In less than six weeks the Stauntons were settled in London. George had taken lodgings for them in a cheap part of Bayswater. The rooms were high up in a dismal sort of house. There were a sitting room and three small bedrooms. George occupied one—Effie and the girls another—Mrs. Staunton, the baby, and little Phil the third. It seemed to Effie as if they had always lived in this uninteresting house, looking out on that narrow dismal street. They knew nobody. Their lives were very dull. Mrs. Staunton occupied herself over George, morning, noon, and night. She mended his clothes with scrupulous care; she washed his shirts herself, and took immense pride in bringing the fronts up to a wonderful polish. There was not a young man in the City who went to his daily work with such snowy collars as George, such neat cuffs, such a look of general finish. This work delighted Mrs. Staunton—it brought smiles to her eyes and a look of satisfaction to her face.

Effie had got the money from Mr. Harvey, and had handed it without a word to George.

He took it; his face flushed all over—tears filled his eyes.

He said, "God bless you, Effie; you are the bravest, best sister a man ever had"; and then he went out of the room and out of the house.

"He never asked me where I got it," thought poor Effie; "and now there's the interest to pay, and how can it possibly be taken out of our hundred a year? Mother must never, never know; but how is that interest to be paid?"

The Stauntons had been settled about a fortnight in their new home, when Dorothy came to pay them a visit.

She was very busy in her hospital life. She came in with her accustomed eager, purposeful walk. She sat down on the nearest chair, and began to talk cheerfully to the children and sympathetically to Mrs. Staunton.

As soon as she had an opportunity, however, she drew Effie aside.

"Now, my dear," she said, looking straight into Effie's brown eyes, "when are you coming to us?"

"Oh, if I could come," exclaimed Effie, "I should indeed be happy, but I don't see any chance of it."

"I do. You are not really wanted here; Agnes is growing a big girl. Your mother is devoted to your brother George; provided he comes home every evening, she scarcely gives a thought to anyone else. You can be spared, Effie, and it will be good for you. You do not look a bit the same girl. You have lost your 'go' somehow. You are very young. It is wrong to have a look like that when one is only twenty. You ought to come to the hospital, and there is a vacancy now for a probationer, if you can take it."

"If I dare to," said Effie, "but it does not seem right."

"Yes, I believe it is right. I know the matron of St. Joseph's Hospital so well that I think I can arrange with her that you should spend a part of every Sunday at home—at least, while you are training Agnes. The fact is, Effie, you are a born nurse, and it is a sin to lose you to the profession."

"I should like to come beyond anything," said Effie. "It is the very highest wish of my heart. The last night that I ever saw my dear father he spoke to me on this subject. He used to hate lady-nurses, but you won him over, Dorothy, and he said, if the time came, I could go with his blessing."

"Then surely that settles the matter," exclaimed Dorothy. "I'll speak to Mrs. Staunton before I leave to-day."

"Oh, no; don't! Mother seems quite happy and comfortable. I would not for the world do anything to upset or distress her."

"If it upsets and distresses her, you must give it up, that's all," said Dorothy, "but it is worth sounding her on the subject. Don't say a word, Effie, I'll speak to your mother about it."

Effie looked puzzled and anxious.

"I would give anything to go," she murmured to herself. "It is torture to live on here, thinking of nothing but how to make a hundred pounds a year pay everything that is expected of it. Then I should be one off the family purse, for all my expenses would be paid by the hospital. Yes, surely it must be right. At any rate, I'll allow Dorothy to speak."

When tea was over, George, who had come in, and was as usual devoting himself to his mother, tried to coax her to come out with him a little.

"No, not to-night," said Dorothy suddenly. "I have something very special to say to Mrs. Staunton—perhaps you would stay and listen too, George?"

George did not mind being called by his Christian name by Dorothy. She was regarded by the Stauntons as part and parcel of the family.

"I'll do anything to oblige you," he said, giving the handsome nurse a look of genuine admiration. "Come, mother, if we are not to go out, we can at least sit near each other."

He drew up a chair close to his mother as he spoke, and put one of his arms round her neck. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and sat there in perfect content.

After a time one of his strong hands closed over hers. She had never, even in the doctor's time, felt more warmly and happily protected.

"Yes, Dorothy, what have you to say?" she remarked. "George and I are all attention."

"George and you!" laughed Dorothy. "I never saw such a devoted pair. Why, you are just like a pair of lovers."

"Well, we are lovers, aren't we, mother?" said the son.

"Yes, my boy," she replied. "No love was ever stronger than that which binds us together."

"I love to hear you say that," remarked Dorothy; "but now I want to talk on quite another matter. I am very anxious about Effie."

"Effie!" said Mrs. Staunton, just glancing at her daughter. "What about her? She seems quite well. Are you well, Effie?"

"Yes, mother, I am perfectly well," replied Effie.

"Oh, it is not that," said Dorothy, a touch of scorn coming into her voice. "Effie may be well in body, but she is just starved in soul."

"Starved!" said Mrs. Staunton, with a start "What do you mean, Dorothy?"

"Oh, never mind her, please, mother," said Effie in distress. "I am all right, really."

"No, she is not," continued Dorothy. "She is not right in the way I should like to see her right. The fact is, she wants a change."

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Staunton. "We are not rich enough to think of changes."

"The sort of change she wants will not cost you any money. The fact is, I want her to become what Heaven has intended her to be, a thoroughly trained hospital nurse. There is a vacancy now for a probationer at St. Joseph's, and I can get her admitted at once. May she come? That's the main point to consider."

Mrs. Staunton looked at Effie. Effie looked back at her mother.

