The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTruthful Jane

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTruthful JaneThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Truthful JaneAuthor: Florence Morse KingsleyRelease date: June 30, 2016 [eBook #52447]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUTHFUL JANE ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Truthful JaneAuthor: Florence Morse KingsleyRelease date: June 30, 2016 [eBook #52447]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

Title: Truthful Jane

Author: Florence Morse Kingsley

Release date: June 30, 2016 [eBook #52447]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUTHFUL JANE ***

Transcriber's Note:A Table of Contents has been added.

Truthful Jane

FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY

AUTHOR OF"THE SINGULAR MISS SMITH," "THETRANSFIGURATION OF MISSPHILURA," ETC.

logo

D. APPLETON AND COMPANYNEW YORK1907

Published February, 1907

TRUTHFUL JANE

Miss Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe stared steadily at the toes of her damp, shabby little boots which peeped out from beneath the hem of an equally damp and shabby gown, her youthful brows puckered thoughtfully over a pair of extraordinarily bright, long-lashed hazel eyes. Miss Blythe, was for the moment, feeling very much out of it, and consequently very unhappy.

The room in which she was sitting, drying her damp boots and petticoats by a smoldering fire of logs, was a sufficiently cheerful one, its two large windows commanding a wide view of red-tiled London roofs and glazed chimney-pots, all of which glistened wetly in the dull light of the late afternoon. For the rest, the red Turkey carpet was badly worn in spots; the chairs presented the appearance of veterans staunchlysurviving a long and stormy career; while the two small desks piled with dog-eared school-books exhibited tokens of strenuous usage in the shape of ineradicable ink-stains, which served to diversify the cuttings and carvings of inexpert jackknives, stealthily applied.

At opposite sides of a table in the center of the room two small boys in knickerbockers were actively engaged in a competition in which large china mugs of milk and water, and thick slices of bread and butter and jam figured conspicuously.

"You'd better come to your tea, Jane, before we eat all the bread and butter," advised one of the boys thickly.

"I don't want any tea, Cecil; and you shouldn't talk with your mouth full; it's very rude," replied the girl tartly.

"You'll get no dinner, you know, because there's company," observed the other boy, slamming his mug on the table. "Old Gwendolen won't have you down because you're so much handsomer than she is."

Jane turned a distractingly pretty profile toward the speaker, a slight smile dimpling the corners of her mouth. "You oughtn't to say such things, Percy," murmured the girl "—though I dare say it's true enough," she added plaintively.

The two boys, having variously disposed of the thick slices of bread and butter, were now causing startling explosions to issue from the depths of their mugs.

"Put down your mugs this instant!" ordered Miss Blythe sternly. "Haven't I forbidden you to make those disgusting noises in your milk?"

"You have—yes," admitted Cecil coolly, as he sent his empty mug spinning across the table; "but who cares for you, anyway! You're only a poor relation!"

With a smothered howl of rage the smaller Percy arose from his place and fell upon his brother, who received the attack with practiced courage, while Miss Blythe resumed her moody contemplation of her steaming boots.

"You're a cad!"

"You lie!"

"You're another!"

"Ouch!"

"Leggo!—Leggo, I say!"

The tugging and panting of the small combatants, and the scuffling of their stout little shoes on the threadbare carpet, quite drowned the slight sound of the opening door.

"Cecil—Percy—my sons!" exclaimed a voice.

Jane Blythe shrugged her slim shoulders wearily in anticipation of what was to follow.

"I am surprised and displeased, Jane, that you should permit such a disgraceful scene to take place in the school-room without even attempting to quell it," went on the lady, advancing majestically into the center of the floor. "What do I see?—bread and butter on thefloor, on thesofa, on the—yes, actually,on the mantle!andmilk— Really, Jane, I fear you sadly forget your duties at times."

Miss Blythe had risen, apparently that she might bring her bright hazel eyes more nearly on a level with the frozen blue ones behind thedouble glasses which pinched the lady's aquiline nose.

"I don't forget my duties, Aunt Agatha," she said distinctly; "but I think you have forgotten to pay me for them."

"What do you mean, ungrateful girl?"

"I mean that if I am to perform the duties of a nursery governess in your house I should be paid regular wages the same as the rest of the servants. My shoes are worn through the soles, and I need—everything. Even Parks dresses better than I do. She can afford to."

A dead silence followed this clear statement of fact. The two small boys were sulkily regarding their mother from beneath their light lashes, who, in her turn, attempted to quell the militant light in the eyes of the girl.

"How—dareyou say such a thing to me!" cried the lady at length. "And before the children, too! You may come to me in the library to-morrow morning, Jane, when I am examining the accounts. I will talk with you then. In the meantime"—Lady AgathaAubrey-Blythe paused to draw her rustling gown more closely about her tall figure—"I would advise you to reflect on the fact that when you were entirely alone in the world,helplessandpenniless, I took you into my house and cared for you like—like——"

Jane Blythe laughed aloud. It was a dreary little sound; somehow it caused Percy to clench his small fist and draw a little nearer to his cousin.

But it appeared to enrage the lady. Her patrician countenance assumed a peculiar, sickly, mottled pink colour. "To-morrow, at ten, in the library," she said coldly. "And, Jane, as Parks will be occupied with my toilet, I should like you to assist Gwendolen. You may go down now. Susan will put this disgracefully untidy room to rights. Cecil and Percy, you will go to bed at once—at once!do you hear?"

"Yes, mother," piped the two small scions of the house of Aubrey-Blythe in a respectfully subdued chorus. After which they proceeded to thrust their agile tongues into their red cheeksand bulge out their round, blue eyes behind their maternal relative's august back as she turned to leave the room.

"You'll catch it to-morrow, Miss Jane—at ten—in the library!" opined Master Cecil sagely. "I'll bet she'll smack you with the ruler."

"Hold your tongue, Cecil, and come on to bed!" bawled Percy, "or you'll be the one to get smacked with the ruler."

Miss Blythe had walked over to the window and was looking out with unseeing eyes into the gathering dusk.

"It is true," she told herself forlornly. "I am poorer than any of the maids in the house. I hate it! Oh, how Ihate it all!" She wiped away two or three rebellious tears on a grimy little pocket-handkerchief.

