She is gone, taking Perpetua with her.  The professor rubs his eyes, and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs. Mulcahy takes possession of him. What a woman!  He had never thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady—­but Mrs. Mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over one of his difficulties.  Still, those that remain are formidable enough to quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind.  “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!”

How many to-morrows is she going to remain here?  Oh!  Impossible!  Not an hour must be wasted.  By the morning light something must be put on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!

Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.

“Anything new?” demands the latter, springing to his feet.

“Yes!  Mrs. Mulcahy came up.”  The professor’s face is so gloomy, that Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, “She has assaulted him!”

“I’m glad it isn’t visible,” says he, staring at the professor’s nose, and then at his eye.  Both are the usual size.

“Eh?” says the professor.  “She was visible of course.  She was kinder than I expected.”

“So, I see.  She might so easily have made it your lip—­or your nose—­or——­”

"What is there in Everett’s cupboard besides the beer?” demands the professor angrily.  “For Heaven’s sake! attend to me, and don’t sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!”

This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.

“I tell you she was kind—­kinder than one would expect,” says the professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.

“Oh!  I see.  She?  Miss Wynter?”

“No—­Mrs. Mulcahy!” roars the professor frantically.  “Where’s your head, man?  Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter into her charge in the—­er—­the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed.”  The professor mops his brow.

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” says Hardinge.  “Sit down, old chap, and let’s talk it over.”

“It is not all right,” says the professor.  “It is all wrong.  Here she is, and here she apparently means to stay.  The poor child doesn’t understand.  She thinks I’m older than Methusaleh, and that she can live here with me.  I can’t explain it to her—­you—­don’t think you could, do you, Hardinge?”

“No, I don’t, indeed,” says Hardinge, in a hurry.  “What on earth has brought her here at all?”

“To stay. Haven’t I told you?  To stay for ever.  She says”—­with a groan—­“she is going to settle me!  To—­to brush my hair! To—­make my tea.  She says I’m her guardian, and insists on living with me.  She doesn’t understand!  Hardinge,” desperately, “what am I to do?”

“Marry her!” suggests Hardinge, who, I regret to say is choking with laughter.