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Rh not apt to be attractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charities in which they may indulge,—there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic old women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such things to which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among a class of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitable exercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plans branch out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. So the country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies,—her teaching in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for the daughter of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with ragged boys and lighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothers of nameless babies,—hearing of these things, I say, the excellent nonenthusiasts shook their heads as the very mildest possible expression of dissent. They suspected strong-mindedness and "reform"—perhaps even politics and a tendency to advance irregular notions concerning the ballot. "At any rate," said they, "it does not look well, and it is very much better for young persons to leave these matters alone and do as others do who are guided wholly by their elders."

It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see sitting in her modest phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up at him with a pair of the largest and clearest eyes he had ever seen, while she told him about Sammy Craddock.

"I want the place very much for him, you see," she ended. "But of course I do not wish to be unfair to any one who may want it, and deserve it more. If there is any one who really is in greater need of it, I suppose I must give it up."

"But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody," answered