Munsey's Magazine/Volume 80/Issue 3/Benedicta

HEN the charming prince at last cut his way through the enchanted forest, and set foot in that silent palace, the sleeping beauty was delighted to be waked with a kiss. It is not difficult, however, to imagine some beauties who would prefer to be left in dismal, cobwebby peace—beauties who had grown so used to sleep that waking would be a pain and a shock. It is pitiful to think of the poor young prince in a case like that—except that princes are almost always fortunate in the end, and probably know that they will be.

The real sleeping beauty, you will perhaps remember, had a spell put on her at her christening by a disgruntled fairy. If ever she touched a distaff, she would prick herself and die. Another and a better fairy interfered, and arranged that, instead of death, an enchanted sleep should overtake the princess; and so it happened. In vain the royal parents prohibited distaffs. Curses are very, very hard to avoid, and the poor, lovely girl did find a distaff, and did prick her finger, and did fall asleep, and so did every other living creature in the palace with her, to stand or sit or lie just where they were for I don't remember how many years.

Benedicta had nothing to do with fairies, and she wouldn't have known a distaff if she had seen one; nevertheless, at the time when this story begins, she had been going about for years in a sort of enchanted slumber. She didn't know that it was a slumber. She called it dignity, and pride, and so on, and clung most tenaciously to her twilight existence.

She was a tall, disdainful creature, very pretty, if you had the courage to look at her; but the people of Elderfield were so well used to her that they had no particular wish to look at her. She was simply Miss Benedicta Miller, from the old Miller place, and the Millers had ceased to be interesting long before she was born.

They had been rich, but now they were poor. They were very tiresome about it, too, keeping up a moldy, lamentable sort of state in their dilapidated house, turning up their noses at every one new and friendly, and being frightfully sensitive toward all the “old” people who offered them any courtesy.

There were only two of them left now—Benedicta and her father. Mr. Miller had grown so sensitive and squeamish and absurd that he was practically invisible, and was very nearly forgotten. The more he saw that he was forgotten, the more hurt and resentful he became, and the less would he come out into the world.

Some one had to come out, however. They couldn't be Robinson Crusoes on a farm where nothing grew any more. They had to buy what they wanted, and, to do so, Benedicta had to go to the village.

This she did two or three times a week in a little car, beautifully polished and cared for, as she cared for everything. She would come rattling down Main Street, and no amount of jouncing could make her look anything but dignified, just as no hat, however old and unbecoming, could destroy the beauty of her proud little head and fine features. She would enter a shop and give a pitiful little order; and because she remembered what a wonderful family the Millers had once been, and because she was so miserable at their present eclipse, and so ashamed of herself for being miserable, she would be quite cold and curt.

Then home she would go, to her father, who always asked her what was the news. She knew what sort of news he wanted to hear—that some one had inquired about him, or sent a message; but no one did that any more.

They would sit down to a meager little lunch cooked by the cheapest servant obtainable. Though Benedicta herself could have cooked one ten times better, it would have choked them. Even the heartbreaking bills that came had to be presented to Mr. Miller on a silver tray.

Benedicta admired her father beyond measure, and agreed with him that the only self-respecting thing for them was to hide their shameful poverty from the rest of the world; but he was fifty, and she was only twenty-three, so that sometimes she was not able to find quite the same satisfaction in solitary pride that he did. She kept up the tradition splendidly, but she didn't always relish it.

For instance, when that Wilkinson girl had come to see her, uninvited and unencouraged, she had found it difficult to be courteously disagreeable every instant. She had to be constantly reminding herself that the Wilkinsons were impossible people who had been retail grocers when the Millers were in their prime. She had also had to remind herself that this jolly, friendly girl was not, could not be, really friendly, but had doubtless come to spy upon their poverty and to laugh about it afterward.

