There is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has been driven to death by constant work, but there is a compensating thought to alleviate the sadness. It may rattle and grow loose, like some worn-out engine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapses totally, and some of the work achieved is good and permanent. It is bound to be so. Infinitely sadder is the sight of a mind which is falling to pieces by reason of the rust that has eaten into its very core. For rust must needs mean idleness--and no human intellect _need_ be idle. So it had been with these two old ladies. Born in a wofully unintellectual age, they had never left a certain groove in life. When their brother married Christian Vellacott's grandmother, they had left his house in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limited but sufficient income. These “sufficient incomes” are a curse; they do not allow of charity and make no call for labour. When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, an orphan with no great wealth, he made it his first duty to visit the only living relations he possessed. He was just in time to save them, literally, from starvation. It was obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin, so he made a home for the two old wrecks of humanity in London. Their means, like their minds, were simply exhausted. Aunt Judith was ninety-three; Aunt Hester ninety-one. During that vast blank (for blank it was, so far as their lives were concerned) stretching away back into a perspective of time which few around them could gauge--they had never been separated for one day. Like two apples they had grown side by side, until their very contact had engendered disease--a slow, deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching its goal at the heart of each. They had _existed_ thus with terrible longevity--lived a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such as hundreds of women are living around us now. “Of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, Nephew Vellacott!” answered Aunt Hester. “The desire does you credit; but you should be careful into what society you go without us. Girls are very designing, and many a one would like to marry a nephew of mine--eh, Judith?” “Yes, that they would,” replied the old lady. “The minxes know that they might do worse than catch the nephew of Judith and Hester Vellacott!” “Look at us,” continued Aunt Hester, drawing up her shrunken old form with a touch of pride. “Look at us? We have always avoided marriage, and we are very nice and happy, I am sure!”