could bear and say nothing; but she, in bearing, found
herself compelled to say much. It had been her fault,--the fault of
people on her side,--and she would fain have fed her husband with
the full flowery potato while she ate only the rind. She told him,
unnecessarily, over and over again, that she had ruined him by her
marriage. No such idea was ever in his head. The thing had come, and
so it must be. There was food to eat, potatoes enough for both, and a
genteel house in which to live. He could still be happy if she would
not groan. A certain amount of groaning she did postpone while in his
presence. The sewing of seams, and the darning of household linen,
which in his eyes amounted to groaning, was done in his absence.
After their genteel dinner he would sleep a little, and she would
knit. He would have his glass of wine, but would make his bottle of
port last almost for a week. This was the house to which Lucy Dormer
was brought when Mr. Dosett had consented to share with Sir Thomas
the burden left by the death of the improvident artist.

When a month passed by Lucy began to think that time itself would
almost drive her mad. Her father had died early in September. The
Tringles had then, of course, been out of town, but Sir Thomas
and his wife had found themselves compelled to come up on such an
occasion. Something they knew must be done about the girls, and they
had not chosen that that something should be done in their absence.
Mr. Dosett was also enjoying his official leave of absence for
the year, but was enjoying it within the economical precincts of
Kingsbury Crescent. There was but seldom now an excursion for him or
his wife to the joys of the country. Once, some years ago, they had
paid a visit to the palatial luxuries of Glenbogie, but the delights
of the place had not paid for the expense of the long journey. They,
therefore, had been at hand to undertake their duties. Dosett and
Tringle, with a score of artists, had followed poor Dormer to his
grave in Kensal Green, and then Dosett and Tringle had parted again,
probably not to see each other for another term of years.

"My dear, what do you like to do with your time?" Mrs. Dosett said to
her niece, after the first week. At this time Lucy's wardrobe was not
yet of a nature to need much work over its ravages. The Dormer girls
had hardly known where their frocks had come from when they wanted
frocks,--hardly with more precision than the Tringle girls. Frock