commenced striking off on his fingers, one by one.

"Let me see; there's Fred, brought up, young coxcomb! to think
himself a fine gentleman and an artist, with almost as much notion of
work as I have of piano playing; and Allan, who has more brains than
the rest of you put together; and Carrie, who is half a saint and
slightly hysterical; and your poor little self; and then comes that
nondescript article Jack. Why in the world do you call a feminine
creature Jack? And poor little Dot, who will never earn a penny for
himself--humph, six of you to clothe and feed--"

"Oh, Uncle Geoff!" I burst out, taking no notice of this long
tirade; and what did it matter if Dot never earned anything when I
would work my fingers to the bone for him, the darling! "oh, Uncle
Geoff, are things really so bad as that? Will Fred be obliged to give
up his painting, when he has been to Rome, too; and shall we have to
leave Combe Manor, and the farm? Oh, what will they all do? and
Carrie, too?"

"Work," was the somewhat grim reply, and then he went on in a milder
tone. "Things are very bad, Esther; about as bad as they can be--for
we must look matters in the face--and your father is very ill, and
there is no knowing where the mischief may end; but you must all put
your shoulders to the domestic wheel, and push it up the Hill
Difficulty. It is a crisis, and a very painful one, but it will prove
which of you has the right mettle.

"I am not afraid of Allan," he went on; "the lad has plenty of good
stuff in him; and I am not much afraid of you, Esther, at least I
think not; but--" He hesitated, and then stopped, and I knew he was