I think, after the letters which I wrote to them last night, they will be quite content to let me remain where they put my father--outside their lives." "I had heard," Mr.Cuthbert said hesitatingly, "that you were following some occupation.

Something literary, is it not ?" "I am a journalist," Ernestine answered promptly, "and I'm proud to say that I am earning my own living." He looked at her with a fine and wonderful curiosity.

In his way he was quite as much one of the old school as the Earl of Eastchester, and the idea of a lady--a Wendermott, too--calling herself a journalist and proud of making a few hundreds a year was amazing enough to him.

He scarcely knew how to answer her.
"Yes, yes," he said, "you have some of your father's spirit, some of his pluck too.

And that reminds me--we wrote to you to call." "Yes." "Mr.Davenant has told you that your father was engaged in some enterprise with this wonderful Mr.Scarlett Trent, when he died." "Yes! He told me that!" "Well, I have had a visit just recently from that gentleman.