"You are spoilt by your fine life, Maggie; but I grant that these lodgings are hot. The house at Clapham, however, is very cool and fresh. Oh Maggie! My dear Bo-peep is getting such a sweet little bedroom ready for you. I could cry when I think of your cross obstinacy." But even the thought of the sweet little bedroom didn't move Maggie Howland. Tildy presently brought up a meagre supper, of which the mother and daughter partook almost in silence. Then Mrs. Howland went to her room, where she fell fast asleep, and Maggie had the drawing-room to herself. She had arranged a sort of extempore bed on the hard sofa, and was about to lie down, when Tildy opened the door. "I say," said Tildy, "ain't he cunnin'?" "What do you mean, Matilda?" said Maggie. "Oh my," said Tildy, "wot a 'arsh word! Does you know, missie, that he's arsked me to go down to Clap'am presently to 'elp wait on your ma? If you're there, miss, it'll be the 'eight of 'appiness to me." "I may as well say at once, Matilda, that I shall not be there." "You don't like 'im, then?" said Tildy, backing a step. "And 'e is so enticin'--the prettiest ways 'e 'ave--at least, that's wot me and Mrs. Ross thinks. We always listen on the stairs for 'im to greet your ma. We like 'im, that we do." "I have an old dress in my trunk, Tildy, which I will give you. You can manage to make it look quite nice for your new post as parlor-maid at Laburnum Villa. But now go, please; for I must be alone to think." Tildy went. She crept downstairs to the kitchen regions. There she met Mrs. Ross. "The blessed young lady's full of ructions," said Tildy. "And no wonder," replied Mrs. Ross. "She's a step above Martin, and Martin knows it." "I 'ope as she won't refuse to jine us at Laburnum Villa," said Tildy. "There's no sayin' wot a spirited gel like that'll do," said Mrs. Ross; "but ef she do go down, Martin 'll be a match for 'er." "I don't know about that," replied Tildy. "She 'ave a strong, determined w'y about 'er, has our Miss Maggie." If Mrs. Howland slept profoundly, poor Maggie could not close her eyes. She suddenly found herself surrounded by calamity. The comparatively small trials which she had thought big enough in connection with Aylmer House and Cicely and Merry Cardew completely disappeared before this great trouble which now faced her. Her mother's income amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and out of that meagre sum the pair had contrived to live, and, owing to Mrs. Ward's generosity, Maggie had been educated. But now that dreadful Mr. Martin had secured Mrs. Howland's little property, and the only condition on which it could be spent on Maggie was that she should accept a home with her future stepfather. This nothing whatever would induce her to do. But what was to be done?