A servant had entered and was somewhat noisily gathering the empty dishes onto a tray. "I see you've 'ad no tea, miss," she observed kindly. "Shan't I toast you a bit o' bread at the fire an' fetch some more jam?"

"No, Susan, thank you; I must go down now. But you're very kind to have thought of it."

Jane's smile was beautiful, and the warm-hearted Susan, for one, appreciated it. "They'd orto to be 'shamed o' theirsel's," she observed vaguely to the tea things, as the girl closed the door softly behind her. "An' she's pretty's a pink, an' that sweet-mannered! She'd orto marry a r'yal dook, that she 'ad; an' dress in di'mon's an' satings!"

Susan was in the habit of solacing herself with yellow-covered romances in the scant leisure stolen from her duties as housemaid, and of late Miss Jane Evelyn had figured as the heroine of everyone of these tales in the honest damsel's rather crude imaginings.

As Miss Blythe passed down the dimly lighted staircase on her way to her cousin's room, she was startled to the point of uttering a slight scream by a dark figure which darted out upon her from behind a tall suit of armor stationed on the landing.

"O Reginald!" she exclaimed, "why will you play such baby tricks, now that you are nearly grown?"

"'Nearly grown,' indeed!" echoed the tall youth in a displeased voice. "I am grown. Look at me—away over your head, Miss Jane! I say, give us a kiss, will you?"

"No, indeed, I'll not! Get out of my way directly. I'm in a hurry!"

"Oh, no, you've lots of time to talk to me," chuckled Reginald, planting his ungainly figure directly across the stair. "And you'll not go a step farther till you've paid toll. Do you know, Jane, you're growing deucedly pretty—upon my word!"

"Impudence!" cried Jane sharply. "If you don't let me go this instant I'll call your mother."

"If you do that," drawled the boy, wagging his head threateningly, "I'll tell the mater you were trying to kiss me. Then you'd catch it; she'd believe me every trip."

By way of reply to this taunt Miss Blythereached up and dealt the tall youth a stinging slap on his beardless cheek.

"Tell her that a girl cuffed you, too, baby!" she retorted, and slipped past him like a shadow.

"I'll pay you out for that, miss! See if I don't!" threatened Reginald. But Jane was safely out of sight and hearing, too.

The tall girl seated before a dressing table, carefully inspecting a rather rough and muddy complexion by the light of two wax candles, turned frowning eyes upon Jane as she entered the room.

"Where have you been keeping yourself, slow-poke?" she inquired crossly. "Don't you know I'll be late if I don't make haste?"

"You'd better make haste then," advised Jane coolly, advancing with her hands behind her back. Her usually pale cheeks were flushed to a lovely pink by her triumphant escape from Reginald; her brown hair, ruffled into crisp waves, fell about her brilliant eyes. "What do you want me to do,Gwen—hook up your frock?" she added carelessly.

"I want you to dress my feet first, and be quick about it, too," replied Miss Gwendolen haughtily. "No; not those pink stockings!— I've decided to wear all white this evening. The open-work silk ones, stupid! What is the matter with you, anyway, Jane? You're as red as a lobster."

Jane's little hands trembled as she pulled the designated hose from a pile of party-colored ones in the tumbled drawer. "Here are your stockings," she said briefly. "Which shoes do you want?"

"The white suede with straps; they're the freshest—and do make haste!" replied Gwendolen impatiently.

Jane set the large, white, high-heeled shoes down on the floor beside her cousin's chair with a loud thump.

"Well, aren't you ever going to put them on?" demanded Miss Gwendolen, kicking her satin bedroom slippers half across the room.

"No; I'm not. You can put them on yourself," said Jane deliberately. "Why should I put on your shoes and stockings for you, Gwendolen? You never put on mine for me—do you?"

Gwendolen stared at Jane's rebellious face in silence. She was a dull girl, and it took her some time to understand what Jane had really said to her.

"Why, why—" she stammered, "you have always done as you were told before, and—I'll tell mother," she added, an ugly frown distorting her face. "She'll not allow you to be impertinent to me, you know."

"It is quite impossible for me to be impertinent to you, Gwendolen," said Jane, drawing up her little figure superbly. "One cannot be impertinent to one's equals. I'll hook up your frock for you, if you like, because you are my cousin, and I ought on that account to be willing to be civil to you. But I won't put on your stockings and shoes for you, so you may as well begin."

Gwendolen stooped and drew on her stockings in sullen silence; then she put on her shoes. "I'll tell mother," she repeated stupidly.

"You may tell her if you like," said Jane airily. "And you may tell Lady Maybury that you haven't sense enough to pull on your stockings straight, if you like. I don't care."

Gwendolen looked actually frightened; she peered into her cousin's face with her ugly, shortsighted eyes. "Whathascome over you, Jane?" she asked anxiously. "Oh, I do believe you've got a fever and are out of your head! Get away from me—do! Suppose it should be smallpox, and I should catch it—oh! Go away—quick! Ring the bell for Susan as you go out. She can hook my frock, and——"

Jane pirouetted out of the door like a sprite. "Thank you, Gwen!" she cried mockingly. "Yes, I fancy I have a fever. But you'll not catch it, you poor, dear, stupid thing, you!"

Then she darted up two flights of stairs to her own cold little room under the roof, where sheflung herself face downward across the narrow bed and wept tempestuously.

"O God,pleaselet me go away from this house!" she prayed between her sobs. "I've been good and patient just as long as I possibly can. Things willhaveto change!"

The girl was truthful—even with herself—even with her Creator.

Jane Aubrey-Blythe was not in the habit of weakly shedding tears; nevertheless on this occasion she wept herself into a state of somnolence like a whipped child, when she lay quite still, her handkerchief rolled into a tight, damp ball, her limp figure shaken with an occasional recurrent sob.

"They are all too hateful," she murmured brokenly. "I wish something would happen—anything; I don't care what."

As a matter of fact, something did happen almost immediately. As Jane was sleepily pulling the blankets about her chilly shoulders, Susan's honest face, shining like a hard red apple in the light of the candle she carried, was thrust inside the door.

"O Miss Jane Evelyn," she whispered, "are you 'ere?"

"What is it, Susan?" demanded Jane, sitting up and winking drowsily at the candle flame.

"W'y, you've 'ad no dinner, miss, an' so I've brought you a bite of chicken and a mouthful of salad," said Susan briskly. "Just you lie back comfortable-like on these 'ere pillows, miss, an' I'll bring it in directly."

