She had had a dull morning.  Helena had brought her a novel from Loring’s that she could not read.  Novels, any more than life, cannot be read with very much patience, unless they touch something besides surface.  Why do critics—­some of them—­make such short, smart work,—­such cheerful, confident despatch, nowadays, of a story with religion in it, as if it were an abnormity,—­a thing with sentence of death in itself, like a calf born with two heads,—­that needs not their trouble, save to name it as it is?  Why, that is, if religion stand for the relation of things to spirit, which I suppose it should?  Somebody said that somebody had written a book made up of “spiritual struggles and strawberry short-cake.”  That was bright and funny; and it seemed to settle the matter; but, taking strawberry short-cake representatively, what else is human experience on earth made up of?  And are novels to be pictures of human experience, or not?

This has nothing to do with present matters, however, except that Desire found nothing real in her novel, and so had flung it aside, and was sitting rather listlessly with her crochet which she never cared much for, when Uncle Oldways entered.

Her face brightened instantly as he came in.  He sat down just where he had sat the other night.  Mr. Oldways had a fashion of finding the same seat a second time when he had come in once; he was a man who took up most things where he left them off, and this was an unconscious sign of it.

“Your mother has decided to sell the house on the 23d, it seems,” he said.

“Yes; I have been out twice.  I shall be able to go away by then; I suppose that is all she has waited for.”

“Do you think you could be contented to come and live with me?”

“Come and live?”

“Yes.  And let your mother and Helena go to Europe.”

“O, Uncle Oldways!  I think I could rest there!  But I don’t want only to rest, you know.  I must do something.  For myself, to begin with.  I have made up my mind not to depend upon my mother.  Why should I, any more than a boy?  And I am sure I cannot depend on anybody else.”

These were Desire Ledwith’s thanks; and Mr. Oldways liked them.  She did not say it to please him; she thought it seemed almost ungrateful and unwilling; but she was so intent on taking up life for herself.

“You must have a place to do in,—­or from,” said Mr. Oldways.  “And it is better you should be under some protection.  You must consent to that for your mother’s sake.  How much money have you got?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars a year.  Of my own.”

This was coming to business and calculation and common sense.  Desire was encouraged.  Uncle Oldways did not think her quite absurd.

“That will clothe you,—­without much fuss and feathers?”

“I have done with fuss and feathers,”—­Desire said with a grave smile, glancing at her plain white wrapper and the black shawl that was folded around her.