are her gloves?

    t hem.

    My uncle comes close. An unhappy beginning. Give me your hand, Maud.

    I  give it. tc t and lifts it. My  to . My uncle . he shakes his head.

    No a set of coarse fingers upon my books, iles bring me a nurse. I s o make ter. Your , , t are kept out of ts o t of , and uncoils from it—one of things,

    t bookmen use—a line of metal beads, bound tig, seeming to  smartly doiless assistance, akes my oto t.

    ting like a  t bloiles releasing my s, I put my fingers to my mouto weep.

    My uncle  turns to  and ter towards his ears.

    Keep silence, girl! . Mrs Stiles pinc makes me cry  last I groill.

    ell, ly. You s forget ture, hmm?

    I s smiles.  Mrs Stiles. Youll keep my niece mindful of ies? I  e tame. I cant orms and tantrums,  stray too far, mind! You must be in reach of her, should she grow wild.

    Mrs Stiles makes a curtsey and—under cover of plucking my trembling so keep it from falling into a slouc, t again, as the sun.

    Now, says my uncle, w, w you here.

    I put my crimson fingers to my face, to wipe my nose.

    to make a lady of me.

    he gives a quick, dry laugh.

    to make a secretary of you.  do you see  these walls?

    ood, sir.

    Books, girl, s place and turns it. t as a Bible. t er all,

    mig ing different qualities of madness. I feel t advance in t.

    My uncle keeps to , and taps its spine.

    Do you see title, girl?—Dont take a step! I aske