e saved quite a fair sum out of my income.
Catherine looked younger at twenty than Mabel at eighteen. They can both
come out together, and have their chances like other girls."

Catherine did not want to wait for the dear delights of society until
she had reached so mature an age. But there was no murmuring against her
mother's decree, and as she was a healthy-minded, handsome, good-humored
girl, she soon accommodated herself to the ways and manners of country
folk, and was happy enough.

"I shall live on five hundred a year at Rosen dale Manor," determined
Mrs. Bertram. "And I have made up my mind that Loftie shall not cost me
more than three. Thus I shall save four hundred a year. Catherine is
only seventeen now. By the time she is twenty I shall have a trifle over
and above my income to fall back upon. Twelve hundred pounds is a
bagatelle with most people, but I feel I shall effect wonders with it.
Catherine and Mabel will be out of the common, very out of the common.
Unique people have an advantage over those who resemble the herd.
Catherine and Mabel are to be strongly individual. In any room they are
to be noticeable. Little hermits, now, some day they shall shine. They
are both clever, just clever enough for my purpose. Catherine might with
advantage be a shade less beautiful, but Mabel will, I am convinced,
fulfil all my expectations. Then, if only Loftie," but here Mrs. Bertram
sighed. She was returning from her visit to Mrs. Meadowsweet, walking
slowly down the long avenue which led to the Manor. This avenue was kept
in no order; its edges were not neatly cut, and weeds appeared here and
there through its scantily gravelled roadway. The grass parterre round
the house, however, was smooth as velvet, and interspersed with gay
flower-beds. It looked like a little agreeable oasis in the middle of a
woodland, for the avenue was shaded by forest trees, and the house
itself had a background of two or three acres of an old wood.

Mrs. Bertram was tired, and walked slowly. She did not consider herself
a proud woman, but in this she was mistaken. Every line of her upright
figure, each glance of her full, dark eyes, each word that dropped from
her lips spoke of pride both of birth and position. She often said to
herself, "I am thankful that I don't belong to the common folk; it would
grate on my nerves to witness their vulgarities,--their bad taste would
torture me; their want of refinement would act upon my nature like