In Mrs. Folyat's eyes to send your daughter out as a governess was a confession of poverty. There could be no glossing it over. Of course the clergy were miserably paid, but Francis had always risen superior to that reproach in public opinion by the general belief in the amplitude of his private means. It could be little short of disaster then to confess to inadequacy. And a governess! Poor Annette! though to be sure when she was a child her godmother had looked at her sadly and observed that she must assuredly be prepared for a convent. She was so plain--a remark which Minna had never ceased to brandish over poor Annette's head whenever their wills clashed. . . . Francis at length cut short his wife's protestations with a sigh and said: "My dear, I'm sorry. That's the position. We have to swallow it. We can't give the girls the opportunities they ought to have. We must let them fight their own way. At present anything is better than the sort of life they are leading. We'll sell another house, but that shall be the last. We'll make a fresh start. Be patient with me, my dear." "And am _I_ to tell Mary?" "No. I'll do that, and I'll find a family for Annette." Francis went away feeling that there was a great deal to be said for the celibacy of the clergy. Other men, of course, did not see so much of their families, and perhaps, for that reason, could understand them better, be better friends with them, and not so acutely conscious of their irritating peculiarities. The relation between a father and daughter should be a very beautiful thing, and indeed there were moments when the house in Fern Square was a place of happiness and affectionate unity. Only--only, there was the future. Martha growing more and more helpless, and the household duties and responsibilities devolving more and more upon Gertrude and Mary, and they losing their bloom. Francis had a vague feeling of injustice which was harshly in disaccord with his professional teaching of acceptance--"Whatever is, is right" and "It's all for the best." At any rate there was still abundant laughter in his house, and that was better than the grim smile which was all these Northerners would for the most part allow themselves. The days of violent opposition were gone, but the Puritans still looked askance at the Proud Priest--for the nickname clung--and his family. The grocer with an off-licence round the corner spread tales of the large quantities of beer that were consumed in the parson's house.