limitation of inches was against her. Could she be a nursery-
governess? Hardly; for though she liked good-tempered, well-
behaved children, she could not even pretend to endure them when
they were otherwise. Screaming, spiteful, quarrelsome children
were to her less interesting than barking puppies or squealing
pigs;--besides, she knew she could not be an efficient teacher of
so much as one accomplishment. Music, for instance; what had she
learned of music? She could play on an ancient spinet which was
one of the chief treasures of the "best parlour" of Briar Farm,
and she could sing old ballads very sweetly and plaintively,--but
of "technique" and "style" and all the latter-day methods of
musical acquirement and proficiency she was absolutely ignorant.
Foreign languages were a dead letter to her--except old French.
She could understand that; and Villon's famous verses, "Ou sont
les neiges d'antan?" were as familiar to her as Herrick's "Come,
my Corinna, let us go a-maying." But, on the whole, she was
strangely and poorly equipped for the battle of life. Her
knowledge of baking, brewing, and general housewifery would have
stood her in good stead on some Colonial settlement,--but she had
scarcely heard of these far-away refuges for the destitute, as she
so seldom read the newspapers. Old Hugo Jocelyn looked upon the
cheap daily press as "the curse of the country," and never
willingly allowed a newspaper to come into the living-rooms of
Briar Farm. They were relegated entirely to the kitchen and
outhouses, where the farm labourers smoked over them and discussed
them to their hearts' content, seldom venturing, however, to bring
any item of so-called "news" to their master's consideration. If
they ever chanced to do so, he would generally turn round upon
them with a few cutting observations, such as,--