er her duties? But of course
everything _I_ do is wrong. Of course _you_ could do everything so very
much better. That's what children are nowadays."

Whilst Mrs. Cross piped on, Bertha regarded her with eyes of humorous
sadness. The girl often felt it a dreary thing not to be able to
respect--nay, not to be able to feel much love for--her mother. At such
times, her thought turned to the other parent, with whom, had he and
she been left alone, she could have lived so happily, in so much mutual
intelligence and affection. She sighed and moved away.

The unlet house was a very serious matter, and when one day Norbert
Franks came to talk about it, saying that he would want a house very
soon, and thought this of Mrs. Cross's might suit him, Bertha rejoiced
no less than her mother. In consequence of the artist's announcement,
she wrote to her friend Rosamund, saying how glad she was to hear that
her marriage approached. The reply to this letter surprised her.
Rosamund had been remiss in correspondence for the last few months; her
few and brief letters, though they were as affectionate as ever, making
no mention of what had formerly been an inexhaustible topic--the
genius, goodness, and brilliant hopes of Franks. Now she wrote as if in
utter despondency, a letter so confused in style and vague in
expression, that Bertha could gather from it little or nothing except a
grave doubt whether Franks' marriage was as near as he supposed. A week
or two passed, and Rosamund again wrote--from Switzerland; again the
letter was an unintelligible maze of dreary words, and a mere moaning
and sighing, which puzzled Bertha as much as it distressed her.
Rosamund's epistolary style, when she wrote to this bosom friend, was
always pitched in a key of lyrical emotion, which now and then would
have been trying to Bertha's sense of humour but for the sincerity
manifest in every word; hitherto, however, she had expressed herself
with perfect lucidity, and this sudden change seemed ominous of
alarming things. Just when Bertha was anxiously wondering what could
have happened,--of course inclined to attribute blame, if blame there
were, to the artist rather than to his betrothed--a stranger came to
inquire about the house to let. It was necessary to ascertain at once
whether Mr. Franks intended to become their tenant or not. Mrs. Cross
wrote to him, and received the briefest possible reply, to the effect
that his plans were changed.

"How vexatious