ay to help it--that is, as long as you
persist in your ridiculous resolution of keeping Biddy. Why, she ought
to have been shelved long ago.'

'That is my affair, Cyril,' replied Mrs. Blake with unusual dignity.

She hardly ever spoke to him in that voice, and he looked up a little
surprised.

'I hope we are not going to quarrel, motherling,' his pet name for her.

'Do we ever quarrel, darling? No, you only vex me when you talk of
sending poor old Biddy away. I could not do it, Cyril. I am not
naturally a hard-hearted woman, and it would be sheer cruelty to turn
off my old nurse. Where would she go, poor old thing? And you know
yourself we cannot afford another servant.'

'Not at present, certainly.'

'Perhaps we may in the future--who knows?' returned Mrs. Blake with
restored gaiety; 'and until then a little work will not hurt Mollie. Do
you know, when I was a girl, my mother always insisted on my sister
Dora and myself making our own beds--she said it would straighten our
backs--and she liked us to run up and down stairs and make ourselves
useful, because the exercise would improve our carriage and complexion.
Dora had such a pretty figure, poor girl! and I think mine is passable,'
drawing herself up to give effect to her words.

'You, mother? You are as slim and as graceful as a girl now!' returned
Cyril admiringly. Then, recurring to his subject with a man's
persistence, 'I don't believe you did half so much as poor Mollie does.'

'And what does she do?' asked Mrs. Blake, still mildly obstinate. 'She
only supplements poor old Biddy. A little dusting, a little bed-making;
now and then, perhaps, a trifle of ironing. What is that for a strong,
healthy girl like Mollie?'

'Yes; but Mollie has to be educated,' replied Cyril, only half convinced
by this plausible statement. 'These things may be only trifles, as you
say, but they take up a good deal of time. You know, mother dear, how
often I complain of the desultory way Mollie's lessons are carried on.'

'That is because Mollie and I are such wretched managers,' she returned
eagerly. 'I am a feckless body, I know; and Mollie takes after me--we
both hate running in grooves.'

'Mollie is young enough to learn better ways,' was Cyril's grave answer.
'As for you, mother, you are hopeless,' with a shake of his head.

'Yes, you will never mend or alter me,' she rejoined with a light laugh.
'I am Irish to the backbone. Now, my boy, you really must not keep me
any