d for many years, had once been the Dean's curate. It was
true that he had been a failure as a curate, but that made the Dean the
more anxious to be kind now to his memory, he--Mr. Jones--having just
died of general bad-temper and selfishness.

Miss Jones, buried during the last twenty years in the green depths of
a Glebeshire valley, found herself now, at the age of fifty, without
friends, without money, without relations. She thought that she would be
a governess.

The Dean recommended her, Mrs. Cole approved of her birth, education and
sobriety, Mr. Cole liked the severity of her countenance when she came
to call, and she was engaged.

"Jeremy needs a tight hand," said Mr. Cole. "It's no use having a young
girl."

"Miss Jones easily escapes that charge," said Uncle Samuel, who had met
her in the hall.

The children were prepared to be good. Jeremy felt that it was time to
take life seriously. He put away his toy village, scolded Hamlet for
eating Mary's pincushion, and dragged out his dirty exercise-book in
which he did sums.

"I do hate sums!" he said, with a sigh, regarding the hideous smudges
of thumbs and tears that scored the page. "I shall never understand
anything about them."

"I'll help you," said Mary, who was greatly excited at the thought of a
governess. "We'll do them together."

"No we won't," said Jeremy, who hated to be dependent.

"I'll learn it myself--if only the paper didn't get dirty so quickly."

"Mother says," remarked Helen, "that she's had a very hard life, and no
one's ever been kind to her. 'She wants affection,' Mother says."

"I'll give her my napkin-ring that you gave me last Christmas, Mary,"
said Jeremy. "You don't mind, do you? It's all dirty now. I hope Hamlet
won't bark at her."

Hamlet was worrying Mary's pincushion at the moment, holding it between
his paws, his body stretched out in quivering excitement, his short,
"snappy" tail, as Uncle Samuel called it, standing up straight in air.
He stopped for an instant when he heard his name, and shook one ear.

"Mother says," continued Helen, "that she lived with a brother who never
gave her enough to eat."

Jeremy opened his eyes. This seemed to him a horrible thing.

"She shall have my porridge, if she likes," he said; "I don't like it
very much. And I'll give her that chocolate that Mr. Jellybrand sent us.
There's still some, although it's rather damp now, I expect."

"How silly you are!" said Helen scornfully. "Of