absolutely half consented to leave his cure in the charge of
another, and conduct his brother and sisters, but this plan did not
satisfy the guardian, who could not send out his wards without some
reliable female.

He swung the tassel of the sofa-cushion violently as he spoke, and looked
imploringly at Honora, but she, though much moved, felt obliged to keep
her resolution of not beginning.

'Very hard,' he said, 'that when there are but two women in the world
that that poor child likes, she can have neither!' and then, gaining hope
from something in her face, he exclaimed, 'After all, I do believe you
will take pity on her!'

'I thought you in joke yesterday.'

'I thought it too good to be true! I am not so cool as Phoebe thought
me. But really,' he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly
manner, 'you have done so much for us that perhaps it makes us presume,
and though I know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to
be long enough with poor Bertha to bring her round again, I do believe it
would make an infinite difference.'

'What does Phoebe say?' asked Honor.

'Phoebe, poor child, she does not know I am come. She looks as white as
death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told
me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right; and so it
will, if you will come.'

'But, Mervyn, you don't consider what a nuisance I shall be to you.'

Mervyn looked more gallant than Robert ever could have done, and said
something rather foolish; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and
he proceeded, 'After all, they need not bother you much. Phoebe is of
your own sort, and Maria is inoffensive, and Bertha will have Lieschen,
and I--I'll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as I can.
You'll go?'

'If--if it will do.'

That odd answer was enough. Mervyn, already leaning forward with his
arms on his knees, held out one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other,
as, half with a sob, he said, 'There, then, it is all right! Miss
Charlecote, you can't guess what it is to a man not to be trusted with
his own sisters!'

These words made that _bete noire_, John Mervyn Fulmort, nearly as much a
child of her own as his brother and sister; for they were in a tone of
self-blame--not of resentment.

She was sufficiently afraid of him to respect his reserve; moreover, he
looked so ill and harassed that she dreaded his having an attack, and
heartily wished for