ny."

Now Miss Minchin understood, and never had she received such a blow in
her life. Her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the Select
Seminary at one blow. She felt as if she had been outraged and robbed,
and that Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to blame.

"Do you mean to tell me," she cried out, "that he left NOTHING! That
Sara will have no fortune! That the child is a beggar! That she is
left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"

Mr. Barrow was a shrewd businessman, and felt it as well to make his
own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.

"She is certainly left a beggar," he replied. "And she is certainly
left on your hands, ma'am--as she hasn't a relation in the world that
we know of."

Miss Minchin started forward. She looked as if she was going to open
the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on
joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.

"It is monstrous!" she said. "She's in my sitting room at this moment,
dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my
expense."

"She's giving it at your expense, madam, if she's giving it," said Mr.
Barrow, calmly. "Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible for anything.
There never was a cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune. Captain Crewe
died without paying OUR last bill--and it was a big one."

Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation. This
was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.

"That is what has happened to me!" she cried. "I was always so sure of
his payments that I went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the
child. I paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous
fantastic wardrobe. The child was to have anything she wanted. She
has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and I've paid for all of them
since the last cheque came."

Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of
Miss Minchin's grievances after he had made the position of his firm
clear and related the mere dry facts. He did not feel any particular
sympathy for irate keepers of boarding schools.

"You had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," he remarked, "unless
you want to make presents to the young lady. No one will remember you.
She hasn't a brass farthing to call her own."

"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it
entirely his duty to make the matter