The doctor, summoned at haphazard from a neighbouring street, was kindness itself: and the clergyman of the parish called often. But though Miss Anderson had been years in this house, she was a stranger to both of them. Despite all their efforts to break through her shield of reticence, she and they remained "strangers yet." Nor was she so grateful as she might have been for their exertions on behalf of Felix, since the result meant to herself deep disappointment. "I have been talking with Mrs. Crofton about you, Felix; and we both wish you to stay on here, when Lettice and I are gone." "If I can afford it." Felix did not seem enamoured with the plan. Freedom had its charms for him, and he might be more free elsewhere. "She will let you have the top back bedroom for half-a-crown a week, and will do everything for you. It would be impossible to get a furnished room anywhere else for so little." "Ten shillings a month. About six pounds a year. I could manage that, of course. But I say, Sis—" and the lad flushed up hotly; "will it repay her?" "She says so. I did hesitate—and I told her it ought at least to be more in the season: but she would not listen. She declares that she owes us a great deal, and perhaps it is true. We have never been behindhand, all these years, in our rent; and of course I have done her many little kindnesses. By-and-by, it may be in your power to repay her more fully." "I hate to be indebted to anybody." "Yes, I know!—" with full understanding. While Lettice glanced uncomprehendingly from one to the other. "But Mrs. Crofton is a good creature. I would rather be indebted to her than to most people. And the room is not bad—it is neatly furnished, and only one side of the ceiling slants. I told her the plan would be a comfort to me." "Oh, it will do as well as anything. I just have to get along for the present. I don't mean to be in a shop all my days—or in a garret bedroom." "You won't—I am sure. It would make me wretched to think so." "I shall not. I'll get on, somehow. I mean to get on. The chance will come to me, and I shall use it. You'll see." Would she see? Or would she soon be far-away, beyond reach of this idolised brother? The question came acutely, bringing a shadow with it. For no brightness lay in the thought. Neither by bringing-up nor by after-conviction was Cecilia in any sense a religious woman. She had a philosophical way of viewing troubles, and a spirited fashion of making the best of things: and what was inevitable she would accept courageously. But death for her meant simply being cut off from her dearest ones—above and beyond all, from Felix! The land on the other side of the grave was, for her, not a Paradise of joy and reunion, but a blank existence of absence and forgetfulness. All her energies had been expended on this life: all her treasure was lodged in this world. She had only a faint confidence in a vague "Providence" to help her through the last straggle, when it should come.