had a will of her own, and was as likely
to say 'I won't,' as 'I will.'"

"Good heavens! And are things like this suffered,--are they endured in
the age we live in?"

"Yes, sir. You've got all your British sympathies very full about
negroes and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' you 're wonderful strong about slavery
and our tyrants down South, and you 've something like fifty thousand
born ladies, called governesses, treated worse than housemaids, and some
ten thousand others condemned to what I won't speak of, that they may
amuse you in your theatres. I can tell you, sir, that the Legrees that
walk St. James's Street and Piccadilly are jest as black-hearted as
the fellows in Georgia or Alabama, though they carry gold-headed
walking-sticks instead of cow-hides."

"But sold her!" reiterated Layton. "Do you mean to say that Clara has
been given over to one of these people to prepare her for the stage?"

"Yes, sir; he says his name's Stocmar,--a real gentleman, he calls him,
with a house at Brompton, and a small yacht at Cowes. They 've rather
good notions about enjoying themselves, these theatre fellows. They get
a very good footing in West End life, too, by supplying countesses to
the nobility."

"No, no!" cried Layton, angrily; "you carry your prejudices against
birth and class beyond reason and justice too."

"Well, I suspect not, sir," said Quackinboss, slowly. "Not to say that
I was n't revilin', but rather a-praisin' 'em, for the supply of so much
beauty to the best face-market in all Europe. If I were to say what's
the finest prerogatives of one of your lords, I know which I 'd name,
sir, and it would n't be wearin' a blue ribbon, and sittin' on a carved
oak bench in what you call the Upper House of Parliament."

"But Clara--what of Clara?" cried Layton, impatiently.

"He suspects that she's at Milan, a sort of female college they have
there, where they take degrees in singin' and dancin'. All I hope is
that the poor child won't learn any of their confounded lazy Italian
notions. There's no people can prosper, sir, when their philosophy
consists in _Come si fa? Come si fa?_ means it's no use to work, it's
no good to strive; the only thing to do in life is to lie down in the
shade and suck oranges. That's the real reason they like Popery, sir,
because they can even go to heaven without trouble, by paying another
man to do the prayin' for 'em. It ain't much trouble to hire a saint,
when it only costs lighting a candle to