“Let me finish my sentence, if you please,” proceeded Miss Hope—“will make Arthur dissatisfied and induce him to join in some senseless project, which will ruin him. Ruin him,” repeated the lady. “You know what that means, I suppose; and when that day comes, remember, I am not going to help him. You can tell him what I say.” “I would much rather not,” Mrs. Dudley observed. “But I beg that you will, should opportunity offer. Tell him I have sunk all my money in an annuity, and that I shall not have a sixpence to leave or give to anybody.” “Dear Miss Hope, I trust you do not think that we——” “I think nothing ill of _you_,” interrupted the old lady. “And, for that matter, I do not think Arthur mercenary, either. He could have packed all those children off with their mother years ago, had he not been generous as well as foolish; but he is just the man first to get rid of all his own money, and then to think he can get rid of all mine too, so disabuse his mind of that idea, will you, like a dear sweet soul?” “As I am confident such an idea never entered his mind, there can be no necessity for me to disabuse him of it,” said Heather, a little stiffly. “Well, when it does enter it, do not depend on me for help. What, cross?” added Miss Hope. “Frowning is not at all becoming to you, Heather; and I did not think your eyes could have held so dark a look as I see in them now.” “Because everything seems to be going wrong,” Mrs. Dudley said passionately; “because one comes to me with advice, and another with a caution, till I am sick and tired of both; because no person seems to like any other person; because, for peace sake, I have even to keep my children constantly out of sight; because there are dreadful things said, and dreadful things thought; because I am miserable, and everybody tries, I do believe, to make me more miserable still.” “Sit down,” said Miss Hope; and when Heather seemed inclined to rebel, the old lady pushed her with gentle force into the nearest chair. “Mrs. Dudley, I am going to talk to you;” she proceeded, but then she paused, and involuntarily, as it seemed, put another chocolate into her mouth. “Take one?” she said, handing the box to Heather. “Not any, thank you;” the brown eyes looked very defiant at the moment, and Heather’s tone was defiant also. “You do not like chocolate?” “I detest it,” was the explicit answer. “It is an acquired taste, and you have acquired very few tastes as yet, I fancy,” said Miss Hope; “you have much to learn.” “I am not bound to learn, I suppose,” was Mrs. Dudley’s reply. “There is a school, my dear, in which it does not much matter whether the pupils be apt or not—willing or unwilling, they cannot help but learn. I should rather like to keep you out of that school; it is a very absurd thing for an old woman who has no heart and no sympathy to say; but it is true, for all that. I am very fond of you, Heather Dudley.” “You are very kind, Miss Hope.”