"Surely," she said, earnestly, "you did not think that I was a sort of bottomless gulf, swallowing all your money and kindness with no hope of returning it? I can work, and I wish to work. I could not live here as a pauper, dependent on your charity, could I?" "What do you propose to do?" asked Denzil. "To write stories for the magazines. There was a girl at Rennes whose elder sister earned about a hundred and fifty pounds a year in that way." "But, my dear child," said Aunt Bee, "how do you know that you have the capacity to write stories?" "Because I have already written one," said Rona, calmly. "I wrote it and sent it to this girl's sister to dispose of. She sold it at once, and I got three guineas for it!" They sat staring at her. "I had to have it typed, so that I did not get the full price for it," she went on. "I shall be obliged to learn to use a typewriter, as it costs too much to pay to have things typed. That will all be by degrees." "I should think so!" gasped Aunt Bee. "And," she went on, quite calmly, "it is in my mind to ask you if I might stay here with you six months? I am afraid it will take me six months to earn enough money to set up in London, even in one room." Denzil laid down his plate of strawberries and cream, and cleared his throat. "One swallow does not make a summer!" he remarked, profoundly. "You must not expect, because one of your stories got published, to be able to sell others." "The editor who bought the last said he would take more of the same kind," she replied, unmoved. "I sent him another last week, and I expect soon to hear from him." "I don't see why you should not write stories, dear," said Aunt Bee, in amusement. "But is it absolutely necessary that this should be done in one room in London? Could you not write your stories just as well here, without depriving us of our girl?" "Exactly!" broke in Denzil, warmly; so warmly that his aunt had much ado not to laugh. "She has done it," was her inner thought. "He knows now that he cannot let her go." The unaccustomed feeling was almost more than Denzil could cope with. He became quite absent-minded, and seemed as if some curious oppression lay upon him. He rose, after a few minutes, and stood squarely before Rona, his hands behind him. "What is your last news of your brother?" he asked. Rona looked up, startled. "He--he has not written at all lately," she said. "You know Mr. Vronsky and he went back to Siberia, to the mines there, after establishing his patent in Europe." "What do you think he would say to me if I allowed you to go off and live alone, without consulting him? I hope you won't think me a tyrant, but I don't see how I can sanction your going off alone without his written permission." Aunt Bee murmured assent. "Strange how necessity spurs the wit!" she thought.