class="narrative">“Yes,” said Mrs Fortescue, “but on Christmas Eve we made sure your train would be late.”

The lawyer took out his watch.

“Not the special from London; that is never late,” he remarked. “I want to catch the half-past four back; otherwise I shall have to go by one of those dreadful slow trains, and there’s a good deal to talk over. I do think it is a little careless of those girls not to be at home when they are expecting me.”

Mrs Fortescue coughed, then she ’hemmed.

“It might—” she began. The lawyer paused in his impatient walk and stared at her. “It might expedite matters,” she continued, “if you were to tell me some of your plans. For instance, I shall quite understand if you wish me to leave here and take a house in London. It is true the lease of this house won’t be up for two years, but I have no doubt my landlord would be open to a consideration.”

“Eh? What is it you were going to say? I don’t want you to leave your house,” blurted out Mr Timmins. “I have nothing whatever to do with your future, Mrs Fortescue. You have been kind to my young friends in the past, but I think I have—er—er—fully repaid you. And here they come—that is all right. Now, my dear madam, if you would leave the young ladies with me—no tea, thank you; I haven’t time for any—I may be able to get my business through in three-quarters of an hour. It is only just half-past three. If I leave here at a quarter-past four, I may catch the express back to town. Would you be so very kind as to order your servant to have a cab at the door for me at a quarter-past four—yes, in three-quarters of an hour I can say all that need be said. No tea, I beg of you.”

He was really very cross; it was the girls’ doing. Mrs Fortescue felt thoroughly annoyed. She went into the hall to meet Brenda and Florence.

“Mr Timmins has been here for nearly twenty minutes. His train was in sharp at three. He is very much annoyed at your both being out. Go to him at once, girls—at once.”

“Oh, of course we will,” said Florence. “Who would have supposed that his train would have been punctual to-day! Come, Brenda, come.”

They went, just as they were, into the pretty little precise drawing-room, where a fire was burning cheerily in the grate, and the room was looking spick and span, everything dusted and in perfect order, and some pretty vases full of fresh flowers adding a picturesqueness to the scene. It was quite a dear little drawing-room, and when the two girls—Florence with that rich colour which so specially characterised her, and Brenda a little paler but very sweet-looking—entered the room, the picture was complete. The old lawyer lost his sense of irritation. He came forward with both hands outstretched.

“My dear children,” he said; “my poor children. Sit down; sit down.”

They were surprised at his address, and Florence began to apologise for being late; but Brenda made no remark, only her face turned pale.

“I may as well out with it at once,” said Mr Timmins. “It was never my wish that it should have been kept from you all these years, but I only obeyed your parent’s special instructions. You have left school—”

“Oh yes,” said Florence; “and I am glad. What are we to do in the future, Daddy Timmins?”

She often called him by that name. He took her soft young hand and stroked it. There was a husky note in his voice. He found it difficult to speak. After a minute or two, he said abruptly—

“Now, children, I will just tell you the very worst at once. You haven’t a solid, solitary hundred pounds between you in this wide world. I kept you at school as long as I could. There is not enough money to pay for another term’s schooling, but there is enough to pay Mrs Fortescue for your Christmas holidays, and there will be a few pounds over to put into each of your pockets. The little money your father left you will then be quite exhausted.”

“I don’t understand,” said Brenda, after a long time.

Florence was silent—she, who was generally the noisy one. She was gazing straight before her out into Mrs Fortescue’s little garden which had a light covering of snow over the flower-beds, and which looked so pretty and yet so small and confined. She looked beyond the garden at the line of the horizon, which showed clear against the frosty air. There would be a hard frost to-night. Christmas Day would come in with its old-fashioned splendour. She had imagined all sorts of things about this special time; Christmas Day in hot countries, Christmas Day in large country houses, Christmas Day in her own home, when she had won the man who would love her, not only for her beauty, but her wealth. She was penniless. It seemed very queer. It seemed to contract her world. She could not understand it.

Brenda, who had a stronger nature, began to perceive the position more quickly.

“Please,” she said—and her young voice had no tremble in it—“please tell me exactly what this means and why—why we were neither of us told until now?”

Mr Timmins shrugged his shoulders.

“How old were you, Brenda, when your father and mother died?” he asked.

“I was fourteen,” she answered, “and Florence was thirteen.”

“Precisely; you were two little girls: you were relationless.”

“So I have always been told,” said Brenda.

“Your father left a will behind him. He always appeared to you to be a rich man, did he not?”

“I suppose so,” said Brenda. “I never thought about it.”

“Nor did I,” said Florence, speaking for the first time.

“Well, he was not rich. He lived up to his income. He earned a considerable amount as a writer.”

“I was very proud of him,” said Brenda.

“When he died,” continued Mr Timmins, taking no notice of this remark—“you know your mother died first—but when he died he left a will, giving explicit directions that all his debts were to be paid in full. There were not many, but there were some. The remainder of the money was to be spent on the education of you two girls. I assure you, my dears, there was not much; but I have brought the accounts with me for you to see the exact amount realisable from his estate and precisely how I spent it. I found Mrs Fortescue willing to give you a home in the holidays, and I arranged with her that you were to go to her for so much a week. I chose, by your father’s directions, the very best possible school to send you to, a school where you would only meet with ladies, and where you would be educated as thoroughly as possible. You were to stay on at school and with Mrs Fortescue until the last hundred pounds of your money was reached. Then you were to be told the truth: that you were to face the world. After your fees for your last term’s schooling have been met and Mrs Fortescue has been paid for your Christmas holidays, there will be precisely eighty pounds in the bank to your credit. That money I think you ought to save for a nest-egg. That is all you possess. Your father’s idea was that you would live more happily and work more contentedly if you were allowed to grow up to the period of adolescence without knowing the cares and sorrows of the world. He may have been wrong; doubtless he was; anyhow, there was nothing whatever for me to do but to obey the will. I came down myself to tell you. You will have the Christmas holidays in which to prepare