"But I'm not ill, Susan, and I'm not hungry," protested Jane. "I—I'm just tired."

"You'll be ill directly if you don't pick a bit o' somethink," Susan declared oracularly, "an' you that slender an' delicate, Miss Jane Evelyn." She was arranging the contents of a neat tray before Jane as she spoke. "Now you jus' try a mossel o' that bird, an' you'll find it tastes moreish, or I'm mistook i' the looks o' it. Miss Gwendolen, now, is that thick i' the waist she might go wi'out her dinner for a fortnight, that she might, miss. It was all I could do a-'ookin' up 'er frock this very evenin'. 'You're such a stoopid, Susan,' she says, 'your fingers is all thumbs.' Then she turns an' twists afore 'erglass as proud as proud, though the Lord knows she's nothink to be proud of, wi' that rough, muddy skin o' hers, alongside of yours, Miss Jane Evelyn."

"You are very impertinent, Susan," said Jane reprovingly. "Gwen can't help her complexion, nor her thick figure, though of course they must get on her nerves, poor thing." And Jane dimpled demurely, as she tasted her salad with appetite. "I was hungry, after all," she acknowledged.

Susan gazed at the young lady with admiring eyes. "Of course you were, Miss Jane Evelyn," she exulted, "an' I knowed it. As I says to cook, 'Miss Jane Evelyn's 'ad nary bite o' supper,' I says; an' cook says to me, 'Susan,' she says, 'you'll find a tray i' th' buttry, once I'm through wi' dishin' up.'"

Jane's eyes filled with fresh tears; and she choked a little over her tea. "You're too good, Susan," she murmured, "and so is cook, to think of me at all."

"All I hasks in return, miss, is that you'll takeme on as lidy's maid once you're married an' settled in a 'ome o' your own."

Jane fixed wistful eyes upon Susan's broad, kindly face. "O Susan," she said, "do you suppose I'll ever have a home of my own?"

"Do I suppose you'll ever— W'y, land o' love, Miss Jane Evelyn, in course you will! Mussy me, don't Iknow? Ain't I seen young ladies in my time? There was Miss Constance and Mary Selwyn, both of 'em thought to be beauties, an' me scullery maid an' seein' 'em constant goin' in an' out of their kerridge through the area windy, where I was put to clean vegetables; an' they wasn't a patch on you, miss, fer figure, nor yet fer complexion, nor yet fer eyes, nor yet——"

"O Susan!" exclaimed Jane soulfully, "you oughtn't to talk that way. I'm not at all pretty."

"You're jus' beautiful, Miss Jane Evelyn," said Susan firmly, "beautiful enough fer a dook or a prince, if it's only me as says it; an' you'll see what you'll see some o' these days, that you will. W'y, only last night I was tellin' yourfortin' wi' cards, miss, an' the dark man wi' a crown was fightin' a dool wi' the light man, an' all for the love of you, miss; an' if that ain't a sign o' somethin' serious then I don't know cards nor fortins neither."

"That will do, Susan," said Jane, very dignified indeed. "Thank you so much for bringing me something to eat, and will you thank cook for me, too. I think I will go to bed now, Susan, and you may take the tray away."

"I'll take the tray down directly, Miss Jane Evelyn," said honest Susan, quite unabashed, "but go to bed you'll not, miss, because the master wishes to see you quite pertic'lar in the library when 'e's through 'is dinner."

"What! Uncle Robert?" exclaimed Jane, flying out of bed, and beginning to pull the pins out of her tumbled hair. "I wonder what he can possibly want with me." Her little hands trembled. "Oh, I'm afraid Aunt Agatha——!"

"No; it ain't, miss," beamed Susan encouragingly. "I'll bet it's somethink himportant,that I do. I was jus' a-comin' downstairs after Miss Gwendolen's flowers, an' the master was standin' in the 'all. 'Where's Jane?' he says to my Lidy. 'She should be down by this.' An' my Lidy she says, 'aughty an' cold-like, 'Jane 'ad her supper in the school-room with the children, as usual, to-night,' she says. 'She didn't care to come down.' 'Why, dang it,' 'e says, or some such word, 'Jane ought to be down to-night of all nights; 'aven't you told her, madam?' 'No,' says my Lidy, 'I 'aven't. I left that to you. Then 'e turns to me, an' horders me to tell you to be in the library at ten o'clock, an' to say that you was to wait for 'im there till 'e come. It ain't much after nine, miss, so you've time a-plenty, an' I'll 'elp you to dress."

Jane's eyes were shining like frightened stars. "Oh!" she murmured brokenly, "I wonder what it can be!"

"Now, don't you be scared ner yet worrited, Miss Jane Evelyn," exhorted Susan, her head in Jane's little wardrobe. "You just put on this'ere white frock an' I'll 'ook it up fer you. But first I'll do your 'air, if you'll let me."

Jane resigned herself with a sigh to Susan's deft hands. "You do brush my hair so nicely, Susan," she murmured, after a long silence filled with the steady stroking of the brush through her long brown tresses.

"It's the Lord's own mussy you'll let me do it, miss," cried Susan fervently, "else a 'ouse-maid I'd live an' die, an' me wantin' to be a lidy's maid sence I was knee high to a grass-'opper. I says to Miss Gwendolen on'y yesterday, 'Mayn't I brush your 'air, miss,' I says, 'Parks bein' busy, I think I can do it satisfactory.' 'Go 'way, Susan!' she snaps out, 'do you s'pose I'd 'ave your great, rough, clumsy 'ands about my 'ead?' she says."

"Your hands are not rough, nor clumsy, either," said Jane, understanding the pause, and filling it exactly as Susan wished; "and if I ever do have a lady's maid it shall be you, Susan."

"Thank you kindly, Miss Jane Evelyn," beamed Susan. "Now ain't that a lovely coffer?I'll bet Parks couldn't do no better nor that in a hundred years! But it 'ud be a simple idgit what couldn't do your 'air, miss; it's that soft an' shinin' an' curls itself better nor curlin'-tongs could do it."

All of which was strictly true, as Jane's brown eyes told her. Then the white frock was carefully put on, and Susan next produced from somewhere three great creamy buds, one of which she fastened behind Miss Blythe's pretty pink ear; the other two she pinned to the modest little bodice, standing off to survey her handiwork with an air of honest pride.

