rved Uncle Max.

'Jill! but she is only a child, barely sixteen, and Sara is becoming
jealous of my influence. I shall only breed dissension in the household
if I remain. Uncle Max, you are a good man,--a clergyman; you cannot
conscientiously tell me that I am not free to lead my own life, to choose
my own work in the world.'

'Perhaps not,' he replied, in a hesitating voice. 'But the scheme is a
peculiar one. You wish me to find respectable lodgings in my parish,
where you will be independent and free from supervision, and to place
your superfluous health and strength--you are a muscular Christian,
Ursula--at the service of my sick poor, and for this post you have
previously trained yourself.'

'I think it will be a good sort of life,' I returned carelessly, but how
my heart was beating! 'I like it so much, and I should like to be near
you, Uncle Max, and work under you as my vicar. I have thought about this
for years. Charlie and I often talked of it. I was to live with him and
Lesbia and devote my time to this work. He thought it such a nice idea
to go and nurse poor people in their homes. And he promised that he
would come and sing to them. But now I must carry out my plan alone, for
Charlie cannot help me now.' And as I thought of the sympathy that had
never failed me my voice quivered and I could say no more.

'I wish we were all in heaven,' growled Uncle Max,--but his tone was a
little husky,--'for this world is a most uncomfortable place for good
people, or people with a craze. I think Charlie is well out of it.'

'Under which category do you mean to place me?' I asked, trying to laugh.

'My dear, there is a craze in most women. They have such an obstinate
faith in their own good intentions. If they find half a dozen fools to
believe in them, they will start a crusade to found a new Utopia. Women
are the most meddlesome things in creation: they never let well alone.
Their pretty little fingers are in every human pie. That is why we get so
much unwholesome crust and so little meat, and, of course, our digestion
is ruined.'

'Uncle Max--' But he would not be serious any longer.

'Ursula, I utterly refuse to inhale any more of this mist. I think a
comfortable arm-chair by the fire would be far more conducive to comfort.
You have given me plenty of food for thought, and I mean to sleep on it.
Now, not another word. I am going to ring the bell.' And Uncle Max was as
good as his word.

CHAPTER II

BE