rely. She had a pale face, and thin cheeks, and moved with
languid step.

Her first glance was at the letter-box.

'Nothing?'

Mary shook her head. During their absence letters had been re-addressed
by the post-office, and since the notice of return nothing had come.

'I'm quite sure a letter has been lost.'

'Yes, it may have been. But there'll be an answer to your last very
soon.'

'I don't think so. Most likely I shall never hear again.'

And Nancy sat by the window of the front room, looking, as she had
looked so many a time, at the lime tree opposite and the house visible
through wet branches. A view unchanged since she could remember;
recalling all her old ambitions, revolts, pretences, and ignorances;
recalling her father, who from his grave still oppressed her living
heart.

Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman. It was like the
voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth.

'Mary!' She rose up and went to the kitchen. 'I can't live here! It will
kill me if I have to live in this dreadful place. Why, even you have
been crying; I can see you have. If _you_ give way, think what it must
be to me!'

'It's only for a day or two, dear,' answered Mary. 'We shall feel at
home again very soon. Miss. Morgan will come this evening, and perhaps
your brother.'

'I must do something. Give me some work.'

Mary could not but regard this as a healthy symptom, and she suggested
tasks that called for moderate effort. Sick of reading--she had read
through a whole circulating library in the past six months--Nancy
bestirred herself about the house; but she avoided her father's room.

Horace did not come to-day; a note arrived from him, saying that he
would call early to-morrow morning. But at tea-time Jessica presented
herself. She looked less ghostly than half a year ago; the grave
illness through which she had passed seemed to have been helpful to her
constitution. Yet she was noticeably changed. In her letters Nancy had
remarked an excessive simplicity, a sort of childishness, very unlike
Jessica's previous way of writing; and the same peculiarity now appeared
in her conversation. By turns she was mawkish and sprightly, tearful
and giggling. Her dress, formerly neglected to the point of untidiness,
betrayed a new-born taste for fashionable equipment; she suddenly drew
attention to it in the midst of serious talk, asking with a bashful
smirk whether Nancy thought it suited her.

'I got it at