life, when the hearts of the young people were filled with sweet dreams. By its means they learnt to sing and dance, and poor and struggling as the home of the Lethbridges actually was--evidences of which, mind you, were never seen by others than themselves--there were hours spent in it which richer people might have envied. Miser Farebrother was content. Phoebe was obtaining an education which did not cost him a shilling, and the meals she ate in her aunt's house were a saving to him. Aunt Leth also was quite a skilful dress-maker, and she made all Phoebe's dresses. A cunning milliner too. Phoebe's hats and bonnets, albeit inexpensive, were marvels of prettiness. All this was worth a deal to Miser Farebrother, who grudged every shilling it cost him to live. He gave nothing to the Lethbridges in return, nor was he asked to give anything. Since Phoebe was fourteen years of age Aunt Leth had not set foot inside the gates of Parksides. "Let it be well understood," said Miser Farebrother to his daughter, "I am nothing to them, and they are nothing to me. If they expect me to do anything for them, they will be disappointed, and they will have only themselves to blame for it." "They don't expect you to do anything for them," said Phoebe, with a flush of shame on her face. "They never so much as give it a thought." "How should they? How should they?" retorted Miser Farebrother. "It would be so unnatural, wouldn't it? so very unnatural; they being poor, as they say they are, and I being rich as they think I am! They _do_ say they're poor, now, don't they?" "No," said Phoebe, considering; "I never remember their saying so. But they have as much as ever they can do to get along nicely. I know that without being told." "So have we all, more than ever we can do. _I_ can't get along nicely. Everything goes wrong with me--everything; and everybody tries to cheat me. If I wasn't as sharp as a weasel we shouldn't have a roof over our heads. It's the cunning of your aunt and uncle that they don't complain. They say to themselves, 'That old miser, Farebrother'--they _do_ call me an 'old miser,' don't they, eh?"--he asked, suddenly, breaking off. "I never heard them, father." "But they think it," said Miser Farebrother, looking at Phoebe slyly; "and that's worse--ever so much worse. With people who speak out, you know where you are; it's the quiet cunning ones you have to beware of. They say to themselves, 'That old miser Farebrother will see through us if we complain to his daughter. He'll think we want him to give us some of his money, and that wouldn't please him, he's so fond of it. It will be by far the best to let Phoebe tell him of her own accord, and work upon his feelings in an accidental way, and then perhaps he'll send us a pound or two.' Oh, I know these clever people--I know them well, and can read them through and through! I should like to back them for cunning against some very sharp persons."