchase commodities. She welcomed the little expeditions,
for it was at least interesting to walk down the streets and gaze in the
shop windows.

Lesbia thought she would never have got through that weary month at
Westhampton had it not been for a basket of books which she found in the
attic. It was a large wicker laundry hamper, and it was filled with
unbound volumes of _Temple Bar_, and the _Cornhill Magazine_. They dated
from about 1887 to 1