When, from the window, she had watched her visitor drive off in a smart little roadster, tears came to Benedicta's eyes—not tears of envy, but of genuine regret that the pride of the Millers forbade her to like Miss Wilkinson. Her life seemed duller and mustier than ever.

, instead of being pleased, Benedicta was affronted when the impossible girl came back. It was late one June afternoon, in the bright and tranquil hour before the sun goes down, and Benedicta, weary and idle, was in the sitting room, because it was proper for her to be in the sitting room.

She looked out of the window, because she was thoroughly tired of looking at the room. The fact of its being filled with genuine Colonial furniture of fine mahogany gave her no pleasure at all. The landscape, too, was uninspiring—a straggling, neglected garden, and a stretch of fields which had once been part of the Miller estate, but which had been first rented and then sold to farmers who did not object to working.

Something was coming along the road. She recognized the smart little roadster. It turned in at their gateway and stopped before their door.

It was a memorable interview. Indeed, it was a battle, and Miss Wilkinson conquered. In the most ordinary way, she made a preposterous suggestion.

“I want you to spend this week-end with us,” she said. “Please do!”

Benedicta, almost overcome, said that she had never spent a night away from home.

“Then begin now,” said Miss Wilkinson. “Please come! It's going to be awfully nice. Two—”

“I'm sure it would be nice, but I really can't,” said Benedicta firmly.

Miss Wilkinson seemed perfectly unaware that it is bad manners to press an invitation. She had taken a fancy to Benedicta's dark beauty, with her sulky mouth and her unhappy eyes, and she was sorry for her. She kept on urging until Benedicta was obliged to point out to her that invitations must come not from daughters, but from mothers, and that she was not acquainted with Mrs. Wilkinson.

“All right!” said the other good-humoredly. “Then mother 'Il come to-morrow and ask you.”

“But—” Benedicta began.

She found it hard to go on. Impossible as Miss Wilkinson was, it was difficult to dislike her. The idea of a week-end in her company was terribly tempting. It was an invitation to be young for a little while.

“But,” Benedicta went on more gently, “you see, you live so near, it really seems absurd to stay overnight. I should like very much to come some afternoon—”

Miss Wilkinson had said a week-end, and a week-end she intended to have.

“If I could get her away from this ghastly house, the girl would be entirely different,” she thought. “Poor thing! She really wants to come, too.”

So she kept at it, and, being an obstinate creature, accustomed to her own way, she at last obtained Benedicta's reluctant consent.

“I'll come for you on Friday, before dinner,” she said gayly.

Off she went, well pleased with herself, and with Benedicta, and with almost everything else in the world.

But Mr. Miller! Better to pass over that interview, for it accomplished nothing except to make both father and daughter very miserable. Even Mr. Miller was forced to admit that, as the invitation had been accepted, nothing could be done. All the Millers did what they said they would do, no matter how disastrous the consequences. All he wished was to say what he thought of this undignified, improper proceeding, and he did so.

being kind to a Miller! Mrs. Wilkinson conducting Benedicta to a charming little bedroom, and actually kissing her at the door! Mr. Wilkinson meeting her in the dining room and saying:

“It's a pleasure to see the daughter of Mr. Hamilton Miller in my house. Your father was one of my earliest customers.”

Mr. Wilkinson saying this, and not seeming at all ashamed of having had customers! Nan—that was Miss Wilkinson's name—doing everything possible to make her somewhat difficult guest feel at home!

When at last she was left alone in her room to dress for dinner, Benedicta had to struggle with a great desire to cry, for ridiculous reasons—because Mrs. Wilkinson had kissed her, because the room itself was so pretty, furnished in white and lit by a rose-shaded lamp, because she was touched, and was ashamed of herself for being touched. She reminded herself that she had come as a favor to Nan, and against her own will. She remembered that everything in her chilly, bleak little room at home was an heirloom.

“I ought to have more poise,” she told herself sternly.

