was scarcely likely to get over as long as he lived.

"And now, girls," said the good lady, turning round and facing her
astonished nieces, "I have a conviction that your father and I would have
a more comfortable conversation if you were not present. Leave the room,
therefore, my dears. Go quietly and in an orderly fashion."

"Perhaps, children, it would be best," said Mr. Dale.

He felt as though he could be terribly rude, but he made an effort not to
show his feelings.

"There is no other possible way out of it," he said to himself. "I must
be very frank. I must tell her quite plainly that she cannot stay. It
will be easier for me to be frank without the children than with them."

So the girls left the room. Penelope, going last, turned a plump and
bewildered face towards her aunt.

But Miss Tredgold took no more notice of Penelope than she did of the
others. When the last pair of feet had vanished down the passage, she
went to the door and locked it.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Mr. Dale.

"My dear Henry, I locked the door because I wish to have a quiet word
with you. I have come here--I will say it plainly--for the sole purpose
of saving you."

"Of saving me, Sophia! From what?"

"From the grievous sin you are committing--the sin of absolutely and
completely neglecting the ten daughters given to you by Providence. Do
you do anything for them? Do you try in the least to help them? Are you
in any sense of the word educating them? I scarcely know the children
yet, but I must say frankly that I never came across more terribly
neglected young people. Their clothes are in rags, they are by no means
perfectly clean in their persons, and they look half-starved. Henry, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself! I wonder my poor sister doesn't turn in
her grave! When I think that Alice was their mother, and that you are
bringing them up as you are now doing, I could give way to tears. But,
Henry, tears are not what are required. Action is the necessary thing. I
mean to act, and nothing will turn me from that resolution."

"But, my dear Sophia, I have not met you for years. To be frank with you,
I had almost forgotten your existence. I am a terribly busy man,
Sophia--a scholar--at least, I hope so. I do not think the children are
neglected; they are well, and no one is ever unkind to them. There is no
doubt that we are poor. I am unable to have the house done up as poor
Alice would have liked to see it; and I