"I 'ooked them three roses from Miss Gwendolen's bouquet," she announced unblushingly, "an' a mighty good job it were."

"Then I'll not wear them," said Jane decidedly. "You may take them away, Susan. I may be forced to wear Gwen's cast-off frocks; but I'llnotwear her flowers!"

An ethical differentiation which it would have puzzled Miss Blythe to explain, and which left poor Susan in open-mouthed dismay.

"She's a reg'lar lidy, is Miss Jane Evelyn, as ever was," cogitated that worthy hand-maiden, as Jane's light step passed down the corridor, "'igh an' 'aughty as the 'aughtiest, yet that sweet an' lovely in her w'ys I can't 'elp a-worshipin' the ground she walks on. It's a dook or a lord as ought to marry Miss Jane Evelyn, an' it's me as 'll be her lidy's maid." And she proceeded to put the poor little room with its shabby appointments into truly exquisite order with all the zeal born of her anticipations.

There was no one in the library when Jane entered it, so she sat down in one of the great carved chairs by the fire, feeling very small and young and lonely. The gentle hum of conversation and the subdued tinkle of glass and silver reached her where she sat, and between curtained doorways she could catch glimpses of the softly lighted drawing-room beyond, gay with masses of azaleas and ferns.

After a little Jane found herself busy with dim memories of her past. She had been a child of three when her father and mother died, withina month of each other, she had been told; the broken-hearted young wife apparently not caring enough for her one child to face her bleak future.

"Oliver Aubrey-Blythe's wife was an exceedingly weak woman," Lady Agatha had once told Jane cruelly; "and I feel that it is my duty to trainyouinto something far different, if such a thing is at all possible."

Jane's little hands grew quite cold, as she strove vainly to fix the illusive memory of the two faces which had bent over her on the day she had fallen into the fountain at Blythe Court. She remembered the fountain distinctly, with its darting goldfish and the stout cherub in the middle staggering under the weight of an impossible dolphin from whose open mouth gushed a dazzling jet of water.

There were blue flowers growing about the edge of the marble basin, and she had recklessly trampled them under foot in her baby efforts to grasp a particularly beautiful goldfish. The rest was a blur, wherein dazzling blue sky seenthrough green waving treetops an immense distance away made a background for the two shadowy figures which stood out from the others. It was pleasant at the bottom of the fountain, Jane remembered, where one could look up through the clear water and see the far blue sky and the waving trees. For an instant she paused to wonder what would have happened had the shadowy figures of her parents been farther away when she shrieked and fell—quite at the other side of the garden, say. Would the blue sky and the waving trees have faded quite away into nothingness after a little? And was somethingness so much better than nothingness, after all?

But all this ghostly cogitation being quite at variance with Miss Blythe's usual optimistic and cheerfully human way of looking at things, she presently abandoned it altogether to speculate on the nature of the interview with her uncle, an event which certainly concerned her immediate fortunes much more intimately. Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe was an exalted personage with whom Jane felt herself to be very slightlyacquainted. He was kind; yes, certainly. Jane could not recall a single occasion upon which he had spoken to her in a manner even remotely approaching unkindness. Indeed, he very rarely spoke to her at all beyond a curt 'Good evening, Jane' when she slipped into her place at the family dinner table. Twice before this she had been summoned to the library; each time to receive a perfunctory rebuke for some childish piece of mischief, reported presumably by Lady Agatha; whereat she had gone away shaking in her small shoes to lead a blameless existence for many days thereafter.

"Aunt Agatha has told Uncle Robert what I said to her about being paid for teaching Percy and Cecil," the girl decided. "Well, I hope she has. I don't mind being a nursery governess, not in the least; but I hate—hate—hatethe way I am living now. Even the servants pity me!"

She stood up and drew her slight figure to its full height as she heard the swish and rustle of silken skirts in the corridor; the women werecoming away from table. It was a small party, after all. Jane watched the vanishing trains of the five dinner-gowns with a speculative smile. How would it seem, she wondered, to be beautifully dressed every night and dine with guests who were not forever carping at one, but whose chief business in life it was to be agreeable. Then she faced about at sound of her cousin Gwendolen's voice.

"What are you doing in here, Jane?" demanded that young lady snappishly, as she advanced to the fire.

"Waiting for Uncle Robert," Jane told her briefly.

Gwendolen frowned and twisted her rings so as to make them sparkle in the firelight. "Howverycoy and unconscious we are!" she said sneeringly. Then suddenly she burst into a disagreeable laugh.

"What are you laughing at, Gwen?" asked Jane, with real curiosity.

"At you, goose," replied Miss Aubrey-Blythe crossly. She turned and moved toward the door."Don't you know what papa wants with you?" she paused to demand.

"No, I don't," said Jane steadily. "Do you?"

But Miss Gwendolen merely shrugged her ugly shoulders as she dropped the heavy curtains into place behind her.

When Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe finally entered the library, it was with the pleasant glow of a good dinner, good wine, and good company enveloping his portly form like a visible halo. He actually bowed before Jane, as though she were a great lady of his acquaintance, instead of his niece, left on his hands to bring up with scarce a penny to her name.

"Ah, Jane," he began, swelling out the shining expanse of his shirt front like a pouter pigeon, "I see—er—that you are here, as I bade you."

"Yes, Uncle Robert," murmured Jane, with a beating heart; "you wished to speak with me, sir?"

"I did, Jane; I did indeed. Ah—er—you may be seated, if you please, Jane."

Jane obeyed.

"Why—er—did you not come down to dinner to-night, Jane?" Mr. Aubrey-Blythe wanted to know next, his remark being prefaced by a long and speculative stare at Jane's small person. He appeared indeed to be looking at his niece for the first time.

"Because I wasn't asked, sir."

"Hum—ah; it was an oversight, Jane. You should have dined with us to-night."

Jane was puzzled. She stole a glance at her uncle's eminently respectable British visage, with just a fleeting wonder as to the amount of wine he had drunk at dinner. But no; he was undeniably sober, not to say serious; his eyes were still fixed upon herself with that singularly speculative gaze.

"You have—er—made your home with us for many years—that is to say, since your infancy, Jane, and I—er—trust that these have been not unhappy years—eh, Jane?"

