'You were speaking of Jessie, mother.' 'Yes, my dear. I was about to say that Jessie has no one to look after her but me.' 'And me,' I added proudly. 'And you, my dear. I know what your feelings are towards her, but you are away at your work all the day, and then the duty devolves upon me alone.' 'Well, mother?' 'Jessie is a little different to me from what she was; I am beginning to think--sorely against my will, dear child--that she mistrusts me. I know that she is not happy, but I could comfort her if she would let me. It might be better for all of us if she would confide in me.' 'I am sure it would be, mother.' 'She does not repulse me, Chris; she avoids me. When I have it in my mind to speak to her seriously, she seems to know what I am about to say--she is very bright and clever, my dear--and she obstinately refuses to listen; runs away, or turns me from my purpose by some means. I am very anxious about her.' 'Jessie can take care of herself,' I said, assuming an easiness I did not feel; she is not happy at home, as we know; but we know, also, who is to blame for that. I suppose she refuses to listen to you because she feels that the subject you wish to speak to her upon is a painful one. I should do the same in her place.' 'I don't blame her, my dear; don't think that I blame her. But I must not forget my duty. She has no mother; do not I stand in that relation to her?' I kissed my mother for these words. 'Then, knowing that I wish her nothing but good, why does she avoid me so steadily? O Chris, my child! greater unhappiness than all may come from her distrust of me.' A tremor ran through my frame. Not love alone, but pity, was expressed in my mother's face and tone. 'I don't quite understand you, mother,' I said. 'Where does Jessie go to in the day, my dear?' 'Where does Jessie go to in the day!' I repeated. 'Does she go anywhere?' 'Then you do not know, my dear; she hides it from you as well. For the last fortnight she has gone out every morning at eleven 'o'clock, and has not returned until four. I have put her dinner by for her every day, but she will not eat it, and she refuses to say where she has been.' I considered for a few moments, and soon arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. 'It is very simple. She goes to Miss West's, and she does not eat her dinner because she knows she is not welcome to it. It is uncle Bryan's dinner, and this is uncle Bryan's house. Jessie is very proud.' My mother shook her head. 'She does not go to Miss West's. I have not watched her, because I know that she would discover me, and that it would turn her more against me. But three mornings ago I saw her get into an omnibus which goes to the West-end. What friends can she have there, Chris? And if she has friends, should we not know who they are?'