‘I really don’t feel I can judge her, Mr. Lord. It’s true, in a way, I ought to know her very well, as I’ve seen her day by day since she was a little thing. But now she’s a well-educated and clever young lady, and she has got far beyond me--’ ‘Ay, there it is, there it is!’ Stephen interrupted with bitterness. ‘She’s got beyond us--beyond me as well as you. And she isn’t what I meant her to be, very far from it. I haven’t brought them up as I wished. I don’t know--I’m sure I don’t know why. It was in own hands. When they were little children, I said to myself: hey shall grow up plain, good, honest girl and boy. I said that I wouldn’t educate them very much; I saw little good that came of it, in our rank of life. I meant them to be simple-minded. I hoped Nancy would marry a plain countryman, like the men I used to know when I was a boy; a farmer, or something of that kind. But see how it’s come about. It wasn’t that I altered my mind about what was best. But I seemed to have no choice. For one thing, I made more money at business than I had expected, and so--and so it seemed that they ought to be educated above me and mine. There was my mother, did a better woman ever live? She had no education but that of home. She could have brought up Nancy in the good, old-fashioned way, if I had let her. I wish I had, yes, I wish I had.’ ‘I don’t think you could have felt satisfied,’ said the listener, with intelligent sympathy. ‘Why not? If she had been as good and useful a woman as _you_ are--’ ‘Ah, you mustn’t think in that way, Mr. Lord. I was born and bred to service. Your daughter had a mind given her at her birth, that would never have been content with humble things. She was meant for education and a higher place.’ ‘What higher place is there for her? She thinks herself too good for the life she leads here, and yet I don’t believe she’ll ever find a place among people of a higher class. She has told me herself it’s my fault. She says I ought to have had a big house for her, so that she might make friends among the rich. Perhaps she’s right. I have made her neither one thing nor another. Mary, if I had never come to London, I might have lived happily. My place was away there, in the old home. I’ve known that for many a year. I’ve thought: wait till I’ve made a little more money, and I’ll go back. But it was never done; and now it looks to me as if I had spoilt the lives of my children, as well as my own. I can’t trust Nancy, that’s the worst of it. You don’t know what she did on Jubilee night. She wasn’t with Mr. Barmby and the others--Barmby told me about it; she pretended to lose them, and went off somewhere to meet a man she’s never spoken to me about. Is that how a good girl would act? I didn’t speak to her about it; what use? Very likely she wouldn’t tell me the truth. She takes it for granted I can’t understand her. She thinks her education puts her above all plain folk and their ways--that’s it.’