to your happiness to have me there;
it would be quite the other way about. I know that, if you DON'T. This
is my place, here, and I intend to stick to it!"

Julia's bright eyes, scanning the apathetic, stubborn maternal
countenance, hardened beyond their wont. "You talk as if there had been
some class war declared," she said, with obvious annoyance. "You know
that Uncle Stormont would like nothing better than to be as nice to you
as he is to us."

"Uncle Stormont!" Mrs. Dabney's repetition of the words was surcharged
with hostile sarcasm. "But his name was Stormont as much as it was Joel,"
broke in Alfred, from his dark corner. "He has a perfect right to use
the one he likes best."

"Oh, I don't dispute his right," she replied, once more in her
passionless monotone. "Everybody can call themselves whatever they
please. It's no affair of mine. You and your sister spell your father's
name in a way to suit yourselves: I never interfered, did I? You have
your own ideas and your own tastes. They are quite beyond me--but
they're all right for you. I don't criticize them at all. What I say is
that it is a great mercy your uncle came along, with his pockets full
of money to enable you to make the most of them. If I were religious I
should call that providential."

"And that's what we DO call it," put in Julia, with vivacity. "And why
should you shut your doors against this Providence, mamma? Just think of
it! We don't insist upon your coming to live at Ovington Square at all.
Probably, as you say, you would be happier by yourself--at least for
the present. But when Uncle St--when uncle says there's more than enough
money for us all, and is only too anxious for you to let him do things
for you--why, he's your own brother! It's as if I should refuse to allow
Alfred to do things for me."

"That you never did," interposed the young man, gayly. "I'll say that
for you, Jule."

"And never will," she assured him, with cheerful decision. "But
no--mamma--can't you see what we mean? We have done what you wanted us
to do. You sent us both to much better schools than you could afford,
from the time we were of no age at all--and when uncle's money came you
sent us to Cheltenham. We did you no discredit. We worked very well; we
behaved ourselves properly. We came back to you at last with fair reason
to suppose that you would be--I won't say proud, but at least well
satisfied with us--and then it turned out that you didn't like us at
a