at
once of past, present, and future, taking from him the very cunning of
his handicraft, and, worse still, the inspiration of his art.

It was no wonder she had wound herself round the hearts of that quiet
little family in the retired Putney villa. As like Maud Bruce in form
and feature, as though she had been her twin sister, Nina Algernon
possessed the same pale, delicate features, the same graceful form,
the same dark, pleading eyes and glossy raven hair; but Mr. Bruce's
elder and unacknowledged daughter had this advantage over the younger,
that about her there was a sweetness, a freshness, a quiet gaiety, and
a _bonhomie_ such as spring only from kindliness of disposition and
pure unselfishness of heart. Had she been an ugly girl, though she
might have lacked admirers, she could not have long remained without a
lover. Being as handsome as Maud, she seemed calculated to rivet more
attachments, while she made almost as many conquests. Between the
sisters there was a similitude and a difference. One was a costly
artificial flower, the other a real garden rose.

CHAPTER IX

THE USUAL DIFFICULTY

Maud's instincts, when, soon after her father's death, she felt a
strong disinclination to live with Aunt Agatha, had not played her
false. As inmates of the same house, the two ladies hit it off badly
enough. Perhaps because in a certain imperiousness and hardness of
character they were somewhat alike, their differences, though only on
rare occasions culminating in a battle royal, smouldered perpetually,
breaking out, more often than was seemly, in brisk skirmish and rapid
passage of arms.

Miss Bruce's education during the lifetime of her parents had been
little calculated to fit her for the position of a dependent, and with
all her misgivings, which, indeed, vexed her sadly, she could not yet
quite divest herself of an idea that her inheritance had not wholly
passed away. Under any circumstances she resolved before long to go at
the head of an establishment of her own, so that she should assume her
proper position, which she often told herself, with _her_ attractions
and _her_ opportunities was a mere question of will.

Then, like a band of iron tightening round her heart, would come the
thought of her promise to Tom Ryfe, the bitter regret for her
own weakness, her own overstrained notions of honour, as she now
considered them, in committing that promise to writing. She felt
as people feel in a dream, when