"You see," Sidney went on, feeling it a relief to unburden her mind to someone; "it is not only from a selfish point of view that I dislike the thought of the marriage, but she is not true or sincere, and does not really care for Uncle Ted. She only cares for the home and the position that he can give her. She has laughed at him, and made fun of his failings to Austin in a most heartless way. She has called him an old bore. What chance is there of her making him a good wife? And Uncle Ted is too nice a man to be so deceived. It is such a miserable outlook for us all. I know you rather like her, and so does Mrs. de Cressiers. She has made you both believe that she refused Austin and sent him away. Now I know for a fact that he gave her up because he found her out. That makes a lot of difference." "Yes, it does," said Monica slowly. "Well, I will come if my presence helps you, Sidney dear. It seems rather a disaster; it certainly will be a terrible one, if you leave your home. Is it quite an established fact that the house is your uncle's, and not your father's?" "They both went into Pegborough the other day to see their lawyer about it. Legally it is Uncle Ted's; morally, I say, it belongs to dad. But in any case, father would not turn Uncle Ted out, and it will be quite an impossibility to live together when once they are married. How is the boy?" "He is pegging away at his lessons. He told me yesterday that he won't be a farmer." "Oh, Monnie, don't look so tragical!" Sidney began to laugh. For a moment she forgot her own troubles. "Why do you pay so much attention to a baby's words?" "Because I'm so dreadfully in earnest, I suppose. If he grows up with a dislike to farming, what am I to do?" "I think it will be a good thing when you send him to school. You will find that when he comes back in the holidays, he will love every stick and stone in the place." Monica smiled a little. "Aunt Dannie has been depressing me to-day. She says Chuckles hates coming the round of the farm with me. I always like him to be with me in the afternoon." "I think," said Sidney slowly, "I should let him consider that a treat, not an obligation. Send him to the Rectory some afternoons for a change." "I will," said Monica firmly. "I am coming to the conclusion that I am too old a woman to have the care of a little child. He wants someone brighter and younger." "He is a very fortunate little boy, Monnie, and he has a young bright governess. What else does he want? Good-bye. Don't torture your old head with your delinquencies as an aunt. You are all that you ought to be. Good-bye till to-night." She waved her hand as she parted from her friend, and went her way, softly singing to herself Longfellow's lines: "Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.