then had a cup of tea and a bun. As it was still far too early to
return, she went down to the riverside and seated herself on one of
the benches. Many boats were going by, a majority of them containing
only two persons--a young man who pulled, and a girl who held the
strings of the tiller. Some of these couples Monica disregarded; but
occasionally there passed a skiff from which she could not take her
eyes. To lie back like that on the cushions and converse with a
companion who had nothing of the _shop_ about him!

It seemed hard that she must be alone. Poor Mr. Bullivant would
gladly have taken her on the river; but Mr. Bullivant--

She thought of her sisters. Their loneliness was for life, poor
things. Already they were old; and they would grow older, sadder,
perpetually struggling to supplement that dividend from the precious
capital--and merely that they might keep alive. Oh!--her heart
ached at the misery of such a prospect. How much better if the poor
girls had never been born.

Her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been. She knew
herself good-looking. Men had followed her in the street and tried
to make her acquaintance. Some of the girls with whom she lived
regarded her enviously, spitefully. But had she really the least
chance of marrying a man whom she could respect--not to say love?

One-and-twenty a week hence. At Weston she had kept tolerable
health, but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the
slavery of Walworth Road threatened her with premature decay. Her
sisters counselled wisely. Coming to London was a mistake. She would
have had better chances at Weston, notwithstanding the extreme