"And a very good thing too," cries Bessy, viciously. "I always thought you were singularly ill-suited to one another; I always said so to mamma and Jane. Didn't I, mamma?--didn't I, Jane? 'Can two walk together except they be agreed?' you know." "Girls," says poor Bob, harried almost beyond endurance, and addressing his sisters by the conveniently broad appelative which covers everything virgin between the ages of six and a hundred--"Girls, would you mind going into the dining-room for a few minutes? I want to speak to mother alone." The "girls" look rebellious, but their rebellion does not break into open mutiny. Rising, they comply with his request. "Of course, what _most nearly_ concerns our _only_ brother cannot be supposed to have any interest for _us_," says Bessy, leaving her sting behind, like a wasp, and shutting the door with as near an approach to a bang as her conscience will admit. As soon as they are well out of the room, Bob comes and sits at his mother's feet, and lays his head on her lap, as he used to do when he was a very little boy. She passes her fingers fondly through his curly hair. "This is a severe trial, my dear boy," she says, a little tritely; "but take an old woman's word for it; look for comfort in the right direction, and you'll _surely, surely_ find it!" "_I_ don't want comfort," answers Bob, pluckily; he having by no means exiled his sisters in order to pule and whimper over his own woes. "_I_ do very well." "I thought you had come to your old mother for consolation," answers his parent, a little aggrievedly: naturally somewhat disappointed at being balked of the office of Paraclete, so dear to every woman's heart; "if not, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about that you did not wish your sisters to hear?" "About _her!_" he answers, emphatically, lifting up his head, and reading her face earnestly. "I didn't wish her to be the mark for any more of Bessy's sneers. I wonder," he says, a little bitterly, "that she who is always talking about '_our Great Exemplar_' does not recollect that _He_ never sneered at any one." "Did you say that it was Esther Craven that you wished to speak to me about?" inquires Mrs. Brandon, rather coldly. "Mother," he says, passionately, "she has not a farthing in the world! What _is_ to become of her?" "Any one that my dear son takes an interest in will always be welcome to a home with me, for as long as they like to avail themselves of it," says the old lady, primly. He shakes his head. "She would not come," he says, despondently; "she is too proud: she hates to be beholden to any one: she is bent on working for her own living." "And a very proper resolution, too," replies his mother, stoutly, her heart being steeled against Esther by a latent conviction that that fair false maid has dealt unhandsomely by her son. "Providence is always more willing to help those that help themselves."