The book burnt! the poor book which had given her pleasure, and which
she had saved up her pence to buy--the book which had drawn her out
of herself, and made her forget her wretched surroundings, committed
to the flames--ignominiously destroyed, and called bad names, too.
How dared her mother do it? how dared she? The girls were right when
they said she was tied to apron-strings--she was, she was! But she
would bear it no longer. She would show her mother that she would
submit to no leading--that she, Elizabeth Granger, the handsomest
newspaper girl in Liverpool, was a woman, and her own mistress.

"She oughtn't to have done it," half-groaned Bet "The poor book! And
I'll never know now what's come to Jane and Rochester--I'll never know.
It cuts me to the quick. Mother oughtn't to take pleasure from one
like that, but it's all of a piece. Well, I'll go in and say 'good
night' to her, and then I'll go back to the girls. I'm sorry I've lost
my evening's spree, but I can hear Hester Wright sing, leastways; and
mebbe she'll let me walk home with her."

With one hand Bet brushed something like moisture from her eyes; with
the other she opened the door of her mother's room, and went in. Her
entrance was noisy, and as she stood on the threshold her expression
was defiant. Then all in a second the girl's face changed; a soft,
troubled, hungry look filled her eyes; she glided forward without even
making the boards creak. In Bet's absence the room had undergone a
transformation. A bright fire burned in a carefully polished grate;
in front of the hearth a thick knitted rug was placed; the floor was
tidy, the two or three rickety chairs were in order, the wooden
mantel-piece was free of dust. Over her mother's bed a soft crimson
counterpane was thrown, and her mother, half sitting up, rested her
white face against the snowy pillows. A little table stood near the