"Rosamund," said my mother that morning, when my father and the boys had gone to London, "will you put on your hat, and come with me into the orchard to pick the late damsons? I want to preserve them this afternoon." "Oh, wait until to-morrow, mother. I have something important to talk about; the damsons can keep." My mother was very gentle. Now she raised her brows a little, and looked at me anxiously. "It seems a pity to waste the time," she said. "I know what you are going to say, and I can't grant it. I spoke to your father last night. He says he cannot raise your quarter's allowance, so the new trimmings must be dispensed with, poor Rose." These were for my winter dress. I was turning it, and mother and I had planned how some new velvet would improve it. "My dear mother," I said, going over to her, "yesterday I should have been fretted about a trifle like this, but to-day it does not even seem like a pin-prick. I made a resolve this morning, mother, and I want to talk it out with you now." Every one in the house knew that my resolves were not to be trifled with. I did not often make them, but when I did, I metaphorically put down my foot, and kept it down. Even my father listened good-humouredly when I had one of my great determinations on. Now my mother gently sighed, gave up the damson jam on the spot, and began to unroll her knitting. "Be as quick as you can, Rosamund," she said, in a rather weary voice. "I can say what I want to say in a very few words, mother, only please don't interrupt me. I am tired of my present life. I want to do something. I want to go to town every morning, and come back at night." My mother held up her hands. "I want to earn money." A look of agony came into my mother's gentle blue eyes. I turned slightly away. "I have one talent, and I wish to cultivate it." Here my mother _would_ interrupt. "You have many gifts, my dear child," she said proudly. "In particular you have a great faculty for turning and contriving. Most invaluable under our circumstances." "I hate turning and contriving," I burst out, "and I have only got one real talent, and that is, for art. I could be an artist." "You are an artist, Rosamund; you paint beautifully." "Dreadfully, you mean, mother. I have no knowledge of perspective. I have no true ideas of colour; but I _could_ paint." I felt sparkles of hope coming into my eyes, and I knew my cheeks were flaming. My mother glanced up at me admiringly. "You look quite handsome, dear," she said. "Oh, if I _could_ dress you properly! Rose, when I was your age I had nice clothes."