ors. They were very friendly and kind to me, and I
found them superior to my employers, in that their houses were
beautifully clean; but they lived the same slow life, and their soul's
existence fed on the same small ideas. I was keenly disappointed that
none of them had a piano, as my hunger for music could be understood only
by one with a passion for that art.

I borrowed something to read, but all that I could get in the way of
books were a few _Young Ladies' Journals_, which I devoured ravenously, so
to speak.

When Lizer's back would be turned, the girls would ask me how I managed
to live at Barney's Gap, and expressed themselves of the opinion that it
was the most horrible hole in the world, and Mrs M'Swat the dirtiest
creature living, and that they would not go there for 50 pounds a week.
I made a point of never saying anything against Mrs M'Swat; but I fumed
inwardly that this life was forced upon me, when girls with no longings
or aspirations beyond being the wife of a Peter M'Swat recoiled from the
thought of it.

My mother insisted upon my writing to her regularly, so once a week I
headed a letter "Black's Camp", and condemned the place, while mother
as unfailingly replied that these bad times I should be thankful to God
that I was fed and clothed. I knew this as well as any one, and was aware
there were plenty of girls willing to jump at my place; but they were of
different temperament to me, and when one is seventeen, that kind of
reasoning does not weigh very heavily.

My eldest brother, Horace, twin brother of my sister Gertie, took it upon
himself to honour me with the following letter:

Why the deuce don't you give up writing those letters to mother? We get
tongue-pie on account of them, and it's not as if they did you any good.
It only makes mother more determined to leave you where you are. She says
you are that conceited you think you ought to have something better, and
you're not fit for the place you have, and she's glad it is such a place,
and it will do you the world of good and take the nonsense out of
you--that it's time you got a bit of sense. Sullivan's Ginger. After she
gets your letters she does jaw, and wishes she never had a child, and
what a good mother she is, and what bad devils we are to her. You are a
fool not to stay where you are. I wish I could get away to M'Swat or Mack
Pot, and I would jump at the chance like a good un. The boss still sprees
and loafs about town till some