"I see I haven't made myself perfectly clear," said Miss Bancroft, patiently. "I should have told you that I saw both of your nieces last night. It was because of the older one that I came here to-day—Nancy. She looks enough like George to make your heart ache. And she is facing poor George's problem. She is a very remarkable young girl—I don't cotton to the average young miss very readily, as you know, but there was something in that bright, eager young face that went to my heart. She was at the Porterbridges'. They came in an old hack that they were ashamed of. Do you like to think of George's daughters doing that?
"She is a girl who deserves a fair chance, and she's not getting it. But she isn't the sort that whimpers. She struck me as being full of a fine courage—and an independence of spirit that made one member of the family the very troublesome person he is. She is a girl who has her teeth set against circumstance, and her own cool, sober views of life. But she is very young—too young to have to cope with the difficulties that face her, and far too proud to accept any help with strings tied to it. Remember that. And in my opinion, it is a sin and a shame that you, who could give her the help she needs, and who could get a great deal of happiness in return—you won't even see her. I'm not asking anything but that you see and talk to Nancy sometime." Miss Bancroft rose, and shook out her skirt.
Mr. Prescott stood, looking straight ahead of him, with his under lip thrust forward, a characteristic trick of that same grand-niece Nancy, if he but knew it.
Presently he turned, and held out his hand with a queer, almost shy smile.
"Do forgive me, Elizabeth, for bellowing at you as I have. You know, my dear girl—and you have often agreed with me—that, while at my death my nieces will become very rich, it has been my purpose to allow them to know poverty, with all its sorrows and harassments, so that they can use my fortune wisely for their own happiness and for the happiness of the families that they will have in time. My theory is right—but circumstances alter cases. I shall think over what you have said—but I shall promise nothing."
Miss Bancroft accepted his hand and pressed it affectionately.
"Well, then, good-bye. No, don't bother to open the door for me; I'll go this way."
He smiled at her again as she went down the steps.
"I always feel lonely when you have gone, even when we have been quarrelling," he remarked, with a wistful look.
"Of course you feel lonely. You roll around in that huge house of yours like a hazelnut in a shoe," returned Miss Bancroft, quickly. He caught her meaning, and as quickly replied: