When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very "mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago; the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr. Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of authority. He looked at her a little gravely. "That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was corning." He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people forget. "This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha tentatively. "Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not? and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies." It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood by, doubtful and thoughtful. "Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like very much to ask." "Ask it, Rotha." "But I do not know whether you would like it--and yet I cannot know without asking--" "Naturally. What is it, Rotha?" "Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean." "Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not." The girl hesitated and struggled with herself. "I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But now,--how will it be, Mr. Digby?" Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition. "Who will be at the charge of your schooling, you mean? and other things? Certainly I, Rotha, unless your aunt wishes very decidedly that it should be herself." "She will not wish that," said the girl. "Then, Mr. Digby, when I am done with school--what am I to do? What do you want me to do? Because if I knew, I might work better to get ready for it." "Well," said Mr. Digby, making some easy strokes with his pencil, every one of which however meant something,--"there is generally something for everybody to do in this world; but we cannot always tell what, till the time comes. The best way is to prepare yourself, as far as possible, for everything." "But I cannot do that," said Rotha, with the nearest approach to a laugh that she had made since the previous Friday.