her power of execution. 'I have forgotten so many things,' she concluded, with a profound sigh.
'Sir, you impertinent minx,' corrected the matron.
Amelia did not seem to hear, and her new employer hastened to interpose.
'We will give you a trial,' he said, in a curiously modified tone, 'and I hope you won't give me any occasion to regret it.'
The necessary formalities were hurried through. Mr. Paton disregarded the deferential disclaimers of the matron, but experienced, nevertheless, something of a shock when he saw Amelia divested of her prison garb. She had a thorough-bred air that discomfited him. Worse still, she was undeniably pretty. The scissors that had clipped her fair locks had left a number of short rings that clung like tendils round her shapely little head. She wore a black stuff jacket of extreme simplicity and faultless cut, and a little black bonnet that might have been worn by a Nursing Sister or a 'grande dame' with equal appropriateness. Thus attired, her appearance was so effective, that Mr. Paton asked himself whether he was not doing an unpardonably rash thing in driving No. 27 down Macquarrie Street in his gig, and introducing her into his household afterwards.
It was not Truca, for she had 'driven and lived' that morning, whose mauvais quart d'heure was now to come. It was her father's turn to fall under its influence, as he sat, stern and rigid, on the driver's seat, with his little girl nestling up to him as close as
