"How are you, Uncle Barton," she said. "I can hardly speak, I am so ill." "I know, I know," rasped out the cynic grimly. "I heard you talking to Dicky, no wonder you can't chatter now." "I must do my duty to my child," cried Mrs. Darrow with more energy, "even though my health suffers." Mr. Barton surveyed the plump recumbent figure with grim humour. "You feel your parental duties too much, Julia, they will wear you out. How do you do, Miss Marsh? I see you and Julia have been spoiling your digestions with strong tea. Muffins too! Oh, Lord, think of your complexions!" Hilda laughed, and glanced into a near mirror. Her complexion was her strong point, and she had no fear of its being criticised even by disagreeable Mr. Barton. "I'm afraid my appetite is stronger than my vanity," she said. "Then you must have the appetite of an ostrich," growled Barton, sitting down near his niece; "but Julia, poor dear, eats nothing." "That I don't," murmured Mrs. Darrow. "I peck like a bird." "What kind of a bird--a canary, or an albatross?" "Uncle Barton!" cried the outraged Julia in capital letters. "There, there, it's all right. Anyone can see you eat nothing. You are all skin and bone. Dicky, come here, sir. Your new governess will be here in ten minutes." "In ten minutes!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, bounding from the sofa with more energy than might have been expected. "She can't--she mustn't. I'm not ready to receive her. Oh, Uncle Barton!"--the irrepressible feminine curiosity would out--"what is she like?" "Very ugly, small, dark-haired, dark-skinned." "I knew it. I knew you would choose an ugly woman!" Barton chuckled. "Only as a foil to yourself, my dear. Now then, Dicky, what is the matter?" "I don't like an ugly governess," whimpered Dicky. "Can't Hilda teach me?" "I don't know about that, Dick. If beauty is the essential factor in your teacher, then certainly Miss Marsh is more than qualified. What do you say, Miss Marsh? Will you undertake this young gentleman's education?" Hilda shook her head, and laughed herself into a pretty state of confusion. It certainly became her. "I'm not clever enough," said she, wincing under Barton's regard. "H'm. That's a pity, otherwise you might have had this fifty pounds a year." "What?" screamed Mrs. Darrow, "do you intend to give this creature fifty pounds?" "Why not? She's worth it." "Who is she?" "Dicky's governess--Miss Crane." "But who is she?--where does she come from?" "London. You had better make further inquiries of her in person, for there's the fly driving up to the gate." Dignity, or rather her exhibition of it, prevented Mrs. Darrow rushing to the window. She seated herself like a queen on the sofa, and spread out her sable skirts, so as to receive the ugly governess with the true keep-your-distance hospitality of the British matron. At the same time she remonstrated with Uncle Barton for his rash and unnecessary generosity.