"They are all gone, John," said Alice. "Oh, what a visit! I am ashamed! I never thought my people could have gone on so! As for Cousin Charles, he's just dreadful!"

One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, overcome by the champagne, was asleep in his chair. John Haveril dragged him up by the collar.

"Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by going to sleep here?"

The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently he remembered where he was.

"Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially. "They all want your money—particularly Charles. He's the most grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day. It's true. I've got no work and no money."

"John, give him something."

"It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more."

"But give him something. Let him eat it."

John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold.

"Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."

The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off. It made Alice ashamed only to see the attitude of the poor hungry creature, and the abasement of poverty.

"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of the family, until their letters begin to come in. Halloa! Who's this?"

For John became aware of the girl who had been standing beside the door, unnoticed. When all were gone, she stepped in lightly.

"Mrs. Haveril," she said—"I ought to call you Cousin Alice, but I am afraid you have had cousins enough. My name is Pennefather—Molly Pennefather."

"Why, I was a Pennefather—same as Charles, who's just gone out, and the ragged wretch who was Cousin Alfred."

"Yes; and others of the truly dreadful people who have just gone out. I don't know any of them. Fortunately, they wouldn't have anything to do with my poor old dad, because he disgraced the family and went on the stage. If they hadn't been so haughty, I might have had to know them now."

"Your father? Is he Willy Pennefather?"

"He was. But he died five years ago."

"He died? Poor Willy! Oh, John, if you'd known my cousin Will! How clever he was! And how bright! Dead, is he?"

"He was never a great success, you know, because he couldn't settle down. And at last he died. And I—— Well, I'm studying for the stage myself."

"Oh, you are Willy's daughter! My dear, you look straight. But there's been such a self-seeking——"

"I don't want your money, indeed!"

"Oh, but have you got money, my dear?"

"No; but some day I suppose I shall have—by my Art. That's the way to talk about the profession nowadays. Well, I mean that I don't want your money, Cousin Alice."

"If you haven't got any money and don't want any——" John began.

"You see, we are not all built like Mr. John Haveril," she interrupted, with a sweet smile. "Art, I am told, makes one despise money. When I am furnished with my Art, I dare say I shall despise money."

"Oh, coom now, lass!" From time to time, but rarely, John Haveril became Yorkshire again. "Despise the brass?"

"Not the people who have the brass. That is an accident."

"I don't know about accidents."

"Well, you've got money; once you hadn't. You're John Haveril all the same—see? Besides, it's quite right that some people should have money. They can take stalls at theatres. If you will let me be friends with you, Mr. Haveril, and won't look so dreadfully suspicious——"

"Well, I don't care," he said. "You look as if——"

"As if I was telling the truth. Shake hands, then."

Mrs. Haveril gave her a hand, and then, looking in her face, threw her arms round her neck.

"My dear child," she said, "you're the very picture of your father—Cousin Will. I thought there must be some one in the family fit to love." She hugged and kissed the girl with a sudden wave of affection. "Oh, Molly, my dear, I am sure I shall love you!"

"I'm so glad. Well, may I call you Alice? I will tell you what theatres to go to. Oh, I shall make myself very useful to you!" She clasped her hands, laughing—a picture of youth and truth and innocence. "Some time or other you shall see me on the stage."

"We get lots of actors out in the West—and actresses too. Some of them are real lovely," said John Haveril.

She laughed. "Oh! There are actresses and actresses. And some elevate their Art, and some degrade it. Now, let me see. Oh, father is dead, poor dear! I told you. And the rest of the family—— Well, you saw for yourself, cousin, they are not exactly the kind of people for a person of your consideration. You should lend them all some money—not much—and make them promise to pay it back on a certain day—next Monday week, at ten o'clock. It's a certain plan. Then you'll have no further trouble with them. Otherwise, they'll crowd round you like leeches."

"I can't let my own flesh and blood starve."

"Starve! Rubbish! They won't starve! What have they been doing while you've been away? Unless you encourage them not to work." And now she sank gracefully upon a footstool, and took her cousin's hands. "Oh," she said, "it is so nice to have a relative of whom one may be proud, after all those cousins. Oh, it must be a dreadful thing to have such lots of money! Why, I've got nothing!"

"You've had no champagne," said Cousin John, lifting his Jeroboam.

"Thank you, Cousin John, I don't drink champagne. Well, now, what can I do for you this afternoon?"

"I don't know, my dear. We neither of us know much about London, and we just wander about, for the most part, or drive about, and wonder where we are."

The girl jumped up. "Order a carriage and pair instantly. I shall drive you round and show you the best shops. You are sure to want something. As for me, remember that I want nothing. An actress appears in costume which the management finds. You, however, Alice, are different. You must dress as becomes your position."

"My dear child," said Alice, in the very first shop, "you must let me give you a dress—you really must."

"I don't want it, I assure you," she laughed. "But if it pains you not to give me one, why, I will take it."

She did take it. That evening there arrived at the boarding-house, addressed to Miss Pennefather, first a bonnet, for which five guineas would be cheap; a dress, the price of which the male observer could not even guess; a box of kid gloves, a mantle, and two or three pairs of boots.

"And, oh," said the girl, when she left the hotel that night, "what a lovely thing it is to feel that there will be no horrid mercenary considerations between us! You will admire my Art, but I shall not envy your money. Cousin John, admit that I am better off than you—one would rather be admired than envied."

She reached home. In her room lay the parcels and the packages. She opened them all. She put on the bonnet, she stroked the soft stuff with a caressing palm, she gazed upon the gloves, she held up the boots to the light.

"Am I a dreadful humbug?" she said. "I must be—I must be. What would Dick say? But one cannot—— No, one cannot refuse. I am not a stick or a stone. And Cousin Alice actually enjoyed the giving! But no money. Molly, you must not take their money."