There was an inflection in it which the girl had not heard for years—not since some juvenile peccadillo had momentarily excited the spinster’s ire. “Nothing which has occurred this morning justifies you in adopting such a tone towards my sister and myself. You seem to forget that what comes as news to you has been known to us from the first. Why, then, should you assume that the mere fact of your having learnt certain things to-day for the first time should have the effect of abrogating arrangements which have been in existence for a longer period than you can remember?” Miss Matilda’s style in her more didactic moments was unconsciously modelled to some extent on that of her favourite authors, the English essayists of the eighteenth century. “Forgive me for speaking as I did,” pleaded Ethel, with eyes that were blinded with tears. “But, indeed, I am so overcome by what you have told me, and what I have just read, that I know not either what to say or what to do.” “There is nothing for you to do—nothing whatever,” said Miss Matilda, still with a touch of peremptoriness. “And perhaps, my dear, if you were to say as little as possible just now, it might be as well,” interposed Miss Jane for the first time. Then turning to her sister, she added: “The poor child needs a little time to recover herself.” “There I agree with you, and I think the best thing she can do is to go and lie down for an hour.” Then to Ethel, with a sudden softening of the voice, she said: “Child, child, cannot you understand that, despite all you have learnt to-day, nothing is to be changed—that you are still to be our niece, and we are still to be your aunts, and that everything is to go on precisely as before? Vale View will continue to be your home, as it has been for as long as you can remember, and you must never again hint at such a thing as going out into the world to earn your living, unless you wish your aunts to believe that you have ceased to care for them.” “And,” added Miss Jane, with one of her sweetest smiles, “that you are tired of living under the same roof with two humdrum old women.” What reply Ethel would have made will never be known, because at this juncture there came a tap at the door, which was followed by the appearance of Charlotte, the parlourmaid, carrying a salver with a card on it. “If you please, ma’am,” said the girl, “I’ve shown the lady into the morning-room.” “Tell Mrs. Lucas Dexter that I and my sister will be with her almost immediately,” answered Miss Matilda, after a glance at the card. As the girl left the room by one door, Ethel stole softly out by another. The sisters looked at each other. It was a look which said, as plainly as words could have done, “How very fortunate that we happen to be wearing our puce lutestrings and our best caps this afternoon!”