A Plucky Girl. Meade L. T.

of the gulf and the Duchess on the other. I stretched out my hands imploringly.

      "I know you will never speak to me again, you never can, it is not to be thought of. This is good-bye, for we must do it. I see you understand. Mother said that it would part us from our friends, and I thought she was wrong, but I see now that she was right. This is good-bye."

      Before she could prevent me I dropped on my knees and raised the jewelled hand to my lips, and kissed it passionately.

      "Oh, for heaven's sake, Westenra," said the Duchess then, "don't go into hysterics, nor talk in that wild way. Sit down again quietly, dear, and tell me what sort of person is a boarding-house keeper."

      Her tone made me smile, and relieved the tension.

      "Don't you really know?" I asked; "did you never hear of people who take paying guests? They swarm at the seaside, and charge exorbitant prices."

      "Oh, and rob you right and left," said the Duchess; "yes, my friends have told me of such places. As a rule I go to hotels by preference, but do you mean, Westenra, that your mother is going to live in apartments for the future?"

      "No, no," I answered wildly; "she will have a house, and she and I, both of us, will fill it with what they call paying guests. People will come and live with us, and pay us so much a week, and we will provide rooms for them, and food for them, and they will sit with us in the drawing-room and, and —perhaps we will have to amuse them a little."

      The Duchess sank feebly back in her chair. She looked me all over.

      "Was there ever?" she asked, "I scarcely like to ask, but was there ever any trace of insanity in your family?"

      "I have never heard that there was," I replied. "It is certainly not developing in me. I have always been renowned for my common sense, and it is coming well to the fore now."

      "My poor child," said the Duchess tenderly. She drew me close to her. "You are a very ignorant little girl, Westenra," she said, "but I have always taken a deep interest in you. You are young, but you have a good deal in your face – you are not exactly pretty, but you have both intelligence and, what is more important from my point of view, distinction in your bearing. Your father was my dear and personal friend. The man he rescued, at the cost of his own life, was my relation. I have known your mother too since we were both girls, and when she asked me, after your dear father's death, to stand sponsor to his child I could not refuse. But now, what confused rigmarole are you bringing to my ears? When did the first symptoms of this extraordinary craze begin?"

      "A fortnight ago," I answered, "when the news came that our money, on which we had been living in great peace and comfort, had suddenly vanished. The investments were not sound, and one of the trustees was responsible. You ought to blame him, and be very angry with him, but please don't blame me. I am only doing the best I can under most adverse circumstances. If mother and I went to the country we should both die, not, perhaps, of physical starvation, but certainly of that starvation which contracts both the mind and soul. It would not matter at all doing without cream and meat, you know, and – "

      "Oh dear," interrupted the Duchess, "I never felt more bewildered in my life. Whatever goes wrong, Westenra, people have to live, and now you speak of doing without the necessaries of life."

      "Meat and cream are not necessary to keep one alive," I replied; "but of course you have never known the sort of people who do without them. I should certainly be hand and glove with them if I went into the country, but in all probability in the boarding-house in Bloomsbury we shall be able to have good meals. Now I must really say good-bye. Try and remember sometimes that I am your god-daughter … and that mother loves you very much. Don't quite give us both up – that is, as far as your memory is concerned."

      The Duchess bustled to her feet. "I can't make you out a bit," she said. "Your head has gone wrong, that is the long and short of it, but your mother will explain things. Stay to lunch with me, Westenra, and afterwards we will go and have a talk with your mother. I can either send her a telegram or a note."

      "Oh, I cannot possibly wait," I replied. "I drove here to-day, but we must give up the carriage at the end of the week, and I have other people to see. I must go immediately to Lady Thesiger. You know what a dear little Yankee she is, and so wise and sensible."

      "She is a pretty woman," said the Duchess, frowning slightly, "but she does not dress well. Her clothes don't look as if they grew on her. Now you have a very lissom figure, dear; it always seems to be alive, but have I heard you aright? You are going to live in apartments. No; you are going into the country to a labourer's cottage – no, no, it isn't that; you are going to let apartments to people, and they are not to have either cream or meat. They won't stay long, that is one comfort. My poor child, we must get you over this craze. Dr. Paget shall see you. It is impossible that such a mad scheme should be allowed for a moment."

      "One thing is certain, she does not take it in, poor darling," I said to myself. "You are very kind, Duchess," I said aloud, "and I love you better than I ever loved you before," and then I kissed her hand again and ran out of the room. The last thing I saw of her round, good-humoured face, was the pallor on her cheeks and the tears in her eyes.

      Lady Thesiger lived in a large flat overlooking Kensington Gardens. She was not up when I called, but I boldly sent my name in; I was told that her ladyship would see me in her bathroom. I found her reclining on a low sofa, while a pretty girl was massaging her face.

      "Is that you, Westenra?" she said; "I am charmed to see you. Take off your hat. That will do, Allison; you can come back in half-an-hour. I want to be dressed in time for lunch."

      The young woman withdrew, and Lady Thesiger fixed her languid, heavily-fringed eyes on my face.

      "You might shut that window, Westenra," she said, "that is, if you mean to be good-natured. Now what is it? you look quite excited."

      "I am out of bondage, that is all," I said. I never treated Jasmine with respect, and she was a power in her way, but she was little older than I, and we had often romped together on rainy days, and had confided our secrets one to the other.

      "Out of bondage? Does that mean that you are engaged?"

      "Far from it; an engagement would probably be a state of bondage. Now listen, you are going to be awfully shocked, but if you are the good soul I think you are, you ought to help me."

      "Oh, I am sure I will do anything; I admire you very much, child. Dear me, Westenra, is that a new way of doing your hair? Let me see. Show me your profile? I am not sure whether I quite like it. Yes, on the whole, I think I do. You have pretty hair, very pretty, but now, confess the truth, you do wave it; all those little curls and tendrils are not natural."

      "As I love you, Jasmine, they are," I replied. "But oh, don't waste time now over my personal appearance. What do you think of my physical strength? Am I well made?"

      "So-so," answered Lady Thesiger, opening her big dark eyes and gazing at me from top to toe. "I should say you were strong. Your shoulders are just a trifle too broad, and sometimes I think you are a little too tall, but of course I admire you immensely. You ought to make a good marriage; you ought to be a power in society."

      "From this hour, Jasmine," I said, "society and I are at daggers drawn. I am going to do that sort of thing which society never forgives."

      "Oh, my dear, what?" Lady Thesiger quite roused herself. She forgot her languid attitude, and sat up on her elbow. "Do pass me that box of Fuller's chocolates," she said. "Come near and help yourself; they are delicious, aren't they?"

      I took one of the sweetmeats.

      "Now then," said her ladyship, "speak."

      "It is this. I must tell you as briefly as possible – mother and I have lost our money."

      "Oh, dear," said the little lady, "what a pity that so many people do lose their money – nice people, charming people who want it so much; but if that is all, it is rather fashionable to be poor. I was told so the other day. Some one will adopt you, dear; your mother will go into one of the refined order of almshouses. It is quite the fashion, you know, quite."

      "Don't talk nonsense," I said, and all the pride which I had inherited from my father came