Darcy and Anne by JUDITH BROCKLEHURST

has been imposed on; I would not have read these pages, if I had known whose work they were. Only she can decide whether to allow us to hear more.”
    What authoress is really reluctant to have her story read to an admiring, encouraging crowd? Anne took the manuscript, and began to read. It was a strange feeling to be reading what she had written. All eyes were upon her; but her confidence increased as she read. After three or four chapters, her voice grew thick. “Come,” Said Mrs Darcy, “the rest must be for other evenings, it is too late now. The Lambton assembly is tomorrow,” and the party broke up. Anne was thanked and praised; everyone wanted to hear more. Only Edmund Caldwell was silent.
    But it was hard for Anne to sleep. Mr Caldwell and the Colonel were to leave the house as soon as they had breakfasted the next morning. She felt an urgent need to thank Mr Caldwell for his kindness to her the previous day; she could not let him go without thanking him. And yet she dared not ask him for an interview—it would look so particular! As far as she knew, her cousin had told nobody the story—except the Colonel, who, after all, was also a cousin—and somehow she knew that Edmund had not mentioned it to anybody. Suppose she were to sleep late, and he were to leave before she could speak to him? The maid who waited on her had been told to call her, but maids were often unreliable… Anne tossed and turned until it seemed to her that dawn was breaking, and then suddenly there was a voice calling her, and the maid had remembered after all.
    There was, in fact, no difficulty; he was standing on the terrace, looking at the view. She tried to put her thanks into words; he cut her short.
    “What I did was nothing, and I have no right to assist you; I wish I had. But there is something I wish to say to you,” he said. “Your cousin will have told you this already, but I will repeat it. I read that document; you have every right to your own money, and your mother, however good her intentions, was wrong to withhold it. The matter would be different, of course, if your mother were in any danger of financial hardship; but that is certainly not the case. And even then, she should not have withheld, without asking, money which belongs to you. We all have obligations to a parent, but as we grow into adulthood, our responsibilities change; we owe respect, affection, but not blind, unthinking obedience. We have duties, which a parent cannot forbid us to perform. You are responsible for your money, and it is your task to decide how it should be used. Do not ever allow anyone to tell you, as that man did, that 'young ladies' have no need to think, or no right to learn. Never allow anyone to do your thinking for you.”
    “No… no… I will remember. But…”
    “But?”
    “I do not know… Will you be at the assembly tonight?”
    “No. I cannot.”
    “And you do not much care to dance, do you?”
    “Not much. I can understand why people like to dance, but I am clumsy; the music does not speak to me as it does to some. I am not made for mirth. But you love to dance, do you not?”
    “Not as much as Georgiana; I like it, but I am soon tired.”
    “You must exercise more, then you will not get tired.”
    “But I am learning to ride.”
    “That is very good,” said he, smiling, “but you must walk a little, too, every day.”
    “Very well, I will try.”
    “Now I must be on my way. I must be about my business. I know, why cannot I stay—you must think me a money-grubbing fellow, and that is what I am.
    “You see, Miss de Bourgh, there is something I must tell you. My parents had a good fortune, but some years ago, I persuaded them to enter into a doubtful speculation. I was young, I was foolish, I was misled by dishonest people, and they lost a great deal of money. It was my fault, and I must ensure that their fortune is restored. They are all goodness, they have never asked for anything or spoken a word of blame, but