In a former crisis, five years before this date, a compassionate cousin, one of the few well-to-do relations that Mrs. Hooper possessed, had come to the rescue, and had given his name to the Hoopers’ bankers as guarantee for a loan of £500. The loan was to have been repaid by yearly instalments. But the instalments had not been paid, and the cousin had most unexpectedly died of apoplexy during September, after three days’ illness. His heir would have nothing to say to the guarantee, and the bank was pressing for repayment, in terms made all the harsher by the existence of an over-draft, which the local manager knew in his financial conscience ought not to have been allowed. His letters were now so many sword-thrusts; and post-time was a time of terror. ‘Father doesn’t know what to do,’ said Alice despondently. ‘He and Nora spend all their time trying to think of some way out. Father got his salary the other day, and never put it into the bank at all. We must have something to live on. None’—she hesitated—‘none of the tradesmen will give us any credit.’ She flushed deeply over the confession. ‘Goodness!’ said Connie, opening her eyes still wider. ‘But if Nora knows that I’ve been telling you’—cried Alice-‘she’ll never forgive me. She made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. But how can you help knowing? If Father’s made a bankrupt, it wouldn’t be very nice for you! How could you go on living with us? Nora thinks she’s going to earn money—that Father can sell two wretched little books—and we can go and live in a tiny house on the Cowley Road—and—and—all sorts of absurd things!’ ‘But why is it Nora that has to settle all these things?’ asked Connie in bewilderment. ‘Why doesn’t your mother⸺’ ‘Oh, because mother doesn’t know anything about the bills,’ interrupted Alice. ‘She never can do a sum—or add up anything—and I’m no use at it either. Nora took it all over last year, and she won’t let even me help her. She makes out the most wonderful statements—she made out a fresh one to-day—that’s why she had a headache when she came to meet you. But what’s the good of statements? They won’t pay the bank.’ ‘But why—why⸺’ repeated Connie, and then stopped, lest she should hurt Alice’s feelings. ‘Why did we get into debt? I’m sure I don’t know!’ Alice shook her head helplessly. ‘We never seemed to have anything extravagant.’ These things were beyond Connie’s understanding. She gave it up. But her mind impetuously ran forward. ‘How much is wanted—altogether?’ Alice, reluctantly, named a sum not much short of a thousand pounds. ‘Isn’t it awful?’ She sighed deeply. Yet already she seemed to be talking of other people’s affairs!