Jane folded one cold little hand over the other; it was as she thought, she told herself angrily, Aunt Agatha had blabbed. "Since youhave asked me, Uncle Robert," she said distinctly, "I will tell you that they have been very unhappy years. I simply hate my life in this house." She leaned back in her chair and fixed her clear eyes upon her uncle. Manifestly he was astounded by her reply.

"Why, why, why—upon my word!" he stammered at length. "I am—er—shocked to hear you speak in that manner. What—er—what, in short, do you mean?"

"I should rather go away and earn my living," said Jane desperately. "I suppose Aunt Agatha has told you what I said to her in the schoolroom to-night; but I meant it; I shouldn't mind being a nursery governess in the least, and"—forlornly—"it is all I am good for."

"Tut, tut!" remonstrated Mr. Aubrey-Blythe with some sternness. "You quite misunderstand me, I see. Now, I beg that you will have the goodness to attend me while I explain more fully why I have sent for you."

But he made no haste to enter upon the promised explanation, again fixing his eyes upon hisniece in a long, contemplative gaze. What he saw must have clarified his ideas somewhat, for he presently went on more briskly.

"Whether you have been happy or not during your years of residence under my roof matters little with regard to—er—what I am about to say, Jane. I have, in short, a proposal for your hand."

"A what?" gasped Jane.

"A proposal of marriage was what I said," repeated Mr. Aubrey-Blythe rebukingly. "A most honorable and—er—highly flattering proposal, in short. I own that I was surprised, and so—er—was my wife, Lady Agatha."

Jane's own emotions were clearly depicted upon her young face. She was leaning forward in her chair, her large eyes fixed upon her uncle.

"Who—" she began; then stopped short.

"You have, of course, met the gentleman who has paid you this great compliment—the highest compliment—er—that man can pay to woman," proceeded Mr. Aubrey-Blythe grandly. "The proposal reached me by letter last week, and theauthor of that letter was"—he paused dramatically—"the Hon. Wipplinger Towle."

The girl burst into a hysterical laugh.

"Jane, I beg— Will you not control yourself, madam? Ah—er—I see I shall be forced to call Lady Agatha."

Jane instantly became calm. "Don't—please don't call Aunt Agatha," she begged. "It was only—I couldn't help thinking——"

"I trust you will reflect carefully as to what this proposal means for you, Jane. I confess that I should have been—er—not displeased had the proposal embraced a different—that is to say—er—had the recipient of it been my own daughter, I should have been disposed to consider it not unfavorably. Lady Agatha was at first convinced that the gentleman had, in short, committed a most egregious blunder; but I am assured by word of mouth that this is not the case. It is you, Jane, he wishes to make his wife; you and no other. And I congratulate you sincerely upon the auspicious event. I will not deny that your future has been an occasional source ofkeen anxiety to me, and also, I believe, to my wife, Lady Agatha; portionless brides are not commonly sought by men—er—whose position in life is that of the Hon. Wipplinger Towle."

"But—Uncle Robert; you can't mean that I— You know I—couldn'tmarrythat man, Uncle Robert."

"You could not marry the Hon. Wipplinger Towle? Surely, I do not understand you correctly, Jane. I perceive that you have been greatly surprised by the nature of my disclosure, totally unprepared for it as you were. And this much I regret, my dear child. You should have been apprised of the facts, you should indeed."

Jane's heart was touched by the faint cadence of affection in the man's voice. "O Uncle Robert!" she cried, "do you look at all like my father? Do tell me that you do; I should so love to think so!"

Mr. Aubrey-Blythe shook his head. "I do not resemble my deceased brother Oliver in the smallest particular," he said dryly. "And Ihave never felt that this was a cause of regret. Oliver was a most injudicious and hasty tempered person; his early death and many misfortunes were undoubtedly brought about by his own deplorable imprudence. I have often thought"—deliberately—"that you resemble him, Jane."

"I'm glad I do!" retorted Jane. "And I may as well say once for all, Uncle Robert, that I willnotmarry the Hon. Wipplinger Towle. You may tell him so."

Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe regarded his niece with a portentous gathering of his bushy eyebrows. "I beg, Jane," he said, "that you will not decide this matter hastily. There are, in short, many reasons why you should marry, and I will not deny that I regard the present proposal as most opportune. I have, in short, given the Hon. Wipplinger Towle my full permission to pay his addresses to you. He dined with us this evening, and—er—expects, I believe, the opportunity of pleading his own cause."

"Do you want me to go away, Uncle Robert?" faltered Jane, quite overcome. "Do you hate me, too?"

"Certainly not—decidedly not, Jane. You—er—put the matter in most unwarranted terms. But I believe that you would be far happier in an establishment of your own. In fact, you have already intimated something of the sort in the course of our conversation. Am I not right?"

"I said I should rather be a nursery governess," said Jane doggedly. "I can do that; I have taught Percy and Cecil ever since Miss Craddock went away, and——"

Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe rose abruptly. "No, Jane—I beg— Keep your seat, if you please. I will send Mr. Towle to you at once. You are, of course, at liberty to do as you wish in the matter. But as your eldest surviving male relative I most strongly advise that you listen to his suit patiently and give him the answer that he wishes and—er—expects."

Jane stretched out her hands imploringly."Dear Uncle Robert," she whispered; "please, Uncle Robert—just a minute!"

But he was gone, and Jane sank back in her chair with a sob. "Oh, if he would only love me a little!" she thought. Then she sat up very straight and calm; somebody was approaching.

The Hon. Wipplinger Towle was a tall man, even taller than Mr. Robert Aubrey-Blythe. He was also exceedingly lean, and bald—quite bald. Jane mechanically noted the dull pale glisten of his scalp as he crossed the wide expanse of Turkey carpet which intervened between herself and the curtained doorway.

"Good evening, Mr. Towle," she said calmly, offering the tips of her chilly little fingers with extreme nonchalance.

The Honorable Wipplinger was evidently somewhat agitated in a perfunctory, elderly way. That he was likewise perfectly confident as to the outcome of the interview Jane thought she perceived, with an involuntary deepening of the dimple at the corner of her mouth.

"Hum—ah," he began, fixing his glass firmlyin place. "You were not dining at home this evening, Miss Blythe? I was—er—frightfully disappointed, upon my word; I had been—ah—led to expect—ah—that is, I hoped that I should see you earlier in the evening."

