It is a curious thing, this, that when a human being of average experience is confided in, the natural impulse is to assume that confidence is complete, and the adviser feels as competent to pronounce upon the case from the statement given as if minds were as limpid as crystal, and words as fit to represent them as a mirror is to show the objects it reflects.  Yet if the listener would but look within, he would know that in any complicated question of life there would be much that he would not, more than he could not, tell of himself, unless long years of closest companionship had revealed the one heart to the other in ways that are beyond the power of words.  And that is so even if the whole heart is set to be honest above all—­and how many hearts are so set?

“You see,” said Eliza, “if people knew I had lived on a very poor clearin’ and done the work, they’d despise me perhaps.”

“It is no disgrace to any one to have worked hard, and it certainly cannot be a disadvantage in this country.”

“It was rough.”

“You are not very rough, Eliza.  It strikes me that you have been pretty carefully trained and taught.”

“Yes, I was that”—­with satisfaction.  “But don’t you think, if I got on, grand people would always look down at me if they knew I’d lived so common?  And besides, I’m sometimes afraid the man that went shares at the land with father will want to find me.”

“But you said you told him you were coming away.”

“I told him, plain and honest; but I had a long way to walk till I got to the train, and I just went off.  But he won’t find it so easy to fill my place, and get some one to do the housework!  He’d have kept me, if he could; and if he heard where I was he might come and try to get me back by saying father said I was to obey him till I was twenty-one.”

“If your father said—­that—­”

“No,” cried the girl, vehemently, “he never did.”

“You will hear from your uncle in Scotland?” said Sophia.

“I don’t believe he’ll write to me.  I don’t believe he lives any more where I sent the letter.  It’s years and years since father heard from him.  I said I’d write because I thought it would look more respectable to Mrs. Rexford to have an uncle.  And I did write; but he won’t answer.”

This was certainly frank.

“Was that honest, Eliza?”

“No, Miss Sophia; but I felt so miserable.  It’s hard to walk off with your bundle, and be all alone and afraid of a man coming after you, and being so angry.  He was dreadful angry when I told him I’d come.  If you’d only promise not tell where I came from to anybody, so that it can’t get round to him that I’m here, and so that people won’t know how I lived before—­”

“Well, we certainly have no reason to tell anybody.  If it will make you content, I can assure you none of us will talk about your affairs.  Was that all the trouble?”