e, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his
head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother
in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give
him charge of his estates. Who knows? And--Bless the child, what is
the matter?"

Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her
face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her
shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven
to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker
day by day.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE VICAR IS SYMPATHETIC.

Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the
school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of
everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel
Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where
three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have
the place tidy for the following day.

The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over
the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in
spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her
that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to
enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the
fields. For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find
the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the
dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire
and prepared the evening meal.

There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would
take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for
the tasks of another day.

To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of
repining.

"Ah, Hazel!" she would say, "it cuts me to the heart to see you
compelled to go through all this degrading toil--a miserable cottage, no
servant, and work--work--work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed
herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I'd give anything to be able to
help you; but I'm past all that."

"I don't mind it a bit, dear," Hazel would cry cheerfully, "I like to be
busy;" and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at
least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief,
or even have taught them to perform a few domestic