While Mr. Burnet and Mrs. Rowles had been talking, Roberts and the lock-keeper had also been conversing. "It is my own fault," Rowles said, "and my wife's. One might know that a London girl like that would be sure to get into trouble in the country. Her father's a printer; sits up all night, and naturally never has his head clear for anything." "Oh, come now," replied Roberts; "you are too hard on printers, you are. If they were not clear-headed I don't see how they could set up their type without more mistakes than they make. Why, I've had relations myself in the printing line, and Mr. Burnet is a master-printer himself." "Is he now?" said Rowles. "That's what we're down here for. He's bought up half the _Thames Valley Times and Post_, and he wants to live near the works, and while we are looking out for a house we have to stay at the hotel. Mr. Leonard is going into the business too, as soon as he is old enough." Roberts had just reached this point when Mr. Burnet came out from the house. Rowles looked with more interest at the old gentleman who was in the same line with Thomas Mitchell, and from that moment began to think better of printers in general. The sky was rapidly clearing, so the three visitors turned the cushions of the boat, and stepping into it went through the lock, and were soon going up between the green banks and hedges, all deliciously freshened by the heavy summer rain. "He's a nice old fellow," Rowles muttered to himself; "but then all printers are not like him. Here, Phil, see what you can do to put the _Fairy_ in order again. But as for that Juliet, if my wife was not so soft-hearted I would turn the girl out to run home or to get her own living." CHAPTER VIII BETTERING HERSELF. Juliet Mitchell had gone up to the little room which she shared with Emily Rowles. It did not contain much furniture, and what there was had seen its best days long before. The chest of drawers had lost most of its handles; the looking-glass which stood on the drawers swung round the wrong way unless it was propped up by a book or by a box. It had swung round in this manner, but had stuck half-way. When Juliet entered the room she came face to face with the glass, and consequently face to face with herself. What she saw was enough to frighten her, and did frighten her. The scowling brows, the flushed cheeks, the pushed-out lips, were more like those of some fierce and raging animal than the features of a young girl in a Christian land. She stopped short and glared at her own reflection. It glared back as angrily at her. "What a horrid, ugly, cross thing, you are!" said Juliet. The face in the glass said the very same words with its lips, though it made no sound. Then Juliet stood still and talked with herself.