It seemed to Effie at that moment as if she would have given anything for her mother to say, "No, I cannot spare her." On the contrary, Mrs. Staunton said in a calm voice:

"I leave the choice entirely to Effie herself. If she thinks she can be spared, she may go. The fact is, Effie, my love, your—your dear father spoke to me on this subject the very night he was taken ill. He seemed to wish it then; that is, if you cared for it yourself. If you are still of the same way of thinking, I for one should not think it right to make the slightest opposition."

"But how are you to do without her?" asked George in some dismay.

"Oh, I can manage—I am not the helpless old woman you seem to consider me, George. I really feel better and stronger every day. The more I do for you, the less of an invalid I seem to be. Effie has been quite tiresome lately, trying to manage the money, and taking all care off my hands, but I am quite capable of seeing to matters myself; and then Agnes is growing a big girl, she can go out to buy what I shall order."

Effie looked very pale. She sat perfectly still for a moment. Then she stood up.

"Very well, mother, I'll go," she said in a subdued voice. "When can you be ready for me, Dorothy?" she continued.

"In a week's time," said Dorothy. "There are certain preliminaries to be gone through, but I will send you a paper of our rules. You must fill up a form—in short, you must do exactly what you are instructed to do on the paper. You will probably be admitted before this day week."

Dorothy said a few more words, and then took her leave. Effie accompanied her out on the landing.

"I think you make a mistake in letting Effie go, mother," said George, when he was alone with his mother.

"Not at all, my son. The fact is, fond as I am of my dear Effie, she takes almost too much control lately of our money affairs—I shall be glad to get them into my own hands. There are very many comforts which I could give you, darling, which are simply put out of my power by Effie's determination to keep the family purse."

George said nothing. He stooped to kiss his mother's cheek.

He had not looked at matters from that point of view before. He allowed his mother fifty pounds a year, which was half his present income, and it suddenly occurred to him that he was making a very generous allowance, and that he should have a full share of the benefit.

"What I have been thinking is this," said Mrs. Staunton. "Out of the fifty pounds a year which you, dear boy, give us, we ought to provide a certain portion of your wardrobe. You really want new shirts. I suggested to Effie a week ago that I should like her to buy some fine lawn, as I wanted to make them for you, and she said at once that we could not afford it. But never mind, dearest; when mother is put into her own position again, you shall have the best shirts of any young man in the City."

Now, George was really satisfied with his present shirts, but if his mother chose to make him better ones he did not care to oppose her. He hoped that he would be asked out a little in the evenings during the coming winter, and he wondered if his mother could possibly squeeze an evening suit for him out of the allowance he gave her. He did not express this thought, however, at the present moment, and as Effie re-entered the room the two changed the conversation.

George went out for a little, and Effie took up some needlework, sitting where the lamp in the center of the table fell full upon her bright brown hair.

"I wonder, Effie," said Mrs. Staunton in a tone of almost discontent, "that you did not speak to me before now on this subject. I cannot bear to think that a child of mine does not give me her full confidence. You know I am the last person in the world to keep you drudging and toiling at home when you yourself long for a wider field of usefulness."

"Yes, mother, I know that," said Effie in a grave voice "The fact is," she continued, "I did not think it would be possible for you to spare me; but if you can, and you think it right for me to go, I shall of course be delighted, for I have long had my heart in this work."

"You are like all other modern girls," said Mrs. Staunton in that provokingly inconsistent way which characterized her; "you are not satisfied in the home nest. Well, well, I have got my boy, and I must not complain."

"Oh, mother, dear mother, you have got us all." Effie rose from her chair, went over and knelt by her mother's side.

"I would give anything in the world," she said, looking full at Mrs. Staunton, "for you to say that you are going to miss me awfully."

The sight of her pretty face softened the mother's heart.

"Of course I shall miss you, my darling," she said, "You always were the best of girls; but I don't wish to stand in your way. I know you will be happy where your heart is, and your father wished it. That, in my opinion, settles the matter."

"Well, I have a week," said Effie more cheerfully, standing up as she spoke. "I must do all in my power to instruct Agnes. I must teach her the little economies which I have been trying to practice."

"No, you need not do that, Effie. When you go to the hospital I intend to resume full control of the family purse."

Effie hesitated, and looked anxiously at her mother as she said this.

"I wish it, my love, so there's no use in discussing the matter," continued Mrs. Staunton. "I know exactly what we have got to spend—£150 a year. It is very little, indeed, but I rather fancy I am as good a manager as my child. I have at least a wider experience to guide me. Out of that income dear George provides a third. It seems to me, Effie, that we should give him rather more comforts than he has had lately for this generous allowance."

"Oh, mother! George really wants for nothing."

"I cannot agree with you. I should wish him to have beer at supper every night."

"I do not think it can be managed. There is not a penny to spare."

"Well, my dear, we will see. It is also only just that a proportion of his money should be devoted to providing him with suitable underclothing."

"Oh, mother, mother, have you thought of the thousand and one things which are required for the children and yourself? Surely George can manage to buy his own clothes out of the fifty pounds which he reserves for his personal expenses."

"That's so like a girl," exclaimed Mrs. Staunton, clasping her hands. "She knows about as little of a young man's life as she does of his Greek and Latin. Well, my love, we will propose no changes while you are at home. You must go to the hospital with a light heart, taking your mother's blessing with you."

"A light heart, indeed!" thought poor Effie when she reached her room that night. "A light heart, with mother spoiling George as hard as ever she can! I wonder how the others are to fare when George is to be treated like a prince in every way, and I wonder how that interest is to be met. Oh, dear! oh, dear! but it shall be paid somehow. Well, I suppose I am doing right. Mother would not have been content with this state of things much longer, that's more than evident, and then my dear father wished it. Yes, I'll take up my new life—I trust it will bring a blessing with it—but oh, mother, how anxious you make me!"