"I never come down when Aunt Agatha has guests," said Jane, putting her pretty head on one side and gazing at her elderly suitor contemplatively. He was quite as old as Uncle Robert, she decided, and sufficiently ugly to look at, with his bald head and his tall, square-shouldered figure. For the rest, the Hon. Wipplinger Towle was possessed of a stubborn-looking chin, deep-set gray eyes, and a well-cut mouth, amply furnished with strong white teeth.

Jane gently shrugged her shoulders as she dropped her bright eyes to her lap. "I fancy I should have starved if it hadn't been for Susan," she finished.

Mr. Towle glanced at her quickly. "Hum—ah, Susan?" he hesitated; "and who, if I may ask, is Susan?"

"Susan is the under housemaid," repliedJane sweetly. "She brought me up some supper on a tray. Wasn't it nice of her?"

Mr. Towle made several small uncertain sounds in his throat, which resembled—Jane reflected—the noises made by an ancient clock on the point of striking. Then he stared hard at Jane, again adjusting his monocle. "Hum—ah, Miss Blythe," he began, "I—er—in point of fact, I have the very great honor to be permitted to pay you my addresses, and so——"

Jane turned pale. "Please don't mention it," she interrupted.

"I beg your pardon," observed Mr. Towle interrogatively, "you were saying——"

"I said, please don't talk about it. I—I couldn't, you know; though I'm sure it's very kind—at least, Uncle Robert said it was— A compliment, I believe he called it."

"One I am—er—delighted to pay to so lovely a creature as yourself," murmured Mr. Towle laboriously.

"Howdareyou say such a silly thing to me!" snapped Jane, her hazel eyes blazing."I'm not a lovely creature, and I won't be called so."

"Why—er—I beg your pardon, I'm sure," stuttered the abashed suitor. "But I have the full permission of Lady Agatha and Mr. Aubrey-Blythe, and I thought— But surely you cannot have understood that I"—welling visibly with a sense of his own importance, Jane was resentfully sure—"desire to make you my wife. I wish you, in short, to make me the happiest man in London by—er—becoming Mrs. Towle. And may I, my dear Miss Aubrey-Blythe, beg you to name an early day—a very early day for the celebration of our nuptials. The matter of settlements and all that can be quickly arranged; and I beg to assure you that they shall be satisfactory—quite satisfactory, as I have already taken the pains to assure your uncle, Mr. Aubrey-Blythe. I can, in short, afford to be generous, and—er—I desire to be so."

Mr. Towle paused in his halting discourse to draw a small box from his waistcoat pocket. Jane watched him in fascinated silence as heopened it and drew from its satin nest a hoop of diamonds.

"I hope you will allow me," murmured the Honorable Wipplinger, bending forward.

"No!" cried Jane. "I sayno!" She stood up, very pale and unapproachable. "I ought not to have allowed you to say all this to me," she said. "I do thank you for wanting me to marry you; but, of course, it is impossible."

"Why do you say 'of course'?" asked Mr. Towle, in a surprisingly human voice. "Do you enjoy your life here so much?"

"No," said Jane, "I do not; but I'll not marry to escape from it."

The Honorable Wipplinger deliberately returned the hoop of diamonds to its nest, snapped the lid of the box shut, and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. "I didn't go at it right," he observed meditatively. "Robert should have warned me." He turned to Jane once more. "Do you—er—mind telling me just why you have turned me down so squarely?"

"I'd much rather not," said Jane, blushing. "You wouldn't like it."

"Oh, yes, I should. For one thing, you think I'm horribly old; don't you?"

"Well, you are; aren't you?"

"Not so very. I lost my hair in a beastly fever I had in India ten years ago, and it would never grow on top after that. As a matter of fact I'm only forty."

"Forty!" repeated Jane, in an indescribable voice. "Why that—" She stopped short. "I'd much better say good night at once," she said contritely, "and—and truly I do thank you. I didn't suppose anyone in the world would ever care about me. And you——"

"I certainly do," said Mr. Towle resignedly. "But I went about saying it like a jackass. To tell you the honest truth I was in a regular blue funk. I never proposed marriage to a woman before, and I never shall again. Of course, you don't know me very well, Miss Blythe; but I'm a whole lot nicer than I look. If you only could——"

Jane shook her head decidedly. "I'd like you awfully well for—for an uncle," she said regretfully, "or a—grandfather— There! I oughtn't to have said that. You're really not old enough for a grandfather. But mine are both dead, and I've always thought it would be lovely to have one."

Mr. Towle swallowed hard. "Go on," he said encouragingly, "you'd like me well enough for a—a grandfather, but not for a husband. Is that what you meant to say?"

"It wasn't a bit nice of me to say it; but then I'm always saying dreadful things. That is why"—dejectedly—"nobody likes me."

The Hon. Wipplinger Towle gazed down at the little figure with a very kind look indeed in his deep-set gray eyes. "Oh, well," he said, "I might have known better. I did know better, in fact. But from something Lady Agatha said to me I fancied that perhaps I—that perhaps you——"

Jane held out her hand. "Good night," she said.

Mr. Towle took the offered hand in his very gently. It was cold, and the small fingers trembled a little in his own big, warm palm. "Good night," he said; "I can't—by force of cruel circumstances—be your—er—grandfather; but I'd like to be your friend, Jane; may I?"

"Why, yes," said Jane, smiling up into the keen gray eyes, "you may. And—and I thank you a whole lot for being so—game."

Lady Agatha Aubrey-Blythe looked up from the housekeeper's book which she was inspecting with displeased interest, and turned her light blue eyes upon her husband's niece, as she stood a forlorn yet rigidly defiant little figure, her back against the closed door. "You may come in, Jane, and sit down," said Lady Agatha, in precisely the same tone she would have used to a delinquent housemaid.

Jane advanced and sat down, every line of her face and figure expressing an exasperating indifference to the stately hauteur of the lady, who on her part proceeded to concentrate her entire attention upon a bundle of tradesmen's accounts, which she compared one by one with the entries in the housekeeper's book.

This went on for some twenty minutes, during which period Jane stared unremittingly outof the window against which a cold rain was beating.

Then Lady Agatha spoke: "I have purposely detained you in complete silence, Jane, that you might reflect quietly upon your present position in life. I trust you have made good use of the opportunity."

