Yet from time to time a revolt of common sense forced her to speak, and as the only possible way, if quarrel were to be avoided, she began her remonstrance on the humorous note.  Then when her mother had been wearying her for half an hour with complaints and lamentations over the misdoings of one Emma, Bertha as the alternative to throwing up her hands and rushing out of the house, began laughing to herself, whereat Mrs. Cross indignantly begged to be informed what there was so very amusing in a state of affairs which would assuredly bring her to her grave.

“If only you could see the comical side of it, mother,” replied Bertha.  “It really has one, you know.  Emma, if only you would be patient with her, is a well-meaning creature, and she says the funniest things.  I asked her this morning if she didn’t think she could find some way of remembering to put the salt on the table.  And she looked at me very solemnly, and said, ’Indeed, I will, miss.  I’ll put it into my prayers, just after ‘our daily bread.’”

Mrs. Cross saw nothing in this but profanity.  She turned the attack on Bertha, who, by her soft way of speaking, simply encouraged the servants, she declared, in negligence and insolence.

“Look at it in this way, mother,” replied the girl, as soon as she was suffered to speak.  “To be badly served is bad enough, in itself; why make it worse by ceaseless talking about it, so leaving ourselves not a moment of peace and quiet?  I’m sure I’d rather put the salt on. the table myself at every meal, and think no more about it, than worry, worry, worry over the missing salt-cellars from one meal to the next.  Don’t you feel, dear mother, that it’s shocking waste of life?”

“What nonsense you talk, child!  Are we to live in dirt and disorder?  Am I never to correct a servant, or teach her her duties?  But of course everything I do is wrong.  Of course you could do everything so very much better.  That’s what children are nowadays.”

Whilst Mrs. Cross piped on, Bertha regarded her with eyes of humorous sadness.  The girl often felt it a dreary thing not to be able to respect—­nay, not to be able to feel much love for—­her mother.  At such times, her thought turned to the other parent, with whom, had he and she been left alone, she could have lived so happily, in so much mutual intelligence and affection.  She sighed and moved away.

The unlet house was a very serious matter, and when one day Norbert Franks came to talk about it, saying that he would want a house very soon, and thought this of Mrs. Cross’s might suit him, Bertha rejoiced no less than her mother.  In consequence of the artist’s announcement, she wrote to her friend Rosamund, saying how glad she was to hear that her marriage approached.  The reply to this letter surprised her.  Rosamund had been remiss in correspondence for the last few months; her few and brief letters, though they were as affectionate as ever, making no