Emily referred to another relative--her father's sister. "Since I
have grown up," she proceeded, "my good aunt has been a second
mother to me. My story is, in one respect, the reverse of yours.
You are unexpectedly rich; and I am unexpectedly poor. My aunt's
fortune was to have been my fortune, if I outlived her. She has
been ruined by the failure of a bank. In her old age, she must
live on an income of two hundred a year--and I must get my own
living when I leave school."

"Surely your father can help you?" Francine persisted.

"His property is landed property." Her voice faltered, as she
referred to him, even in that indirect manner. "It is entailed;
his nearest male relative inherits it."

The delicacy which is easily discouraged was not one of the
weaknesses in the nature of Francine.

"Do I understand that your father is dead?" she asked.

Our thick-skinned fellow-creatures have the rest of us at their
mercy: only give them time, and they carry their point in the
end. In sad subdued tones--telling of deeply-rooted reserves of
feeling, seldom revealed to strangers--Emily yielded at last.

"Yes," she said, "my father is dead."

"Long ago?"