at least hear what the agent has to say more satisfactorily than
by letter. So pray let me call; give me all your instructions. I should
be more than delighted to be of any use, you must know,' he ended
earnestly.

Lady Myrtle seemed pleased.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Well, yes then; I will tell you what I want to
know.'

This conversation took place at luncheon. That afternoon Jacinth sought
her mother in her own room.

'Mamma,' she said, 'are you busy? May I talk to you a little?'

Mrs Mildmay laid down her pen.

'I was writing to Marmy,' she said, 'but I have plenty of time. What is
it, dear? I am glad to have a little quiet talk together. I have been
wishing for it, too.'

But Jacinth scarcely seemed to listen.

'Mamma,' she began again, somewhat irrelevantly it might have seemed.
'Brook Street isn't a _very_ grand part of London, is it? At least all
the houses in it are not tremendously grand, are they? I was thinking
about Lady Myrtle's house. Couldn't it be arranged for _us_ to be her
tenants? I'm sure she would like it if she thought we would. Mightn't I
say something about it to her? She likes me to say whatever I think of,
but I thought--for such a thing as a _house_, perhaps I had better ask
you first.'

'But, my dearest child, we don't want any house in London,' said Mrs
Mildmay with a smile which she strove to make unconstrained. 'You
forget, dear, the choice was never between Barmettle and _London_, but
between Barmettle and India again, and'----

'But mamma,' interrupted Jacinth, 'please answer my question first. Is
Brook Street very grand? Would a house there be out of the question for
us, even if we--if we had one there for nothing?'

'Yes; unless we had another thousand a year at least, we could not
possibly live there on our income with any comfort or consistency,' Mrs
Mildmay replied quietly.

The girl's face fell.

'A thousand a year! that's a good deal,' she said. 'I had thought'----

'But why worry yourself about things that can never be, dear Jassie?'
said her mother. 'We were going to tell you--even your Aunt Alison does
not know yet--that it is all decided, and oh, I am so thankful that the
long separation is over at last. Your father wrote yesterday to accept
the Barmettle appointment.'

Jacinth grew scarlet, then very, very pale.

'Mamma,' she exclaimed, and the low repression in her tone was more
unnatural--more alarming, I had almost said--in one so young, than any
eve