"Always," said Clarice, sadly, and thinking of the many small sacrifices she had made for the fool before her, "therefore, I marry the man I love!" and she hastened from the room, unwilling to break down before one who would take such emotion as a sign of yielding. Ferdy, left alone, kicked over the breakfast table, and vented his rage on the furniture generally. The room was quite a wreck by the time his feelings were completely relieved. CHAPTER IV A MYSTERY The housekeeper of Mr. Horran's establishment was a small, withered-up old woman, who looked like the bad fairy of a D'Aulnoy story. She had nursed Clarice and Ferdy, and their father before them, so she was deeply attached to the twins. Of course, Ferdy being the more selfish of the two obtained all her affection, and although she was fond of Clarice, she lavished the treasures of her love on Ferdy, who gave her in return more kicks than half-pence. Mrs. Rebson was quite seventy years of age, and her face resembled a winter apple, so rosy and wrinkled it was. She must have had French blood in her old veins, for her vivacity was wonderful, and her jet black eyes were undimmed by age. Nothing ever seemed to put her out of temper, and her devotion to the twins had in it something of a religion. Being thus bright and cheerful, it was strange that Mrs. Rebson should cherish a dreadful little book, which was called The Domestic Prophet, full of dismal hints. Published at the beginning of each year, it prophesied horrors for every month, from January to December, and was as lachrymose as the Book of Lamentations. Not a single, cheerful event enlivened the year from this modern prophet's point of view, and although the book (consisting of twenty-four pages) was bound in green paper, the cover should certainly have been black, if only for the sake of consistency. Over this lamentable production, Mrs. Rebson was bending, when Clarice entered fresh from her encounter with Ferdy. "What is the matter, lovey?" asked the old woman, pushing up her spectacles on her lined forehead, "there's nothing to worry about. I have ordered the dinner, and seen to the Christmas provisions, and Mr. Horran's in a sweet sleep, and your good gentleman is coming this afternoon to kiss your bonny face, bless it, and bless him." Clarice sat down with a disconsolate air. "It's Ferdy." "Now, Miss," Mrs. Rebson's voice became sharper, and her manner quite like that of the nurse who put the twins to bed years before, "how often have I told you not to quarrel with your dear brother, as is bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh and the sweetest tempered baby I ever nursed?" "Nanny!" Clarice called Mrs. Rebson by this childish name for the sake of old times, and perhaps from custom. "You are quite crazy about Ferdy, and he doesn't deserve your love." "Indeed he does, Miss, and I wonder at your talking in that way. Oh, fie, Miss, fie," shaking a gnarled finger, "this is jealousy."