"No," said Mr. Clegg for the third time. Then with the air of a just person patient under importunity: "Why?" "For two reasons," said the girl. "I want to be useful, and I want to be independent." For answer, Mr. Clegg reopened the Bible, and with the accuracy of long practice came almost immediately upon what he wanted—certain illuminated manuscript pages occurring between the Old and New Testaments. There were six of these pages. Two were allotted to the Births, two to the Marriages, and two to the Deaths of the house of Clegg. Albert Clegg turned to the Births, and ran his finger down the list. There were quite a number of names, for the Bible was a family inheritance. Presently he found what he wanted. A line in red ink had been drawn right across the page under the name of his youngest brother, Uncle Fred, to indicate the end of a generation. Below this line was written, in his own neat business hand: _Children of Albert and Mary Clegg._ This title-heading had erred on the side of plurality, for beneath it came but one entry—that of the birth of Albert’s eldest son, Amos, at Gateshead, upon the tenth of March, Eighteen Ninety-two. A second heading followed immediately: _Children of Albert and Marjorie Clegg._ After this came quite a satisfying list. First, Joe’s name—it proved to be Joshua, in full—recorded upon the twelfth of August, Eighteen Ninety-four. Then came the entry he was seeking: _Marjorie; born at "The Laburnums," Jesmond, April twenty-fourth, Eighteen Ninety-Six_. Albert Clegg surveyed his daughter over the top of his spectacles, which had been assumed for purposes of perusal, and performed a small exercise in mental arithmetic. "That makes you eighteen," he observed. Marjorie nodded. At this point, to her intense annoyance, the egregious Uncle Fred re-entered the room and joined the Board. "Girls of eighteen—" began her father. "Young ladies of eighteen," amended the Member of Parliament. "—have no call to be independent," continued Albert Clegg; "and if they want to be of some use they can stay at home and help their mothers, as God meant them to." "Mother," riposted Marjorie, "has more servants than she knows what to do with, and she hates interference with her house management, anyway. I have been home now for three months, honestly trying to help, and there isn’t a single thing for me to do. There are hundreds of things I can do away from here. I do not ask to go out and do them now, but I do ask to be trained in something useful, so that when the time comes—" "When what time comes?" asked her father quickly.