the monthly nurse would be here, and must, of course, be waited upon.  And what was to become of the children?  Miss Shepperson, moved by the calamitous situation, entreated her friend to leave everything to her.  She would find a servant somehow, and meanwhile would keep the house going with her own hands.  Mrs. Rymer sobbed that she was ashamed to allow such a thing; but the other, braced by a crisis, displayed wonderful activity and resource.  For two days Miss Shepperson did all the domestic labour; then a maid, of the species known as ‘general,’ presented herself, and none too soon, for that same night there was born to the Rymers a third daughter.  But troubles were by no means over.  While Mrs. Rymer was ill—­very ill indeed—­the new handmaid exhibited a character so eccentric that, after nearly setting fire to the house while in a state of intoxication, she had to be got rid of as speedily as possible.  Miss Shepperson resolved that, for the present, there should be no repetition of such disagreeable things.  She quietly told Mr. Rymer that she felt quite able to grapple with the situation herself.

‘Impossible!’ cried the master of the house, who, after many sleepless nights and distracted days, had a haggard, unshorn face, scarcely to be recognised.  ‘I cannot permit it!  I will go myself’

Then, suddenly turning again to Miss Shepperson, he grasped her hand, called her his dear friend and benefactress, and with breaking voice whispered to her—­

‘I will help you.  I can do the hard work.  It’s only for a day or two.’

Late that evening he and Miss Shepperson were in the kitchen together:  the one was washing crockery, the other, who had been filling coal-scuttles, stood with dirty hands and melancholy visage, his eyes fixed on the floor.  Their looks met; Mr. Rymer took a step forward, smiling with confidential sadness.

‘I feel that I ought to speak frankly,’ he said, in a voice as polite and well-tuned as ever.  ’I should like to make known to you the exact state of my affairs.’

‘Oh, but Mrs. Rymer has told me everything,’ replied Miss Shepperson, as she dried a tea-cup.

‘No; not quite everything, I’m afraid.’  He had a shovel in his hand, and eyed it curiously.  ’She has not told you that I am considerably in debt to various people, and that, not long ago, I was obliged to raise money on our furniture.’

Miss Shepperson laid down the tea-cup and gazed anxiously at him, whereupon he began a detailed story of his misfortunes in business.  Mr. Rymer was a commission-agent—­that is to say, he was everything and nothing.  Struggle with pecuniary embarrassment was his normal condition, but only during the last twelvemonth had he fallen under persistent ill-luck and come to all but the very end of his resources.  It would still be possible for him, he explained, to raise money on the reversion for which he was waiting, but of such a step he could not dream.