He noticed with satisfaction that she had taken to calling him simply
uncle, instead of great-stepuncle.

"A new 'un!" he muttered, grimly, and sighed in despair.

"I shall stay and look after your supper," she said, brightly.

"Yes, and what about to-morrow?" He grew gloomier.

"To-morrow's Sunday. I'll come to-morrow, for breakfast."

"Yes, and what about Monday?" His gloom was not easily to be dispersed.

"I'll come on Monday," she replied, with increasing cheerfulness.

"But your school, where ye teach everything, lass?"

"Of course, I shall give up school," said she, "at once. They must do
without me. It will mean promotion for some one. I can't bother about
giving proper notice. Supposing you had been dangerously ill, I should
have come, and they would have managed without me. Therefore, they _can_
manage without me. Therefore, they must."

He kept up a magnificent gloom until she left for the night. And then he
danced a hornpipe of glee--not with his legs, but in his heart. He had
deliberately schemed to get rid of Mrs. Butt by means of Helen Rathbone.
The idea had occurred to him as he entered the house. That was why he
had encouraged her to talk freely about servants by assuring her that
Mrs. Butt was not in the scullery, being well aware that Mrs. Butt was
in the scullery. He had made a tool of the unsuspecting, good-natured