On the forenoon of the third day, Ethel being out of earshot in the garden, said Miss Jane to her sister: “I am greatly afraid that Tamsin was fully justified in what she said to me about the dear girl. Her appetite has certainly failed her, she moves languidly about the house, and has lost all, or nearly all, that sunny vivacity and liveliness of disposition which used to be one of her greatest charms. We must have been very blind, sister, not to have noticed all this for ourselves.” “It certainly seems strange that we failed to do so,” returned Miss Matilda. “But the change in her has been so gradual as to be all but imperceptible, especially to us who are in the habit of seeing her from hour to hour every day of our lives. And besides”—with a sigh—“we have had so many things of late to engage our attention and occupy our thoughts. Still, I admit that it ought not to have been left for Tamsin to see and point out the change.” “Now that we have satisfied ourselves that there is a change, the question remains, what steps ought we, or can we, take in order to remedy it?” “Tamsin’s offer is not to be thought of. On that point my mind is made up. We must devise some other plan. Let us think.” Whenever Miss Matilda made use of this formula her sister knew that it was intended to apply to the speaker alone, for it was tacitly admitted between the sisters that Miss Matilda was the stronger-minded of the two, and that in all matters of doubt or difficulty her decision should be accepted as final. And Miss Jane was quite content that it should be so. Her knowledge of her own deficiencies awoke no slightest feeling of bitterness in her breast; rather indeed, was she proud of having a sister whose powers of mind and force of character were so superior to her own. So now, during the silence that ensued, she cheerfully left it to her sister to mentally evolve a way out of the difficulty in which they found themselves, never for a moment doubting that she would succeed in doing so. Ten minutes might have gone by when Miss Matilda, looking up from her work and pausing with her needle in mid-air, said: “I see one way, and only one, out of our difficulty.” “Yes?” remarked her sister tentatively. “And that is to obtain a loan of fifty pounds on the security of our mother’s jewellery (which is good, but old-fashioned), and the silver tea and coffee service given us by Uncle Henry on our twenty-first birthday.” “O Mattie, what a desecration!” exclaimed Miss Jane, her underlip beginning to quiver as it always did when she was much moved. “Desecration! I fail to understand you, sister.” “In having to pawn dear mamma’s jewels.”