Mr. Joseph, the house, the whole life, began to get on her nerves; and

in the solitude of her own room she spent many an anguished hour trying

to discover some way of escape. She read all the advertisements of

situations vacant in the newspaper; but all the employers seemed to

require technical knowledge and accomplishments which she did not

possess. She knew she could not teach even the youngest of children,

she was unacquainted with the mysterious science of short-hand, and had

never seen a typewriter. No one appeared to want a young lady who could

break horses, tend cattle, or run a farm; and this was the only kind of

work she could do.

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So she was forced to the bitter conclusion that she would have to go on

living the life, and eat the bread of the Herons, with as much patience

as she could command, in the hope that some day "something would

happen" to release her from her bondage, which was gradually robbing

her eyes of their brightness and making her thin and listless. It

seemed that nothing ever would happen, that the weeks would drag into

months and the months into years; and one day as she toiled slowly home

from a country walk, she almost felt inclined to turn to that last

refuge of the destitute and answer one of the advertisements for a

lady's help: anything would be better than to go on living the life in

death which was her lot at Laburnum Villa.

As she approached the house, she saw that the gas was lit in the

drawing-room, and the sound of voices, in which a strange one mingled,

penetrated through the thin door as she passed through the hall to her

room. While she was taking off her hat, there came a hurried knock, and

Isabel entered in her best dress. She was flushed and in a flatter of

suppressed excitement.

"Oh, Ida, can you lend me a clean collar?" she asked, in a stage

whisper, and with a giggle which was intended to invite question; but,

as Ida had asked none, Isabel said, with another giggle: "You've heard

me speak of George Powler?"

Ida looked doubtful: Isabel had mentioned so many men, generally by

their Christian names, who were supposed to be smitten by her, that

Ida, often listening absently enough to the foolish girl's confidences,

not seldom "got mixed."

"The one who went to South Australia," Isabel went on, with an

affectation of coy shyness. "We used to see a great deal of him--at

least he used to call--before he went away; and though there really was

nothing serious between us, of course--But one doesn't like to speak of

these things, even to one's bosom friend. But he's down-stairs just

now. I just had time to run up, and he actually almost saw me on the

stairs! Yes, this one will do: you always have such good-shaped

collars, and yet you have always lived in the country! I must be quick

and hurry down: men do so hate to be kept waiting, don't they? You'll

come down presently, won't you, Ida? I'm sure you'll like him: he's so

steady: and it's a very good business. Of course, as I said, nothing

definite has passed between us, but--"




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