Keith's "not handsome, Merle, but
so thoroughly good."

Patience was toasting the muffins in her bright little kitchen, so I sat
down and watched her. I was rather partial to Patience; she was a
pretty, neat-looking creature, and I always thought it a great pity that
she was engaged to a journeyman bootmaker, who aspired to be a preacher.
I never could approve of Reuben Locke, though Aunt Agatha spoke well of
him; he was such a weak, pale-faced young man; and I think a man, to be
one, ought to have some spirit in him, and not possess only the womanish
virtues.

"How is Reuben, Patience?" I asked, somewhat amiably, just for the
pleasure of seeing our little handmaid's dimples come into view.

"Reuben's but poorly, miss," replied Patience, as she buttered another
smoking muffin, the last of the pile. "He was preaching at Whitechapel
the other night and caught a cold and sore throat; his mother says he
will not be at chapel to-night."

"I do not approve of street preaching myself," I remarked, a little
severely.

"Indeed, miss," replied Patience, innocently, as she prepared to carry
in the tea-tray, "Reuben always tells me that the Apostles were street
preachers, and Reuben is as clear as Gospel in what he says." But here
the drawing-room bell broke off Patience's argument, and left me
somewhat worsted. I went to church by myself that evening, and I am
ashamed to say I heard very little of the sermon. I knew Aunt Agatha
would be taking advantage of my long absence to retail what she termed
my preposterous scheme to Uncle Keith, and that I should have the
benefit of his opinion on my return, and this thought made me restless.

I was not wrong in my surmise. Aunt Agatha looked a little pale and
subdued, as though she had been shedding a few tears over my
delinquencies, but Uncle Keith was simply inscrutable; when he chose,
his face could present a perfect blank.

"Hir-rumph, my dear, what is this your aunt tells me, that you are going
to Prince's Gate to-morrow morning to offer your services as nurse in a
gentleman's family?"

"Yes, Uncle Keith."

"Do you mean to tell me seriously that you have really made up your mind
to take this step?"

"Oh, I am quite serious, I assure you."

"Your aunt's objections and mine do not count for much, then?"

"I should be sorry to go against your wishes or Aunt Agatha's," I
returned, trying to keep cool; but his manner, as usual, aggravated me;
it said so plainly, "What a sil