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to your husband,
    and, believe me,
    very truly yours,
    Henry Ocock.
    "In plain English, I presume, it's to be your duty to keep her off the bottle."
    "Richard! . . . ssh! How can you?" expostulated Mary, with a warning headshake; which was justified by Cuffy at once chiming in: "Do ladies have bottles too, Mamma, as well as babies?" (Cuffy had been deeply interested in the sad story of Aunt Tilly's little one and its struggle for life.) "Now, you chicks, Lallie untie Lucie's bib and all three run out and play. -- Not before the children, Richard! That boy drinks in every word. You'll have him repeating what you say in front of Agnes. For I suppose what Mr. Henry really means is that we are to invite her here?"
    "The hint is as plain as the nose on your face."
    "Yes, I'm afraid it is," and Mary sighed. "I wonder what we should do. I'm very fond of Agnes; but I've got the children to think of. I shouldn't like them to get an inkling . . . On the other hand, we can't afford to offend an influential person like Mr. Henry."
    "I know what I can't afford -- and that's to have this house turned into a dumping-ground for all the halt and maimed of your acquaintance. The news of its size is rapidly spreading. And if people once get the idea they can use it as they used 'Ultima Thule,' God help us! There'll be nothing for it but to move . . . into a four-roomed hut."
    "Oh, Richard, if you would only tell me how we really stand, instead of making such a mystery of it. For we can't go on living without a soul ever entering our doors."
    "We may be glad if we manage to live at all."
    "There you go! One exaggeration after the other."
    "Well, well! I suppose if Ocock has set his mind on us dry-nursing his wife again, we've got to truckle to him. Only don't ask me to meet him over the head of it. I've no intention of being patronised by men of his type, now that I've come down in the world."
    "Patronised? When I think how ready people were to take us up again when we first came out! But you can't expect them to go on asking and inviting for ever, and always being snubbed by a refusal."
    Agnes. Sitting opposite her old friend in the wagonette that bore them from the station, watching the ugly tic that convulsed one side of her face, Mary thought sorrowfully of a day, many a year ago, when, standing at the door of her little house, she had seen approach a radiant vision in riding-habit, curls and feathers. What a lovely creature Agnes had been! . . . how full of kindliness and charm . . . and all to end in this: a poor little corpulent, shapeless, red-faced woman, close on fifty now, but with the timid uncertain bearing of a cowed child. Never should she have married Mr. Henry. With another man for a husband, everything might have turned out differently.
    The first of a series of painful incidents occurred when, the cab having drawn up at the gate, the question of paying the driver's fare arose. Formerly, the two of them would have had a playful quarrel over it, each disputing the privilege with the other. Now, Agnes only said: "If you will be so good, love? . . . my purse so hard to get at," in a tone that made Mary open her eyes. It soon came out that she had been shipped to Melbourne literally without a penny in her pocket. Wherever they went, Mary had to be purse-bearer, Agnes following meekly and shamelessly at her heels. An intolerable position for any man to put his wife in! It was true she had carte blanche at the big drapery stores; but all she bought -- down to the last handkerchief -- was entered on a bill for Mr. Henry's scrutiny. Did she wish to make a present -- and she was just as generous as of old -- she had so to contrive it (and she certainly showed a lamentable want of dignity, the skill of a practised hand, in arranging matters with the shopman) that, for instance, one entry on the bill should be a handsome mantle, which she never bought. The result was a sweet little ivory-handled parasol for "darling Mary;" a box of