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366 repeating every anecdote which redounded to my credit, and by minutely describing every promising trait in my character. What sunshine I had had in my life had been flung on it by that dear old woman. From the days she used to devise dolls’ feasts, and send for the little Carmichaels from the Vicarage to share them with me,—herself making peace with my uncle when he discovered the intruders, and vowed that he wouldn’t have a host of other people’s nasty brats bothering in his house, and leading me into mischief,—to yesterday, when she had despatched the garden-boy into the nearest town to change a novel for me at the library, old Butterworth had been my firmest and best friend.

I had had governesses without end and at fabulous salaries, but none of them ever found their way to my heart in the same manner; perhaps they never stayed long enough to make themselves beloved. One after another they had left, wearied out by the dullness and monotony of life at Cloyse Towers. The school room was up-stairs, and looked out on the courtyard; no visitors came near the house and we were allowed to go nowhere, not even to walk beyond the grounds. On Sundays, we sat in a high square pew surrounded by curtains, which it was a capital offence to displace; we always went to church early to escape the throng of people, and came away again after the village congregation had dispersed. At home we were left entirely to ourselves; my uncle avoided the sight of every stranger; I rarely shared a meal with him during the governesses’ reign, and he never came near the schoolroom, or if he accidentally encountered the governess, he would turn off into the nearest room to avoid her.

One very smartly-dressed Frenchwoman, who lived for six months in the house, never saw him but once, and that once was merely a passing glimpse through the keyhole. But then he had a peculiar dislike to her, and always took to flight on the first indications of her rustling garments. I have seen him stand with his hand for full ten minutes on the lock of the library door, listening intently before he would venture to go up-stairs, if he fancied she was about; and even when he did make the attempt, it was with nervous, hurried steps, and eager glances from right to left. Indeed the suffering he experienced during her residence in the house was so unbearable, that he finally resolved to put a stop to it, by emancipating me from the schoolroom altogether; so Madame Defarge received an intimation that her services were no longer in demand, and I, a month after my seventeenth birthday, was elevated to the post of my uncle’s companion, to a place at the head of his table, and the privilege of spending in his society the long dreary hours which intervened between a six o’clock dinner and bedtime.

During the earlier portion of the day I was left very much to my own devices; I breakfasted and spent the morning alone, for he never appeared before luncheon time, when there was invariably some special excuse for grumbling over the basin of beef tea which formed his mid-day repast. The broth was either too hot or too cold, under-seasoned or over-seasoned; or, failing the broth, the day or the fire was too hot or too cold, or there was an east wind, or I didn’t take wine enough, I eat too many strawberries, or I sat crookedly in my chair and handled my fork ungracefully—to tell the honest truth, the sight of Uncle John’s shaky form, descending the wide staircase with emphatic jerks, was no welcome vision to me, any more than the heavy pit-pat of his silver-headed cane on the marble pavement of the hall was an agreeable sound.

For he was not the sort of person to win the love and sympathy of a fellow-creature, least of all of an impulsive young girl, who was jealous of affection and easily repulsed by a rough tone. Many a time when I had been moped and miserable from long solitude, and had almost pined for the sight or sound of a human being, I had tried to get up some feeling of warmth or welcome for the old man, my only relative, who, in his turn, was nearly as friendless and lonely as myself. I had met him with a longing to fling myself on to his breast and kiss his wan, wrinkled face, to try if words of tenderness would break down the barriers of his reserve. But, alas! in vain; the impulse died out at the sound of his cantankerous voice; when he coldly extended his claw-like hand, mine dropped into it as nervelessly; nay, I generally retreated in alarm,—for was not even one glance at me sufficient to draw forth some disparaging comment upon my appearance? “Did I call my hair tidy? Were those crushed sleeves fit for a lady to wear? Another time, perhaps, I would oblige him by putting my collar straight, before I made my appearance in the dining-room!” Oh, heiress though I was, I think few penniless girls could have carried such a heavy, mortified, unblessed heart as I did many and many a time! What a relief it was to go and weep away all the sorrow and disappointment and yearning on Nurse Butterworth’s loving breast, to have all the trouble soothed away by those kindly tones, which stood to me in place of the tender endearments of mother and brother!

“Amyce Cloyse,” my uncle reiterated that spring evening, in a voice of angry displeasure, indicating, with the point of his cane, the unfortunate paper which I had let fall in the astonishment induced by his communication: “What is the meaning of all this? Cannot you listen to what I have to say with the composure of a lady? Lift up the ‘Times,’ if you please; that rustling is particularly disagreeable to me. And, good gracious, young lady, can’t you bend more gracefully? What stooping, what a rounded back, what elbows! Do you know, Amyce Cloyse, your education has cost a fortune—a fortune, do you hear! And any reasonable creature would have thought that your governesses would at least have taught you how to pick up a newspaper from the floor without making a thousand contortions. I will have you ladylike; I don’t expect you to be a beauty, that’s hopeless; but with your expectations you must be ladylike, and you shall be! Ladylike,—what’s a woman who isn’t ladylike, she might as well be a housemaid! A ladylike woman can do anything; she’s always in her place; if she makes mistakes she does so in a ladylike manner which glosses them over, or if