The stars came out before they had ended dinner. She had made him talk about himself. It was marvellous what he had accomplished with his opportunities. Ten hours a day in the mines had earned for him his living, and the night had given him his leisure. An attic, lighted by a tallow candle, with a shelf of books that left him hardly enough for bread, had been his Alma Mater. History was his chief study. There was hardly an authority Joan could think of with which he was not familiar. Julius Caesar was his favourite play. He seemed to know it by heart. At twenty-three he had been elected a delegate, and had entered Parliament at twenty-eight. It had been a life of hardship, of privation, of constant strain; but she found herself unable to pity him. It was a tale of strength, of struggle, of victory, that he told her. He bent forward so that he could see into her eyes.!

“Tell me,” said Joan. “What was my mother like? I can only remember her as more or less of an invalid.” “What are you making?” asked Joan.

“It doesn’t seem to depress her spirits,” mused Joan. “Curious,” said the girl, “so am I. My father’s a mill manager near Bolton. You weren’t educated there?” “That’s not bringing me up well,” suggested Joan: “putting those ideas into my head.”