A Woman's Burden. Fergus Hume

did Mrs. Darrow, who had read nothing but society journals and fashion magazines, blend discipline with criticism.

      "I never saw such a child," she wailed; "he's not a bit like me. Oh, Dicky, Dicky, why haven't you your mother's sweet disposition and sweet temper?"

      Before Dicky could reply to this truly overwhelming question, to which but one answer was expected, a dried-up little man appeared at the French window opening on to the lawn, and stepped into the room. Hilda half rose to fly from her arch enemy, but being caught, decided it would be undignified to retreat. So she resumed her seat and talked in low tones to Dicky. Mrs. Darrow still lay on her sofa, and welcomed the stranger in the faintest of low tones, meant to be expressive of great weakness.

      "How are you, Uncle Barton," she said. "I can hardly speak, I am so ill."

      "I know, I know," rasped out the cynic grimly. "I heard you talking to Dicky, no wonder you can't chatter now."

      "I must do my duty to my child," cried Mrs. Darrow with more energy, "even though my health suffers."

      Mr. Barton surveyed the plump recumbent figure with grim humour.

      "You feel your parental duties too much, Julia, they will wear you out. How do you do, Miss Marsh? I see you and Julia have been spoiling your digestions with strong tea. Muffins too! Oh, Lord, think of your complexions!"

      Hilda laughed, and glanced into a near mirror. Her complexion was her strong point, and she had no fear of its being criticised even by disagreeable Mr. Barton.

      "I'm afraid my appetite is stronger than my vanity," she said.

      "Then you must have the appetite of an ostrich," growled Barton, sitting down near his niece; "but Julia, poor dear, eats nothing."

      "That I don't," murmured Mrs. Darrow. "I peck like a bird."

      "What kind of a bird—a canary, or an albatross?"

      "Uncle Barton!" cried the outraged Julia in capital letters.

      "There, there, it's all right. Anyone can see you eat nothing. You are all skin and bone. Dicky, come here, sir. Your new governess will be here in ten minutes."

      "In ten minutes!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, bounding from the sofa with more energy than might have been expected. "She can't—she mustn't. I'm not ready to receive her. Oh, Uncle Barton!"—the irrepressible feminine curiosity would out—"what is she like?"

      "Very ugly, small, dark-haired, dark-skinned."

      "I knew it. I knew you would choose an ugly woman!"

      Barton chuckled.

      "Only as a foil to yourself, my dear. Now then, Dicky, what is the matter?"

      "I don't like an ugly governess," whimpered Dicky. "Can't Hilda teach me?"

      "I don't know about that, Dick. If beauty is the essential factor in your teacher, then certainly Miss Marsh is more than qualified. What do you say, Miss Marsh? Will you undertake this young gentleman's education?"

      Hilda shook her head, and laughed herself into a pretty state of confusion. It certainly became her.

      "I'm not clever enough," said she, wincing under Barton's regard.

      "H'm. That's a pity, otherwise you might have had this fifty pounds a year."

      "What?" screamed Mrs. Darrow, "do you intend to give this creature fifty pounds?"

      "Why not? She's worth it."

      "Who is she?"

      "Dicky's governess—Miss Crane."

      "But who is she?—where does she come from?"

      "London. You had better make further inquiries of her in person, for there's the fly driving up to the gate."

      Dignity, or rather her exhibition of it, prevented Mrs. Darrow rushing to the window. She seated herself like a queen on the sofa, and spread out her sable skirts, so as to receive the ugly governess with the true keep-your-distance hospitality of the British matron. At the same time she remonstrated with Uncle Barton for his rash and unnecessary generosity.

      "If you gave her twenty pounds a year it would be more than enough," she said snappishly. "I could do well with the other thirty."

      "No doubt. But you don't teach Dicky, you see."

      "I'm his mother."

      "So I believe. But you don't want me to pay you for that, I suppose? Well, here is my Gorgon."

      Hilda remained to see the new governess. Like Mrs. Darrow, she was devoured by curiosity; centred on this occasion solely upon the new-comer's physical attractions—or lack of them. It was quite possible of course that this creature might be better looking than Mr. Barton's eyes could judge. With Mrs. Darrow she continually glanced towards the door, and Barton chuckled. As his chuckle was invariably a prelude to something disagreeable, even Mrs. Darrow felt uneasy at the sound.

      Outside, in the narrow passage, could be heard voices, and the bumping of heavy luggage being got in. Then the door opened, and the little maid-servant announced, "Miss Crane." Immediately afterwards the new governess entered the room.

      "Why, she's pretty!" cried Dicky in surprise.

      Barton led Miriam to the throne whereon, bitterly disappointed, Mrs. Darrow sat in state.

      "Julia, this is Miss Miriam Crane. Miss Crane, my niece, Mrs. Dacre Darrow."

      The widow gave her hand and murmured some commonplace; but from that moment she hated Miriam with all the fervour her petty nature was capable of. Barton looked at the three women taking stock of each other, and chuckled again.

CHAPTER II.

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A RED RAG TO A BULL.

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      Miriam, having been thus formally introduced into the parish of Lesser Thorpe by no less a personage than the lord of the manor himself, speedily settled down to her official duties in Pine Cottage. The cottage was typical of its kind—a very fairy cottage, a jumble of angles and gables, casements and rusticity, with a thatched roof, and walls overgrown with roses. Now, in the month of June, the roses were in full bloom, and the place was brilliant with them. It lay a short distance off the village road, half clasped to the breast of the pine forest, whence it took its name. The little garden a-bloom in front was encircled by a white paling fence and a quickset hedge. At the back an orchard of apple and plum trees stretched until it seemed to lose itself in the woods beyond. A charming Arcadian place it was, for which, be it remembered, Mrs. Darrow paid no rent. Yet she continually grumbled at being compelled to live in it.

      "I ought to be in my proper place at the Manor House," she confided to Miss Crane, "but Uncle Barton is so selfish; don't you think so?"

      "Really," replied Miriam, knowing that all she said would be repeated by this she-Judas, "I don't know, my acquaintance with Mr. Barton is so slight."

      "Where did you meet him?"

      "In London, at a governess' institution at Kensington. He inquired for someone to teach your son, Mrs. Darrow, and as I seemed likely to suit him, he engaged me."

      It will be noticed that Miriam suppressed Waterloo Bridge, the Pitt Hotel, and Mrs. Perks. This was by Barton's express desire, and indeed by her own; for she had no wish to reveal her past to Mrs. Darrow, who, as she had quickly perceived, bore her no love. Indeed, the widow was at no great pains to conceal her dislike for Miriam. She was horribly jealous of her, notwithstanding her expressed opinion that no woman with red hair could be considered even passable. She feared her, too, because she