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 “It must be very stupid to be always in a girls’ school,” said Alfred. “Such a set of nincompoops, like Mrs Ballard’s pupils walking two and two.”

“And they have no games worth playing at,” said Jim. “They can neither throw nor leap. I don’t wonder at Mary’s not liking it.”

“What is that Mary doesn’t like, eh?” said the father, looking over his spectacles and pausing before he opened his next letter.

“Being among a lot of nincompoop girls,” said Alfred.

“Is it the situation you had heard of, Mary?” said Caleb, gently, looking at his daughter.

“Yes, father: the school at York. I have determined to take it. It is quite the best. Thirty-five pounds a-year, and extra pay for teaching the smallest strummers at the piano.”

“Poor child! I wish she could stay at home with us, Susan,” said Caleb, looking plaintively at his wife.

“Mary would not be happy without doing her duty,” said Mrs Garth, magisterially, conscious of having done her own.

“It wouldn’t make me happy to do such a nasty duty as that,” said Alfred—at which Mary and her father laughed silently, but Mrs Garth said, gravely—

“Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dear Alfred, for everything that you think disagreeable. And suppose that Mary could help you to go to Mr Hanmer’s with the money she gets?”

“That seems to me a great shame. But she’s an old brick,” said Alfred, rising from his chair, and pulling Mary’s head backward to kiss her.

Mary coloured and laughed, but could not conceal that the tears were coming. Caleb, looking on over his spectacles, with the angles of his eyebrows falling, had an expression of mingled delight and sorrow as he returned to the opening of his letter; and even Mrs Garth, her lips curling with a calm contentment, allowed that inappropriate language to pass without correction, although Ben immediately took it up, and sang, “She’s an old brick, old brick, old brick!” to a cantering measure, which he beat out with his fist on Mary’s arm.

But Mrs Garth’s eyes were now drawn towards her husband, who was already deep in the letter he was reading. His face had an expression of grave surprise, which alarmed her a little, but he did not like to be questioned while he was reading, and she remained anxiously watching till she saw him suddenly shaken by a little joyous laugh as he turned back to the beginning of the letter, and looking at her above his spectacles, said, in a low tone, “What do you think, Susan?”

She went and stood behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder, while they read the letter together. It was from Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr Garth the management of the family estates at Freshitt and elsewhere, and adding that Sir James had been requested by Mr Brooke of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr Garth would be disposed at the same time to resume the agency of the Tipton property. The