"No," recommended Miss Bird, who probably felt that she had shown a little too much of her human side, "in those days girls didn’t gad about on bicycles and scamper after footballs and cricket balls like so many boys. Nor did they go to the theatre alone with young men. No, in my young days I wasn’t even allowed to look out of the window at people passing along the pavement. I was fined a shilling if I did. You may not believe that, but it’s true! I was brought up very strictly by an aunt in a country village, and I don’t suppose anybody on this earth--except a convict in prison, who deserves all he gets, the rascal!--ever passed such a monotonous existence as I did." "How long did you live with your aunt?" asked Dora, rather timidly. "Until I was thirty," replied Miss Bird, "and then she died and left me just enough to live on. And I’ve been living on that just enough ever since." Miss Bird’s customary conversation consisted of harsh comments on current events or severe criticisms of internal affairs at No. 9. She had never been so communicative regarding her past life before. Dora employed herself with her sewing for a time, and then observed: "I am afraid you cannot have been very happy as a girl, Miss Bird. Did--did you ever see any young men?" Miss Bird uttered a grating, unmusical laugh. "I saw the backs of a few in church." "Was that all?" "And occasionally talked to a curate at a croquet party." "How _dreadful_!" cried Dora. "My aunt,", explained Miss Bird, "hated men! She was jilted as a girl, and detested men ever afterwards. So I never spoke to any men--except curates. No man ever said a tender word to me--no man ever lent me a book or wrote a poem to me, or presented me with a bunch of flowers. That was my girlhood--and now, perhaps, you won’t be so surprised at my being a cross old woman!" Dora, with a sweet impulse, dropped her sewing, and, putting her arms round the elderly lady’s neck, kissed her on the cheek. "I am so sorry you were unhappy," she said, gently. The grimness faded out of Miss Bird’s face. She laid down her embroidery and took Dora’s hand. "My dear," she said, "that is all over and gone. Still, I shall not forget what you said. Some day you may want a friend--a woman--and then you mustn’t be afraid to come to me. My bark, child, is worse than my bite.... There! now we mustn’t be sentimental any longer, but get on with our work." Dora therefore relapsed once more into her seat by Miss Bird’s side and resumed her sewing, and for some time the silence was unbroken save by the sound of stitching. "When is the wedding, child?" asked Miss Bird, suddenly. "On the 26th," said Dora, bending rather more closely over her work. Miss Bird submitted the girl’s profile to a severe scrutiny. "Personally," she said at length, "I don’t like the man." "Who?" said Dora. "Jefferson." "But," Dora hastened to retort, "you were in favour of my being engaged to him."