When she came down to dinner, she had perhaps a little too much poise. The Wilkinsons all kept on being kind, because it was natural to them, and because they knew all about the Millers and understood Benedicta; but the other guests saw in her nothing but a very stiff, cool, silent girl in a dowdy frock, and they didn't like her.

There were two girls and three others, whom Nan called “boys,” but who were what Benedicta considered young men, and very frivolous ones. Three men and four girls!

“Of course, I'm the extra one,” she thought. “It doesn't matter to me, of course.”

She felt still more extra and superfluous after dinner, when they began to dance as a matter of course. One of the men asked her to dance, but she declined. She told Mrs. Wilkinson that she didn't care for dancing, but the truth was that she knew nothing but waltzes and two-steps, which were of no more use than minuets. It wouldn't do, though, for a Miller to confess herself ignorant of the art.

So she sat beside her hostess, consoling herself with pride, and finding it a very dismal sort of thing. Indeed, she was scarcely able to speak, for fear the unsteadiness in her voice might betray her misery.

“Oh, why did I come?” she asked herself. “Oh, why, why didn't I stay home, and not know how happy every one else is? Here I just have to sit and look on. I'm young, too! Oh, I wish I wasn't! I wish I was old—old, like father. Then I wouldn't care!”

“Here's some one else who doesn't care for dancing,” remarked Mrs. Wilkinson, and beckoned to a newcomer who had strolled casually in through the open French window. “It's Francis Dumall. You know the Dumalls, don't you?”

The history of the Dumalls had been familiar to Benedicta from her infancy. Like the Millers, they had come down in the world; but not sadly and slowly like the Millers, or generation by generation. Paul Dumall had caused the disaster alone and unaided, and had brought down his family with a crash.

There was nothing discreditable in the debacle. Dumall had ruined himself like a gentleman, and had aroused nothing but sympathy. What is more, he had died before becoming vieux jeu, like poor Mr. Miller, and he was now a sort of legend. His wife and child had gone away, no one knew where.

“And this must be the son,” thought Benedicta.

She was pleased and a little excited at the idea of meeting some one with a history so like her own—some one fallen from greatness like herself, suffering the same humiliation and sadness. She would have liked this young man, even if he hadn't been so very likable.

He was a tall, slight fellow, a perfect Dumall, with gray eyes, fair hair, and the fine, big Dumall nose. He was not handsome, but he was agreeable to look at, because of his kind and rather shy smile, and the sensitive intelligence of his face.

He was presented to Benedicta, and they looked at each other with rather artless curiosity. How many Millers and Dumalls had met in the past, in circumstances so different! Indeed, a Dumall had once married a Miller, long ago, so that they were distantly related.

“Sit down, Francis,” said the hospitable Mrs. Wilkinson.

The affection in her manner impressed Benedicta. It was obvious that Mrs. Wilkinson had a great regard for this boy. His dinner jacket was shabby, his fair hair was a little ruffled, he had none of the sleek elegance of the other guests; and yet his hostess showed him a sort of deference not given to the others.

“It's his family, of course,” thought Benedicta. “She ought to remember that the Millers were just the same!”

In spite of their mutual interest, the two young people were constrained and silent when Mrs. Wilkinson left them alone. Benedicta knew that she ought to talk and be gracious and entertaining, but she completely lacked practice. Young Dumall made no effort whatever, but sat looking at the dancers in the next room, not enviously or wistfully, but in a calm and thoughtful way.

“Don't you care for it, either?” he asked suddenly.

That “either” pleased Benedicta. It seemed to place her with Dumall in another and superior world. It made her feel that she really didn't care for dancing; so she said:

“No.”

“Sometimes I think people have forgotten how to enjoy themselves,” he went on. “They did know long ago, in Greece. They danced out in the sun, and did it beautifully. They were happy, instead of simply being excited.”

Benedicta looked with amazement at his boyish face, but he did not look at her. He was staring ahead of him with a strange, lost look that fascinated her, and was talking earnestly of Greek festivals, now and then using a Greek word.

