for Hammersmith. It was a foggy, drizzly, enervating day. When Miss
Shepperson found herself drawing near to the house, her courage sank, her
heart throbbed painfully, and for a moment she all but stopped and turned,
thinking that it would be much better to put her ultimatum into writing.
Yet there was the house in view, and to turn back would be deplorable
weakness. By word of mouth she could so much better depict the gravity of
her situation. She forced herself onwards. Trembling in every nerve, she
rang the bell, and in a scarce audible gasp she asked for Mrs. Rymer. A
brief delay, and the servant admitted her.

Mrs. Rymer was in the drawing-room, giving her elder child a piano-lesson,
while the younger, sitting in a baby-chair at the table, turned over a
picture-book. The room was comfortably and prettily furnished; the children
were very becomingly dressed; their mother, a tall woman, of fair
complexion and thin, refined face, with wandering eyes and a forehead
rather deeply lined, stepped forward as if in delight at the unexpected
visit, and took Miss Shepperson's ill-gloved hand in both her own, gazing
with tender interest into her eyes.

'How kind of you to have taken this trouble! You guessed that I really
wished to see you. I should have come to you, but just at present I find it
so difficult to get away from home. I am housekeeper, nursemaid, and
governess all in one! Some women would find it rather a strain, but the
dear tots are so good--so good! Cissy, you remember Miss Shepperson? Of
course you do. They look a little pale, I'm afraid; don't you think so?
After the life they were accustomed to--but we won't talk about _that_.
Tots, school-time is over for this morning. You can't go out, my poor
dears; look at the horrid, horrid weather. Go and sit by the nursery-fire,
and sing "Rain, rain, go away!"'