“What shall I do about that novel?  If I could get two hundred—­even one hundred—­pounds for it, I should do well.  I began to hope I might make both ends meet with my pen.  Oh, Katie dear, I am ashamed of myself, but for the first time in my life I feel beaten.  I feel as if I could not come up to time again.  It has been such a long, weary battle!” She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

“I wish I could give you rest, darling mother!” said Katherine, taking her hand and fondling it.  “I fear I have been too useless—­too thoughtless.”

“You have done all you could, my child; one cannot expect much from nineteen.  But I wish—­I wish I could think of any means of deliverance from my present difficulty.  A small sum would suffice.  Where to find it is the question.  I counted too much on those unlucky manuscripts, and now I do not know where to turn; I see a vista of debt.”  A sudden fit of coughing interrupted her.

“You have taken cold, mother,” cried Katherine.  “I heard you coughing this morning.  I was sure you would suffer for sitting near the open window in the study last night.”

“It was so hot!” murmured Mrs. Liddell, lying back exhausted.

“Yes, but it was also frightfully damp.  Tell me, mother, is there anything we can sell?—­anything—­”

Mrs. Liddell interrupted her.  “Nothing, dear.  The few jewels I had preserved went when I was trying to furnish this house.  I fancied we should do well in a house of our own, and I was so anxious to make a home for my poor boy’s widow!”

“When do you expect any more money?”

“Not for nearly two months, and then another quarter’s rent will be due.”

“Mother,” said Katherine, after a moment’s silence, “would not my father’s brother, of whom I heard you speak, help you?  It is dreadful to ask, but he is so near a kinsman, and childless.”

“It is useless to think of it.  He and your father quarrelled about money, and he is implacable.  His only child, a son, opposed him, and he drove him away.  Poor fellow! he was killed in Australia.”

“Why have hard-hearted wretches heaps of money, while kind, generous souls like you never have a farthing?”

“That is a mystery of long standing,” said Mrs. Liddell, with a faint smile.  “Katie, I cannot think or talk any more.  I will go and lie down in my own room.  There neither Ada nor the children can disturb me.  Oh, my darling, how can I ever die in peace if I leave you to do battle with the bitter, bitter world unprovided for?” Her voice quivered, and the hand she laid on her daughter’s trembled.

“Do not fear for me, mother.  I am tougher and more selfish than you are.  It is time I worked for you.  How feverish you are!  Come up to your own room.  You will see things differently when you have had a little sleep.  If the worst comes, I will tell Ada that we must give up the house and go back to lodgings.  We never had difficulties before we came here.”