From the next room Nan caught sight of her, and was impressed.

“Look at Miss Miller!” she said to her partner. “Isn't she lovely?”

Benedicta was, just then. She was listening to young Dumall with shining eyes and parted lips, entranced by his words. She thought he was marvelous.

Well, perhaps he was. Another listener might have found him a little dogmatic and immature; but, after all, he did think, and he did imagine, and he had a rare and fine admiration for the perished beauties of the ancient world. He knew his facts, too. He had studied honestly and intelligently.

When he rose to go, darkness fell upon Benedicta.

“Aren't you staying in the house?” she asked

“No,” he answered. She knew very well that he was looking at her, although she seemed unaware of it. “I have to go into the city to-morrow, to buy some books; but I'll be here on Sunday afternoon again. I—I hope I'll see you then!”

Sunday evening Benedicta pretended that she was sleepy; and when Mrs. Wilkinson told her to go to bed, and get a good night's rest, she assented willingly. As a matter of fact, she thought that very likely she would never go to sleep again. Certainly she didn't want to waste time in that way.

She sat down in the dark by the window, where she could look out over the garden, but she didn't see it. She had abolished time and space, and was looking into the middle of the afternoon that had passed.

She saw herself and Francis Dumall sitting on a fallen tree in the woods, where the sun shone through the leaves in queer bright spots on his hair, like gold coins. He was dressed in an old belted coat and tweed trousers that didn't match, but his shabby clothes were worn with his own air of careless distinction. He was hatless. Sometimes he looked like a boy, and sometimes very much of a man.

He had talked about books. He had talked in an enthralling, a marvelous way. He had made Benedicta resolve to begin to read books herself.

“Why have I gone on like this?” she thought. “Never even trying to improve my mind, with all the spare time I've had! It's disgraceful. I'm ashamed of myself. I don't know what Mr. Dumall must think of me!”

This was somewhat hypocritical, for she had at least a suspicion of what Mr. Dumall thought of her. He hadn't talked about books all the time; nor was it likely that when he had asked if he might come to see her, he had contemplated nothing but a literary monologue.

In spite of this, however, and in spite of the look in his gray eyes, which was unmistakably admiration, Benedicta was doubtful.

“He can't really like me,” she thought.

She did not realize how unworthy of a Miller such humility was. Why shouldn't he really like her? What was he but a boy not much older than herself, and, like herself, obscure and poor? She didn't even realize how lovely she was, lost in her ridiculous admiration for him.

“He's so different from me!” she thought. “He's not ashamed of being poor. He doesn't care one bit about clothes, and dancing, and things like that. He could hold his own anywhere. Everybody respects him and likes him. Nan thinks he's splendid. He is splendid! He's risen above his disadvantages, and I haven't. I've let myself be so miserable about being poor that I've neglected everything else. He remembers that he belongs to a fine old family, and he's worthy of it!”

She must follow this inspiring example. She must be worthy of her fine, old family. She wished the magic summer night would pass so that she might begin. She was filled with impatience and hope, half happy, half miserable.

She began to dream of the past, when the Dumalls and the Millers were in their prime, when the two houses blazed with lights in the evening and were filled with guests, when the estates were intact, when the ladies exchanged visits, riding along the roads in carriages, and all the country people uncovered as they passed. All gone now—gone forever!

“I don't care!” she said, wiping away a tear. “I'd rather have what I have than ten times the Wilkinsons' money!”

The result of her meditations was to make her none too gracious to the Wilkinsons the next morning. She took leave of them, firmly resolving never to set foot in their house again, because it wasn't worthy of a Miller. She was going home to improve her mind, and never to see or think of any one less august than a Dumall for the rest of her life.

“She's a high and mighty young woman, I must say!” observed Mr. Wilkinson, a little hurt by her patronizing farewell.

His wife and daughter were not hurt. They said in the same breath:

“Poor Benedicta!”

“Why?” he wished to know.

They didn't explain, but the thought both of them had was that it is a lamentable piece of folly to bite off one's nose to spite one's face, especially in the case of such a delightful nose and such a pretty face as Benedicta's.

inside the Miller stronghold again, Benedicta went from bad to worse. Her father confirmed and strengthened all her theories. He was inordinately interested to hear that she had met young Dumall, and he remembered any number of new things about the two families.

When they sat down to their ill cooked, meager dinner, the fact that it hadn't been paid for was amply compensated by eating it with old silver from old china. Mr. Miller, looking at his child, had not a single pang of regret that her youth and her loveliness were shut up in that dismal ruin. He felt, instead, a surge of pride and gratitude that she was a Miller.

Young Dumall came that very evening, bringing a book for Benedicta; but he did not show the least desire for a decorous conversation on family topics with her father.

In spite of his scholarly tastes and his shy, quiet air, he was a young fellow of enterprise and resolution. He suggested taking a walk, for the inadequate reason that the moon was up. So Mr. Miller was left alone—which, after all, was the fate he had chosen for himself.

Benedicta had fixed ideas about courtships. It cannot be denied that, although she had seen this young man only twice, and had no proper foundation for such a notion, she believed that this was the beginning of a courtship. The most singular delight and confusion filled her heart. She didn't wish to speak, or wish him to speak. Later, after they had known each other for weeks and weeks, would come the moment when he would tell her those wonderful things of which she had read; but now all she wanted in the world was to walk by his side on the long, dim road, soft with dust, with the crickets chirping in the parched grass, and the breeze, sweet with the breath of the fields and the hills, blowing against her face.

Young Dumall, apparently, had no such ideas about courtships.

“You know,” he said, “I'm poor—”

“Oh!” Benedicta interrupted. “What does that matter? It's something to be proud of—in these days, when people like the Wilkinsons have so much money.”

He turned toward her, but it was too dark to read her face.

“I don't see anything wrong with the Wilkinsons,” he said. “They're the best friends I've ever had.”

Benedicta was a little nettled at this.

“Of course they're very nice, and all that,” she answered; “but they're not at all our sort.”

“That's our misfortune,” declared Francis. “Mr. Wilkinson made money because he worked hard and used his wits. Our sort of people wouldn't work, and thought it a fine thing not to have any common sense. I'm not proud of being poor—and I'm not going to stay poor!”

“There are better things in life than hard work and common sense,” observed Benedicta stiffly.

“I know that,” said he; “but you can't get or keep those better things without hard work and common sense. Valuable things have to be paid for.”

“The very best things can't be bought,” said she.

“You can't get them any other way,” said he.

Benedicta was growing rather angry.

“Not good blood,” she said. “Not family and traditions.”

“But, see here!” he interposed. “Haven't you ever heard or read how the people we came from—the old Millers and the Dumalls—got what we're so proud of now? They bought all they ever had. They often paid with their lives, and always with the hardest, most dangerous kind of service. After they'd come to this country and cleared their land, they had to defend it. All the Dumalls who amounted to anything were fighters in one way or another—not necessarily soldiers, but men who held their own. When they stopped fighting—and paying—they didn't amount to anything any more. I don't intend to spend my life talking about what other and better men have done before me. I'm a man myself, and I mean to do something worth doing!”

Benedicta was a traitor. She agreed with every word he said. She was so thrilled by his boyish spirit that she could have wept with pride and joy. She thought to herself that he was like a knight, that he was the bravest, finest, most wonderful creature who had ever walked the earth.

“I'm sure you will!” she cried.

He stopped short.

“Do you really think so, Benedicta?” he asked.

He called her Benedicta, and his voice—

“Yes,” she answered, very low.

“Benedicta,” he said again, “I can't say what I want to say to you just now—not yet; but if I thought—I could do anything in the world if it was for you!”

It was necessarily a very long walk, with so much to be said. Benedicta came home with a hole walked through one of her best slippers; but she had heard the important things necessary for her to know. She had heard exactly why he felt that way, and at what instant he had begun to feel that way. She had given him permission to go ahead and do anything in the world for her; and he had kissed her—an awkward little kiss—when they said good night at the gate.

awoke to a rainy morning, but it was not the sort of rain that had hitherto fallen upon the earth. It was sweet, fresh, exhilarating. The sound of it drumming on the roof was as gay as martial music.

All the old wearisome things were gone out of her life, and the new ones had scarcely begun. She felt wonderfully free and spirited, like a person on a journey who has got as far as the railway station—who is definitely away from home, but still in familiar country.

She was thinking of nothing but Francis Dumall, the knight, the adventurer, the man determined to do something worth doing. She could imagine nothing in the modern world quite splendid enough for him to do. It was brave to be an aviator, but it wasn't important enough. A statesman? Not picturesque enough. A writer? Not sufficiently active or daring.

“But he'll have thought of something,” she reflected. “I know he has his life all planned. I wonder why I didn't ask him about that, instead of about—other things. It's because I'm frivolous and silly!”

Even that didn't depress her. She was so full of hope and courage this morning that it seemed the simplest thing in the world to acquire wisdom at once. She intended to buy and read a new book this very day, so that she might talk about it to the incomparable Francis in the evening; and this not from any desire to show off, or to impress him, but simply from an honest and touching wish to follow him, to go at his pace, to prove her sympathy with his aims.

She had never bought a book in her life. It had been difficult enough—impossible, at times—to buy the barest necessities; and what they did get was usually procured on credit in mysterious ways by Mr. Miller.

Money of her own was a thing unknown to Benedicta. Nevertheless, she went in the calmest way and asked her father for a little. Mr. Miller was equally calm when he gave her all he had. Indeed, he forgot the present moment, and felt himself one of the old Millers making a lavish gift to a daughter whose hand was sought by a scion of the Dumalls.

It didn't matter that she went rattling off in her little car along muddy roads. She couldn't have been lovelier in a coach with footmen. The rain blew against her face and made it beautifully rosy. Her dark hair became a little loosened under her wide hat.

When she sprang out, and went into the butcher's, he was astounded by this new aspect of the high and mighty Miss Miller. To tell the truth, he felt more respect and admiration for her happy youth than he had ever felt for her Millerness.

“Mr. Schultz,” she said eagerly, “can you tell me where there's a book shop?”

Mr. Schultz had an educated son who bought books. He told her that for the first time in many years there was now a book shop in Elderfield, and a good one, too, just behind the post office.

“It's—” he began, but she thanked him, and hurried off.

It was a trim, attractive little shop, with a striped awning, and in the window were displayed books as fresh and tempting as the first delectable fruits in spring. No bookworm was Benedicta, however. She pulled up the little car smartly, jumped out, and entered the shop with a brisk and resolute air.

“Have you a copy of—” she began, addressing the young man who came forward.

Then she stopped short with a gasp. It was Francis Dumall!

“Benedicta!” he cried. “This is the best thing that ever happened; I never thought of seeing you on a rainy day like this! Benedicta! How especially pretty you look!”

“But—” she faltered. “But I didn't know—I didn't think—you never told me you were here in a place like this!”

“Didn't I?” he answered, with an air of triumph. “Well, take a good look at it, Benedicta! It's my own!”

“Your—shop? You have a shop?”

He mistook her horror for incredulous admiration.

“Fact!” he said. “Mr. Wilkinson set me up six months ago, and I'm doing even better than I expected. I tell you, Benedicta, I'm really making the people here sit up and take notice that there are such things as books in this world. A fellow told me the other day that I was doing splendid missionary work. Why, look here, Benedicta—”

And he went on, showing her things, explaining, taking up books and opening them, and never noticing her frozen silence.

