"I read _Punch_ on the top of the baby." At this most unexpected revelation Mr. Wycherly fairly jumped. "You mean you sat on the baby?" he cried, aghast. "No, it was _Punch_ sat on the baby and it didn’t like it. It yelled." "Do explain—your statements are so confused—what _do_ you mean?" "I mean," she continued, "I opened _Punch_ on the baby and read it—it was only a minute, but I was so interested, and I’ve heard them say that it doesn’t hurt to let a healthy baby cry for a minute—and all the nurses read, I’ve seen them hundreds of times; but they heard and came flying all in a hurry and were so cross, and Mrs. Cox said I needn’t ever come back." It was well that Jane-Anne couldn’t see Mr. Wycherly’s face, which was lighted up by a smile of immense satisfaction; but what he _said_ sounded very grave. "I fear you have not been very honest, little Jane-Anne." She sat up and looked at him. "Honest! I’ve told you exactly what happened." "Certainly, you’ve been honest to me, but what about Mrs. Cox?" Jane-Anne hung her head. "The baby slept at first," she said, "and it was so dull and all the _Punches_ were there—and I got so interested——" "You’ve not done what you undertook to do, that was to look after the baby. Mrs. Cox didn’t ask you there to read her _Punches_ did she?" "She’ll never have me again, she said so." "I’m not surprised." "What will Mrs. Methuen say?" "I can’t think." "And aunt?" "I don’t think your—aunt" (Mr. Wycherly was just going to say "excellent," but restrained himself) "will be much surprised." Jane-Anne sighed deeply. "I shall never be a Norland Nurse now," she said sadly. "I’ve lost my character." "I’m afraid you have." "Do _you_ mind very much?" "Upon my soul," said Mr. Wycherly, "I don’t care a brass farthing." *CHAPTER XV* *THE PHILOSOPHY OF BEAUTY* "The foundation of beauty is a reasonable order addressed to the imagination through the senses." PHILEBUS. The last time Mrs. Methuen called in Holywell, just before she went away, she left a ladies’ paper, _The Peeress_. Jane-Anne fell upon it instantly and carried it off to her room. She had never seen such a paper before and her mind was in a curiously receptive state. Lord Byron’s Hebrew melodies rang in her ears, and she immensely enjoyed herself when she went to bed at night by standing in front of the looking-glass in her night gown, with her thick black hair streaming round her like a cloud, while she repeated solemnly:— "She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes. Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies."