So well did she perform her task that in a very short time the flames were leaping up the chimney, the shadows dancing cheerfully over the ceiling, the kettle hissing and puffing on the fire. The sight and sound drew Francis once more from his bed to the basket chair, where he sat and lazily watched his wife as she cut bread, made tea, fried bacon and eggs, with the ease and celerity of a woman to whom domestic offices are familiar. When at last the tea-table was arranged, he drew up his chair to it with a sigh of positive pleasure. "How homelike and comfortable it looks: Why don't you always stay with me, Mary, and keep me straight?" "You want so much keeping straight, Francis," she said, but a slight smile flickered about the comers of her lips. It was characteristic of the pair that he allowed her to wait on him, hand and foot: he let her cut the bread, pour out the tea, carry his plate backwards and forwards, and pour the brandy into his cup, without a word of remonstrance. Only when he had been well supplied and was not likely to want anything more just then, did he say to her---- "Sit down, Mary, and get yourself a cup of tea." Mary did not seem to resent the condescending nature of this invitation. She thanked him simply, and sat down; pouring out for herself the dregs of the tea, and eating a piece of dry bread with it. Francis had the grace to remonstrate with her on the poverty of her fare. "It doesn't matter what I eat now," she said. "I have the best of everything where I'm living, and I don't feel hungry." "I hope you're comfortable where you are," said Mr. Trent, politely. "Yes, I'm very comfortable, thank you, Francis. Though," said Mrs. Trent, deliberately, "I think I should be more comfortable if I wasn't in a house where Mr. Oliver visited." "Oliver! Do you mean my brother Oliver? Why do you call him _Mr._ Oliver? It is so absurd to keep up these class-distinctions." "So I think," said Mary, "but when other people keep them up it's not much use for me to be the first to cast them over board. Your brother Oliver comes to the house where I'm living much oftener than I think he ought." "What house is it? You never told me." "It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke--him as wrote 'The Unexplored.' I brought it to you to read, I remember--a good long time ago." "Awful rot it was too!" said Francis, contemptuously. "However, I suppose it paid. What are you doing there? Wasn't it his wife who ran away from him? I remember the row some years ago--before I went under. Is she dead?" "No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter I've come to wait on: Miss Lesley Brooke." "Brooke's daughter!" said Francis, thoughtfully. "I remember Brooke. Not half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it again. So it's _Brooke's_ daughter you--hm--live with. Sort of companion, you are, eh, Mary?"