And this had been her life for ten years!  A wave of pity, not for herself but for that young girl of eighteen who had once been herself, that proudly confident young creature who, when suddenly deprived of the protection of her only parent,—­Nora’s father had died when she was too young to remember him,—­had so bravely faced the world, serene in the consciousness that the happiness which was her right was sure to be hers after a little waiting, dimmed her eyes for a moment.  The dreams she had dreamed after she had received Miss Wickham’s letter offering her the post of companion!  She recalled how she had smiled to herself when the agent with whom she had filed her application congratulated her warmly on her good fortune in placing herself so promptly, and, by way of benediction, had wished that she might hold the position for many years.  Many years indeed!  That had been no part of her plan.  Those nebulous plans had always been consistently rose-colored.  It was impossible to remember them all now.

Sometimes the unknown Miss Wickham turned out to be a soft-hearted and sentimental old lady who was completely won by her young companion’s charm and unmistakable air of good breeding.  After a short time, she either adopted her, or, on dying, left her her entire fortune.

Again, she proved to be a perfect ogre.  In this variation it was always the Prince Charming, that looms large in every young girl’s dreams, who finally, after a brief period of unhappiness, came to the rescue and everything ended happily if somewhat conventionally.

The reality had been sadly different.  Miss Wickham had disclosed herself as being a hard, self-centered, worldly woman who considered that in furnishing her young companion with board, lodging and a salary of thirty pounds a year, she had, to use a commercial phrase, obtained the option on her every waking hour, and indeed, during the last year of her life, she had extended this option to cover many of the hours which should have been dedicated to rest and sleep.

All the fine plans that the young Nora had made while journeying down from London to Tunbridge Wells, for going on with her music, improving herself in French and perhaps taking up another modern language, in her leisure hours, had been nipped in the bud before she had been an inmate of Miss Wickham’s house many days.  She had no leisure hours.  Miss Wickham saw to that.  She had apparently an abhorrence for her own unrelieved society that amounted to a positive mania.  She must never be left alone.  Let Nora but escape to her own little room in the vain hope of obtaining a few moments to herself, and Kate, the parlor maid, was certain to be sent after her.

“Miss Wickham’s compliments and she was waiting to be read to.”  “Miss Wickham’s compliments, but did Miss Marsh know that the horses were at the door?” “Miss Wickham’s compliments, and should she have Kate set out the backgammon board?”