ses she was alone,
for it was impossible to ask her mother's aid and guidance at a time
like this.

What should she do?

Mr Geringer?

No; his letter showed how her refusal rankled in his breast, and if she
appealed to him he might wish to make some bargain with her to act as a
payment.

Mr Lambent?

No; she could not ask him. He was most kind, but she shrank from
appealing to him. She dared hardly think of him, and dismissed him at
once; for, set aside the exposure and the lowering of her position in
his eyes, he frightened her. And then there were his sisters, who would
be sure to know.

Archibald Grave's father?

No; she dared not appeal to him. And when she began to run over the
list of her relatives, there did not seem one likely to take a step to
help her in this terrible strait--help her, for everything seemed to
fall upon her shoulders.

"What shall I do? Whom shall I ask?" she said half aloud; and, as half
prayerfully she asked the question, there rose up before her the round,
simple, honest face of Mr William Forth Burge, smiling at her as was
his wont and seeming to invite her to ask his help.

"Oh no; it is impossible," she said half aloud, as Mr Chute's words of
the previous evening came back to her mind. "I could not ask him. What
would he say?"

But all the same, she could not help thinking of his amiability, the
interest he had taken in her and hers, and that even if she dared not
herself ask him, there was a mediator in the person of Miss Burge, who,
gentle, amiable little body that she was, would readily espouse her
cause.

"But what are they to me? It would not be right to ask them. I dare
not--I cannot do it."

Just then the two children came dancing down to leap up at her and kiss
her, making her sorry for their sakes that her face wore so dismal a
look. But it did not trouble them. It was, "How long will breakfast
be, sis?" and then they were off out to look at their little gardens, to
see how much the plants and seeds had progressed during the night.

Hazel went through another phase of troublous thought while the children
were in the garden, and the kettle was singing its homely song; and as
she thought she stood waiting to make the tea so as to carry up Mrs
Thorne's cup, which was always partaken of before that lady attempted to
rise in the morning.

Just as the tea was made there was a step on the stairs and, looking
very sleepy and red-eyed, Percy came into the