of view she must be classed as invalid. Somewhere, deep down inside
them, they felt pity.

The trio loved them according to their just deserts; they grasped that
the Authorities did their best for them. This "best," moreover, was
done in different ways. Father did it with love and tenderness, that
is, he spoilt them; Mother with tenderness and love, that is, she felt
them part of herself and did not like to hurt herself; Aunt Emily with
affectionate and worthy desire to see them improve, that is, she
trained them. Therefore they adored their father, loved their mother,
and thought highly--from a distance preferably--of their aunt.

This was the outward and visible household that an ordinary person,
say, a visitor who came to lunch on Sunday after church, would have
noticed. It was the upper layer; but there was an under layer too.
There was Thompson, the old pompous family butler; they trusted him
because he was silent and rarely smiled, winked at their mischief,
pretended not to see them when he caught them in his pantry, and never
once betrayed them. There was Mrs. Horton, the fat and hot-tempered
family cook; they regarded her with excitement including dread,
because she left juicy cakes (still wet) upon the dresser, yet denied
them the entry into her kitchen. Her first name being Bridget, there
was evidently an Irish strain in her, but there was probably a dash of
French as well, for she was an excellent cook and _recipe_ was her
master-word--she pronounced it "recipee." There was Jackman, the
nurse, a mixture of Mother and Aunt Emily; and there was Weeden, the
Head Gardener, an evasive and mysterious personality, who knew so much
about flowers and vegetables and weather that he was half animal, half
bird, and scarcely a human being at all--vaguely magnificent in a
sombre way. His power in his own department was unquestioned. He said