Rotha hesitated. Must she come to this? And to doing _everything_ for herself and for her own room? For if carrying up the water, then surely all other services beside. Providing water was one of the least. Was it come to this? She must know. "Then you will not take care of my room for me, Mrs. Purcell?" she asked quietly. "Mis' Busby didn't write nothin' about my takin' care o' rooms," said Mrs. Purcell; "without they was empty ones. I've got you to take care of; I can't take o' your room too. You're strong and well, aint you, like other folks?" Rotha made no reply. She stood still, silent and indignant, both at the impertinence of the woman's speech and at the hardness of her aunt's unkindness. The shadow of the prospect before her fell upon her very gloomily and chill. Mrs. Purcell it was safest not to answer. Rotha turned, took up the pail and went to the pump. And there she stood still She set down her pail, but instead of pumping the water, she laid hold of the pump handle and leaned upon it What ever was to become of her? Must she be degraded not only to menial companionship but to manual labour also? Once no doubt Rotha had been familiar with such service; but that was when she was a child; and the years that had passed since then and the atmosphere of Mrs. Mowbray's house had ripened in her a love of refinement that was almost fastidious. Not only of innate refinement, which she knew would not be affected, but of refinement in all outward things; her hands, her carriage, her walk, her dress. Must she live now to do things which would harden her hands, soil her dress, bend her straight figure, and make her light step heavy? For how long? If she had known it would be only for a month, Rotha would have laughed at it, and played with it; instead of any such comforting assurance, she had a foreboding that she was to be left in Tan field for an indefinite length of time. She tried to reason herself out of this, saying to herself that she had really no ground for it; in vain. The sure instinct, keener than reason in taking evidence, forbade her. She stood in a sort of apathy of dismay, looking into the surrounding shrubbery and noting things without heeding them; feeling the sweet, still spring air, the burst of fresh life and the opening of fresh promise in earth and sky; hearing the birds twitter, the cocks crowing, and noticing that there was little else to even characterize, much less break, the silent peace of nature. In the midst of all this what she felt was revulsion from her present surroundings and companionship; and it was at last more to get out of Mrs. Purcell's near neighbourhood than for any other reason that she filled her pail and carried it up stairs to her room. She was half glad now that it was so far away from the kitchen. If she could but take her meals up there! She filled her pitchers; but did not immediately go back with Mrs. Purcell's pail.