he night at the Merrimans'?"

"Oh, you needn't be afraid. I didn't even occupy one of their rooms
long, and certainly didn't break bread with them. I wouldn't break bread
in the house with that Lucy for all you could give me. Nevertheless, I
spent the night with Rosamund. Oh, she is a splendid creature! She is
jolly enough, and she is brave enough. Why, she let me strike her on the
cheek as hard as ever I could, and didn't utter a word. I wanted her to
lock the door, and she had some queer notions about it that I couldn't
fathom; and when I struck her on her cheek, she only just offered me
the other, and said, 'You may do what you like, but I will not lock the
door.'

"Now, mother, if you'd stand up to me like that I'd just respect you.
Anyhow, I respect Rosamund, and I dare say I'd have had to spend the
night in her room, or perhaps even have had to come home, but something
most welcome happened. Thank goodness, Rosamund isn't a prig! She's
awfully passionate, and has plenty of strong feelings. She's not a bit a
goody-goody; I'd just hate her like anything if she were. But that
Lucy--you know that prim thing, the daughter of the Professor and Mrs.
Merriman? Well, she came into the room, and I was under the bed in a
twinkling. She argued with Rosamund and found fault with her, and got
dear old Rose into a towering passion. Well, after that I could do what
I liked with her. She did lock the door, although she vowed she wouldn't
at first; and we got out through the window, and spent the night in the
summer-house in the plantation. I put my head on her lap, and she put
her arms round me and tried to keep me warm; and then I went off to
sleep so happily, for somehow or other--I didn't think I could ever love
anybody, but somehow or other there is a sort of feeling in me that
perhaps is love for her. I think I could even be good for her.

"In the morning she walked with me as far as The Follies, and I have
been for the last few hours very busy. There'll be a good deal of
excitement amongst the servants to-day. I did hope that the wood-lice
would settle Frosty; but now you have interfered. Why can't you let her
go? She's no manner of use to me. Can't you give her whatever salary she
has now, and send her back to London, or wherever she lives?"

"And let you grow up wild, Irene, with no one to teach you--for you will
not learn from me?"

"Well, mother, I shall never learn anything from Frosty. Oh, what a
morning it is! Is