A customer came in. He sold her the book she wanted, and another which she hadn't wanted before. A Dumall waiting on customers! A shopkeeper! That was what Benedicta's knight, her splendid adventurer, was doing—selling books and wrapping them up!

When they were alone again, he sat down on the edge of the table and took both her hands.

“You see, darling, beautiful girl, in a year's time, even if I don't do better than I'm doing now, I'll have paid back Wilkinson, and I'll be standing on my own feet. Then I'll be able—”

Benedicta tried to draw away her hands, tried to find words for the anger and bitter disappointment within her; but before she had uttered a syllable, the door opened again and a man entered.

“Dumall,” he said, politely ignoring the flushed Benedicta, “I wish you'd come over to the station with me and see that fellow from Cowan's. He's waiting for the up train, but he'd like to see you about that Bijou line of cards.”

Young Dumall turned to Benedicta with such a pleased expression.

“You won't be afraid to look after the shop for a quarter of an hour, will you?” he asked earnestly. “You needn't try to sell anything. If any one comes in, show those new books, you know—and keep them talking until I get back.”

Before she had time to refuse, he had hurried away on his errand.

waiting in a shop! No! It was too much!

“I won't do it!” Benedicta thought, angry tears in her eyes. “I'll leave his horrible, vulgar shop! I never want to see him again! So this is what he calls something worth doing! In a year he'll pay back Mr. Wilkinson and be standing on his own feet—”

Somehow the phrase arrested her. Standing on his own feet! Working honestly and faithfully and happily, proud of his work, confident of success, looking forward, instead of back—standing on his own feet!

Benedicta was at the door, with her hand on the latch, but she could not open it. It was as if a crowd of new ideas were holding it fast, keeping her in there. This bright, neat little place, where something was done, instead of remembered—this thing that was being built up, instead of falling into ruins—what had she ever had in her life one-half so fine? After all, wasn't it an adventure, wasn't it a worthy thing to do, to stand on his own feet?

The door was pushed open then, and the next instant the daughter of the Millers was confronted by a customer. Suddenly a strange new desire came over her—a desire to do something, instead of just being herself, a fierce determination to make even the smallest sort of individual effort.

In an instant, Benedicta knew all sorts of things she wasn't aware of knowing. She understood the arrangement of the stock. She knew how to talk to this strange man. She was calm, reasonable, efficient. He wavered, and said he didn't think he would take anything that morning; and she persuaded him! She made a sale!

She wrapped up the book and took the money for it. She kept the coins in her hand and stared at them. The shop was an entirely different place. The whole world was changed. She walked thoughtfully about, she saw improvements that could be made.

“Got it!” cried Dumall boyishly.

“Got what?” asked Benedicta, turning with a slight, preoccupied frown.

“The agency. I'm sorry I had to leave you, Benedicta. I ought to have some sort of assistant, but that 'll have to wait. Now, then, dear girl, let's go out to lunch!”

“And leave the shop?” she inquired.

“I close it for an hour. I often do, you know. No one's likely to come in.”

“Some one did come in, just now,” said Benedicta, “and bought a book.” She handed him the money. “So you see,” she went on quite sternly, “if there'd been no one here—”

“But I have to. We'll only be gone—”

“I'll stay here while you have lunch.”

“But, Benedicta!” he objected. “I want to be with you. Never mind the shop!”

“Francis, I'm ashamed of you!” said she. “The shop shan't be left alone. I—I love it!”

“Love the shop?” he asked. “Is that all?”

“Well, anyhow—I'd like to help you, Francis,” she murmured. “I'd be glad to come every day until—until you don't need me any more.”

Young Dumall looked at her.

“I don't think you know what you're undertaking, Benedicta,” he said. “If you're going to come until I don't need you, it's a life job!”

“Do run along and get your lunch!” replied Benedicta, dignified in spite of very flushed cheeks. “I—I believe a job was just what I always wanted, Francis!”