“Mother,” Constance began presently, “Fan has made up her mind to go back to London when her time is up with us. She is going to look for a situation.” “A situation--what do you mean, Constance?” “Her own idea is that she would like best to be a shop-girl in some large London shop.” “Then all I can say is that it is very shocking. Does the poor child know what it means to be a shop-girl in a great city, where she has no home or friends, where she will associate with ignorant and vulgar people, and worse perhaps, and be exposed to the most terrible temptations? But what can I say, Constance, that will have the slightest weight with either Fan or you?” “I should like it very much better if Fan could do something different--if she could find some more ladylike occupation. But nothing will move her. If she cannot get into a shop, she says that she must be a servant, because she must earn her own living, and she will not believe herself capable of anything higher. To be a shop-girl, or a nursery-governess, or failing that a nursemaid, is as high as her ambition goes; and though I am sorry that it must be so, I can't help admiring her independence and resolution.” “I am glad that there is anything in it all to be admired; it only makes me sad, and just now I can say no more about it. I only hope that before the time comes she will think better of it.” “I have something else to say to you, mother,” said Constance, after a rather long interval of silence. “I have made up my mind to accompany Fan to London.” “What do you mean, Constance?” the other asked, with a tremor in her voice. “To live in London, I mean. It has long been my wish, and I am surely as well able to earn my living now as I ever shall be. When Fan goes I shall not be needed at home any longer. And we are not happy together, mother.” “I know that, Constance; but you must put this idea of going to London out of your head. I cannot consent to it--I shall never consent to it.” “Why not, mother?” “Do not ask me. I cannot say--I scarcely know myself. I dare not think of such a thing; it is too dreadful. You must not, you cannot go. Do not speak of it again.” The other's task was all the harder because she knew the reason of her mother's reluctance, and understood her feeling so well--the terrible grief which only a mother can feel at the thought of an eternal separation from her child. She rose to her feet, but instead of going from the room remained standing, hesitating, twisting and untwisting her fingers together, and at length she moved to a chair close to her mother and sat down again.