Jane made no reply; but she withdrew her eyes from the dripping window pane and fixed them upon her aunt. In return, Lady Agatha focused her frozen stare upon the girl. "Is itpossiblethat you had thepresumptionto refuse Mr. Towle's offer of marriage last night?" she asked with an indescribable mixture of unwilling respect and cold dislike in her voice.

"Yes, Aunt Agatha, I did," said Jane, a faint expression of regret passing over her face.

"Why?"

"Because I—couldn't—love him."

Lady Agatha scowled. "Icannotunderstand what attracted the man to you in the first place," she said disdainfully. "I believe he only saw you twice."

"Three times," Jane corrected her.

"You are not," said Lady Agatha, pausing to contemplate the girl's face and figure with the air of one examining a slightly damaged article of merchandise, "at all attractive. You have neither beauty nor style, and you are not in the least clever."

Jane appeared to grow smaller in her chair. She sighed deeply.

"Besides all this," went on Lady Agatha mercilessly, "you are practically penniless. I cannot understand how such a man as Mr. Towle, exceptionally well connected and very wealthy,evercame to think of such a thing as marryingyou! But"—spitefully—"I dare sayyouknow well enough how it came about."

"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Agatha," stammered poor Jane.

"Have you never met Mr. Towle, quite by accident, we will say, on the street, or——"

"How can you say such a thing to me, Aunt Agatha!" cried Jane, "as if I were a—servant, or a—a quite common person. I never saw Mr.Towle except in this house, and I never spoke three words to him before last night. And—and I do like him, because he—likes me. But I cannot marry him on that account."

Lady Agatha shrugged her shoulders with a hateful smile. "Oh, I dare say Mr. Towle will be very glad of the outcome later on," she said carelessly. "It is not easy to account for the vagaries of elderly men. But it was not to speak of this absurdcontretempsthat I sent for you this morning, Jane; Gwendolen reported to me what took place in her room last night, and at first I contemplated referring the whole matter to your uncle; but——"

Lady Agatha paused to note the gleam of hope which lighted up the girl's expressive features, only to fade as she went on in her peculiarly frigid, precise way:

"I finally thought best to settle the question with you. Your proposal that I should pay you the wages of a servant shocked and grieved me—inexpressibly. Your position in this household is that—er—of—a relative—anunfortunate relative, it is true; but still a relative. You bear our name, and as an Aubrey-Blythe you ought to consider what is due your—er—position. You ought, in short, to fill your humble niche in the family life cheerfully and uncomplainingly. Do you follow me?"

"Yes, Aunt Agatha," said Jane stonily.

"It is little indeed that you can do for us in return for all the benefits which are continually heaped upon you," went on Lady Agatha, with an air of Christian forbearance. "It ought not to be necessary for me to remind you of this, Jane. I regret that it is so. But I cannot permit a discordant element to disturb the peace of my home. You are aware that Percy and Cecil should be required to conduct themselves like gentlemen. You will see to it that the disgraceful scene of last night is not repeated. As for Gwendolen, any little service that you are requested to do for her ought to be gladly performed. Do you know, the poor, dear child was quite overcome by your rudeness; she thought you must be ill."

"I shall never put on Gwendolen's stockings and shoes for her again," remarked Jane, with disconcerting finality.

"Jane, you forget yourself!"

"No, aunt; you are mistaken. I am not forgetting myself; I am remembering that I am an Aubrey-Blythe."

Lady Agatha stared blankly at the girl for a full minute. Then she recovered herself. "You are an ungrateful, impertinent girl!" she said slowly. "If you were younger I should feel it my duty to ferule you severely. There is one other thing I wish to speak to you about; then you may go. I have observed that you are far too familiar and presuming in your manner toward your cousin Reginald. His future position in the world as my oldest son and his father's heir does not warrant any such attitude on your part."

"Did Reginald tell you that he tried to kiss me on the stairs last night, and that I slapped him for it?" inquired Jane, in a businesslike tone. "It was 'familiar' ofme, I admit; but Reginald is such a cub, you know."

Lady Agatha rose to her full height. "You may go to your room, Jane, and stay there for the remainder of the day," she said in an awful voice. "I see that my Christian charity is entirely misplaced in your case. I shall, after all, be obliged to consult your uncle with regard to some other disposal of your person. I cannot bear you about me longer. Your influence on my dear children ismost unfortunate!"

Jane turned sharply—she already had her hand upon the door. "I hope uncle will send me away!" she exclaimed passionately. "I hate this house and everyone in it—except Percy and Susan!"

Lady Agatha, shaken out of her usual icy self-control, darted forward. She was a tall, big woman and she swept the girl before her in a blast of cold fury up the stairs—two flights of them—to the little attic room; there she thrust the slight figure within, and locked the door upon it.

Jane stood in the middle of the floor and listened to the ugly click of the key and the sound of Lady Agatha's retreating boot heels on the uncarpeted corridor.

"Well," said Jane ruefully. "Ihavemade a mess of it!" She had completely forgotten her prayer of the night before.

Somebody had laid a fire in her rusty little grate. It was Susan, of course, who was continually going out of her way to be kind to the girl to whom everyone else was so persistently and pointedly unkind. Jane's sore heart warmed toward honest Susan, as she hunted for a match in the ugly little safe on the mantel. "I've a day off, anyway," she told herself, "and I'll cobble up that old gown of Gwen's so that I can wear it."

Miss Blythe was well used to cobbling up old gowns and clever at it, too. She waxed increasingly cheerful as she spread the faded breadths across her knee and discovered that the wrong side of the fabric was fresh and bright. Later she congratulated herself upon a stray sheet ofThe Times, left behind by Susan after laying the fire; it would do admirably for pattern material. As she spread its crumpled folds upon her counterpane, preparatory to evolving a wonderful yoke design, her eye fell upon a line in the column of "Female Help Wanted." It read as follows:

"A lady about to travel in America wishes to engage intelligent young female as companion. Good wages. Duties nominal. Apply mornings to Mrs. Augustus Markle, 10 Belgravia Crescent."

"Oh!" murmured Jane Blythe. She sank down on the edge of her hard little bed and read the fateful lines again. "A lady about to travel in America—an intelligent young female as traveling companion. Why,Iam an intelligent young female!" exclaimed Jane, with the air of a discoverer; "I wonder if I look the part?"

