"But we mustn't go only for pleasure," continued Primrose; "indeed, we must not go at all for pleasure. We must go to work hard, and to learn, so that bye-and-bye we may be really able to support ourselves. Now, there is only one way in which we can do that. We must take that two hundred pounds which Mr. Danesfield has in the bank, and we must live on it while we are being educated. We can go to a cheap part of London, and find poor lodgings—we won't mind how poor they are, if only they are very clean, with white curtains, and dimity round the beds. We'll be quite happy there, and we'll make our two hundred pounds go very far. With great care, and with our thirty pounds a year, it might last for four or five years, and by that time Daisy will have grown big, and you, Jasmine, will have grown up, and—and—perhaps you will have found a magazine to take your poems."
"Oh! oh! I never heard of anything so delicious!" exclaimed Jasmine. "Long before the five years are out I'll be on the pinnacle of fame. London will inspire me; oh, it is the home of beauty and delight! Where is Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter?—we will never finish it? I am going to burn it on the spot rather than allow any other idea to be put into your head, Primrose?"
Primrose smiled again, and before she could prevent her, her impetuous sister had torn Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter into ribbons, and had set fire to it in the empty grate.
"We must not be too sanguine about London," she said; "only it does seem the only independent thing to do. Then, too, there is that letter of dear mamma's and all that sad account of the little baby brother who was lost so long ago. Hannah says that he was lost in London—he must be a man now; perhaps we shall meet him in London. It certainly does seem as if it were right for us to go."
CHAPTER XIV.
QUITE CONTRARY.
"I have done it, my dear Joseph," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I went to see the children, and I wrote to that little proud princess Primrose. It will be really very nice if they all come here. We have such heaps and heaps of money, more than we know what to do with; money becomes uninteresting when you have so much. I think I have tried most of the pleasures that money can buy. I have heaps of dresses, and quantities of jewels, and my lovely country home, and my season in town, but what I have never yet had, and what I have earnestly longed for, was a daughter. A boy, after all, has to go to school, and to fight his way in the world—our boy is at school, and a very good place for him—but a woman wants a girl of her own to quite satisfy her heart.
"Now it seems to me that I may have three girls. We must keep up the fiction of Primrose being useful to you in your library, Joseph—you must give her letters to write, and you must be very patient with her when she makes mistakes, for the dear child has not been educated, and will probably make the worst of secretaries. Never mind, you must try to appear delighted, and to seem as if you never could have got on until Primrose Mainwaring came to help you.
"Then the little ones—of course they are coming under the supposition that they are only to stay until I have found them berths in one of those horrid charity schools for the orphan daughters of military men—but I promise you those berths shall be hard to find. The three will insensibly consider themselves our adopted children. Oh, what a delightful plan it is! and how picturesque I shall feel with my girls! Joseph, did you ever see a brighter or more bewitching little soul than our Jasmine?"