without children of her own, she was, by good luck, extremely fond.
There were plenty of people to help, but of course the young lady

who should go down as governess would be in supreme authority.
She would also have, in holidays, to look after the small boy,

who had been for a term at school--young as he was to be sent,
but what else could be done?--and who, as the holidays were

about to begin, would be back from one day to the other.
There had been for the two children at first a young lady

whom they had had the misfortune to lose. She had done
for them quite beautifully--she was a most respectable person--

till her death, the great awkwardness of which had, precisely,
left no alternative but the school for little Miles.

Mrs. Grose, since then, in the way of manners and things,
had done as she could for Flora; and there were, further, a cook,

a housemaid, a dairywoman, an old pony, an old groom,
and an old gardener, all likewisethoroughlyrespectable.

So far had Douglas presented his picture when someone put a question.
"And what did the former governess die of?--of so much respectability?"

Our friend's answer was prompt. "That will come out.
I don't anticipate."

"Excuse me--I thought that was just what you ARE doing."
"In her successor's place," I suggested, "I should have wished to learn

if the office brought with it--"
"Necessary danger to life?" Douglas completed my thought.

"She did wish to learn, and she did learn. You shall hear tomorrow
what she learned. Meanwhile, of course, the prospect struck her

as slightly grim. She was young, untried, nervous: it was a vision
of serious duties and little company, of really great loneliness.

She hesitated--took a couple of days to consult and consider.
But the salary offered much exceeded her modestmeasure,

and on a second interview she faced the music, she engaged."
And Douglas, with this, made a pause that, for the benefit

of the company, moved me to throw in--
"The moral of which was of course the seduction exercised by the splendid

young man. She succumbed to it."
He got up and, as he had done the night before, went to the fire,

gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us.
"She saw him only twice."

"Yes, but that's just the beauty of her passion."
A little to my surprise, on this, Douglas turned round to me.

"It WAS the beauty of it. There were others," he went on,
"who hadn't succumbed. He told her frankly all his difficulty--

that for several applicants the conditions had been prohibitive.
They were, somehow, simply afraid. It sounded dull--it sounded strange;

and all the more so because of his main condition."
"Which was--?"

"That she should never trouble him--but never, never:
neither appeal nor complain nor write about anything;

only meet all questions herself, receive all moneys from
his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him alone.

She promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when,
for a moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her hand,

thanking her for the sacrifice, she already felt rewarded."
"But was that all her reward?" one of the ladies asked.

"She never saw him again."
"Oh!" said the lady; which, as our friend immediately left us again,

was the only other word of importance contributed to the subject till,
the next night, by the corner of the hearth, in the best chair,

he opened the faded red cover of a thin old-fashioned gilt-edged album.
The whole thing took indeed more nights than one, but on the first occasion

the same lady put another question. "What is your title?"
"I haven't one."

"Oh, _I_ have!" I said. But Douglas, without heeding me,
had begun to read with a fine clearness that was like a rendering

to the ear of the beauty of his author's hand.
I

I remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops,
a little seesaw of the right throbs and the wrong. After rising, in town,

to meet his appeal, I had at all events a couple of very bad days--
found myself doubtful again, felt indeed sure I had made a mistake.

In this state of mind I spent the long hours of bumping,
swinging coach that carried me to the stopping place at which I

was to be met by a vehicle from the house. This convenience,
I was told, had been ordered, and I found, toward the close

of the June afternoon, a commodious fly in waiting for me.
Driving at that hour, on a lovely day, through a country to which

the summer sweetness seemed to offer me a friendly welcome,
my fortitude mounted afresh and, as we turned into the avenue,

encountered a reprieve that was probably but a proof of the point
to which it had sunk. I suppose I had expected, or had dreaded,

something so melancholy that what greeted me was a good surprise.
I remember as a most pleasant impression the broad, clear front,

its open windows and fresh curtains and the pair of maids
looking out; I remember the lawn and the bright flowers and

the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the clustered treetops
over which the rooks circled and cawed in the golden sky.

The scene had a greatness that made it a different affair from
my own scant home, and there immediately appeared at the door,

with a little girl in her hand, a civil person who dropped me as decent
a curtsy as if I had been the mistress or a distinguished visitor.

I had received in Harley Street a narrower notion of the place,
and that, as I recalled it, made me think the proprietor still

more of a gentleman, suggested that what I was to enjoy might be
something beyond his promise.

I had no drop again till the next day, for I was carried
triumphantly through the following hours by my introduction

to the younger of my pupils. The little girl who accompanied
Mrs. Grose appeared to me on the spot a creature so charming

as to make it a great fortune to have to do with her.
She was the most beautiful child I had ever seen, and I afterward

wondered that my employer had not told me more of her.
I slept little that night--I was too much excited;

and this astonished me, too, I recollect, remained with me,
adding to my sense of the liberality with which I was treated.

The large, impressive room, one of the best in the house, the great
state bed, as I almost felt it, the full, figured draperies,

the long glasses in which, for the first time, I could see
myself from head to foot, all struck me--like the extraordinary

charm of my small charge--as so many things thrown in.
It was thrown in as well, from the first moment, that I

should get on with Mrs. Grose in a relation over which,
on my way, in the coach, I fear I had rather brooded.

The only thing indeed that in this early outlook might have
made me shrink again was the clear circumstance of her being

so glad to see me. I perceived within half an hour that she
was so glad--stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome woman--

as to be positively on her guard against showing it too much.
I wondered even then a little why she should wish not to show it,

and that, with reflection, with suspicion, might of course
have made me uneasy.

But it was a comfort that there could be no uneasiness in a
connection with anything so beatific as the radiant image of my

little girl, the vision of whose angelic beauty had probably
more than anything else to do with the restlessness that,

before morning, made me several times rise and wander
about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect;

to watch, from my open window, the faint summer dawn,
to look at such portions of the rest of the house as I

could catch, and to listen, while, in the fading dusk,
the first birds began to twitter, for the possible recurrence