re me, and then she said
that I had a very bad temper."

"I like _her_ saying that," retorted her listener.

"It's quite true," said Nora with a deprecating wave of her hand. "Every
now and then I felt I couldn't put up with her any more. I forgot that
I was dependent on her, and that if she dismissed me, I probably
shouldn't be able to find another situation, and I just flew at her. I
must say she was very nice about it; she used to look at me and grin,
and when it was all over, say: 'My dear, when you marry, if your
husband's a wise man, he'll use a big stick now and then.'"

"Old cat!"

"I should like to see any man try it," said Nora with emphasis.

Miss Pringle dismissed the supposition with a wave of her hand. "How
much do you think she's left you?" she asked eagerly.

"Well, of course I don't know; the will is going to be read this
afternoon, when they come back from the funeral. But from what she said,
I believe about two hundred and fifty pounds a year."

"It's the least she could do. She's had the ten best years of your
life." Nora gave a long, happy sigh. "Just think of it! Never to be at
anybody's beck and call again. I shall be able to get up when I like and
go to bed when I like, go out when I choose and come in when I choose.
Think of what that means!"

"Unless you marry--you probably will," said Miss Pringle in a
discouraging tone.

"Never."

"What do you purpose doing?"

"I shall go to Italy, Florence, Rome; oh, everywhere I've so longed to
go. Do you think it's horrible of me? I'm so happy!"

"My dear child!" said Miss Pringle with real feeling.

At that moment the sound of carriage wheels came to them. Turning
quickly, Nora saw the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Wickham coming up
the drive. "There they are now. How the time has gone!"

"I'd better go, hadn't I?" said Miss Pringle with manifest reluctance.

"I'm afraid you must: I'm sorry."

"Couldn't I go up to your room and wait there? I do so want to know
about the will."

Nora hesitated a moment. She didn't want to take Miss Pringle up to her
bare little room. A sort of loyalty to the woman who was, after all, to
be her benefactress--for was she not, after all, with her legacy, going
to make the happy future pay rich interest for the unhappy past?--made
her reluctant to let anyone know how poorly she had been lodged.

"No," she said; "I'll tell you what, stay here in the garden. They want
to catch the four-something back to