She stared at her young reflection in the dim mirror over her little dressing table. "I believe I look sufficiently 'intelligent' to perform 'nominal duties' as a companion," she told herself candidly. Then she hunted for the date ofthe paper, and was ready to shed tears of disappointment when she discovered that it was that of the previous day.

"There are so many intelligent young females, and I suppose everyone of them would like to travel in America," said Jane, still eying the brown-eyed young person in the glass. "Besides, I'm locked in."

The brown eyes twinkled as they turned toward the one window of the attic room. More than once, when she was a small girl, Jane had escaped from durance vile by way of the projecting gutter just outside her window. It was a perilous feat; but Jane was muscular and agile as a boy, and of a certain defiant courage withal, born perhaps of her unhappy lot in life.

"It would vex Aunt Agatha frightfully if I should fall and get killed on the conservatory roof," murmured Jane, as she pinned up her long skirts securely, "and it would cost Uncle Robert a whole lot in broken glass and potted plants and things; but I don't care!"

In another minute she had crawled out of herlittle window and commenced her dangerous journey to a neighboring window, which, luckily for the bold adventuress, stood wide open. Twice the girl's cautious feet slipped unsteadily on a bit of ice, and once the gutter itself cracked ominously under her weight; but at last she gained the window, climbed in, and sank white and shaken to the floor.

"Jane Blythe, you must be losing your nerve," she told herself sternly, when she had gathered sufficient strength to stumble dizzily to her feet; "the last time you tried that you didn't turn a hair!"

The rest was easy, and in less than an hour's time Miss Blythe found herself ringing the bell at 10 Belgravia Crescent. The slatternly maid, distinguished by the traditional smudge over one eye, informed her that Mrs. Markle was within, and in the same breath that she was "clean wore out with interviewin' young females."

Jane's heart sank; nevertheless she bestowed a sixpence upon the dingy maid with an air ofregal unconcern, and was straightway ushered into the presence of Mrs. Augustus Markle, with a flourish of the dingy one's plaided pinafore and the brief announcement: "'Ere's another of 'em, ma'am!"

The stout lady, solidly enthroned upon a sofa before the dispirited fire, did not turn her elaborately coiffured head.

"Ze young woman may come in," intoned a full, rich, foreign-sounding voice which somewhat prepared Jane for the large, dark, highly colored visage, flanked with dubious diamond eardrops, which Mrs. Markle turned upon her visitor.

"You wis' to inquire about ze situation—eh?" pursued this individual, without any token of impatience. "I haf already seen feefty of ze London demoisellesce matin."

"Oh, if you have already engaged some one, I will not trouble you!" stammered Jane, edging toward the door.

"Not so fast—not so fast, madmoiselle; it iss true I haf already engage; but— Ah, zis issbettaire! Morechic—oui. Your name,s'il vous plait?"

"Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe," murmured the girl.

"An' you wis' to go to ze ozzer side—to America—oui?"

"I wish to leave London; yes."

"To-morrow evenin', zen, I go by ze train. Zen I sail on ze so gra-a-nd ship. You go wiz me—eh?"

Jane stared at the woman with some astonishment. "What would be my—my duties?" she asked.

"Your duties? Why, to go wiz me—mycompagnon de voyage—comprenez? Nossing else, I assure you; I wait on myself. But I am—what you call it—lone-some—see? An' I require a nize, young lady to go wiz me."

Mrs. Markle smiled affably, revealing a double row of glistening white teeth. She looked very kind and good-natured, and Jane drew a quick breath.

"I will go," she said decidedly.

The final arrangements were quickly concluded, and Jane presently found herself walking down the street, her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes blazing with excitement.

"I am going to America to-morrow—to-morrow!" she told herself. "I shall travel! I shall see the world! I shall never—never come back!"

The girl was so absorbed in her thoughts, which had for the moment flown quite across seas to the America of her imaginings, that she failed to see the tall, square-shouldered person who had turned the corner and was approaching her at a leisurely pace. She became aware of his presence when he spoke, and flushed an indignant scarlet as Lady Agatha's insinuating words recurred to her mind. "Yes," she returned vague answer to his greetings, "it is very pleasant to-day."

"But you," said Mr. Towle, smiling down at the little figure, "seem to be in great haste about something. You are quite out of breath. Suppose we go into this little park and sit downquietly and rest a bit. Your face is uncomfortably flushed."

"I can't help my color," murmured Jane confusedly; "it isn't because I was walking fast, but only——"

"Is it because you are vexed at seeing me?" Mr. Towle wanted to know. "We agreed to be friends last night, remember."

"I know it," said Jane, glancing up at him quickly. He looked much younger in his hat, she reflected, and he really had very nice eyes. "But I am going out of town directly," she made haste to add, "so we shall not see each other again—at least not for a long time."

"You are going away?" said Mr. Towle blankly. "Where—if I may ask without seeming impertinent?"

"I don't know exactly," replied Jane, with a provoking smile. "I am going to travel." Then she bit her tongue till it hurt. "Really, now you will see why I must hurry home at once. And—and, please don't mention what I have said to—to Aunt Agatha or Uncle Robert."

Mr. Towle regarded her in puzzled silence. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "You were referring to what passed between us last night? I have already told your—ah—guardians the result of my proposals, and they——"

"Oh, I didn't mean that!" cried Jane. "How could you think so? I meant— Oh,won'tyou go away and not talk to me any more about it! You oughtn't to have liked me anyway. Aunt Agatha said so. She told me this morning that I was not at all attractive, and I am poor, too—perhaps you didn't know that—and—and—I am not at all clever; you can't help seeing that for yourself. I hope you will forget that you ever saw me those three times at Uncle Robert's."

"One time would have been enough for me," said Mr. Towle earnestly; "but as a matter of fact I have seen you more than three times. I never counted the occasions, but I saw you as often as possible, as for example when you went out with the two little boys in the governess cart, and when you walked with them in thePark, and twice in the Museum. Do you remember the day you showed them the mummies? You were telling them a long story about a little Egyptian princess; then you showed them the toys found in her tomb, and the mummy itself wrapped in browned linen, a withered lotus flower stuck in the bandages."

Jane stared at him meditatively. "I didn't see you anywhere about," she said.

"No; I took good care that you should not," Mr. Towle observed. "Now I am sorry for it."

"Why?" asked Jane; then bit her tongue again in her confusion. "I—I mean it would have been very—nice. I should have said I——"

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