some notion of the value of money; she does not lose her dead about dress, nor does she buy costly baubles at the jewellers’.  She, certainly wastes a good many pounds on books, when a three-guinea subscription to Mudie’s would answer the purpose quite as well.  Then she is honestly deeply grieved at the loss of her mother, but she does not parade it, or nurse it either, and I think she has some opinion of my judgment.  Still she is a little unsettled, and not quite happy.”

“I think she deserves to be happy,” observed Bertie, with an air of conviction—­“if any erring mortal can deserve anything.”

“We seldom get our deserts, either way, here; indeed, this world is so upside down I am inclined to believe there must be another to put it straight.”

“We have fortunately better proof than that,” returned her brother, gravely.

“I must say I feel very curious to know what Katherine’s plan is; I am terrible afraid there is a man in it.”

“Nothing more probable;” and Bertie fell into a fit of thought.  “You know Mrs. Needham!” he asked suddenly.

“Well, I just know her.”

“She is a most earnest, energetic woman, though we are not quite of one mind on all subjects.  She wants to secure Miss Liddell’s assistance in getting up a bazar for the Stray Children’s Home.  I shall bring her to call on you.”

“Don’t!”—­very emphatically.  “I know more than enough people already, and I don’t want any well-dressed beggars added to the number.”

“Well, I will not interfere; but that is of little consequence.  If Mrs. Needham wants to come, she’ll come.”

“I hate these fussy subscription-hunting women!” cried Miss Payne.

“She does not hunt for subscriptions, nor does she take any special interest in religious matters, but she approves of this particular charity.  She is an immensely busy woman, and writes in I don’t know now many newspapers.”

“Newspapers!  And are our opinions made up for us by rambling hussies of that description?”

Bertie burst out laughing.  “If Mrs. Needham heard you!” he exclaimed.  “She considers herself ‘the glass of fashion and the mould of form,’ the most successful and important woman in the world—­the English world.”

Miss Payne’s only reply was a contemptuous upward toss of the head.  “If you will be at Euston Square on Saturday to meet the five-fifty train from Monckton,” she resumed, “I should be obliged to you—­Miss Liddell travels alone—­and you can dine with us if you like after, unless you are going to preach the gospel somewhere.”

“Thank you.  Why do you object to my preaching?”

“Because I like things done decently and in order.  You are not ordained, and there are plenty of churches and chapels, God knows, for people to go to, if they would wash their faces and be decent.  Now I can’t stay here any longer, so good-by for the present.”  She took up a little basket containing an old pair of gloves, large scissors, and a ball of twine, and walked briskly away to attend to the plants in her diminutive conservatory.