Juliet Mitchell had gone up to the little room which she shared with Emily Rowles. It did not contain much furniture, and what there was had seen its best days long before. The chest of drawers had lost most of its handles; the looking-glass which stood on the drawers swung round the wrong way unless it was propped up by a book or by a box. It had swung round in this manner, but had stuck half-way. When Juliet entered the room she came face to face with the glass, and consequently face to face with herself.

What she saw was enough to frighten her, and did frighten her. The scowling brows, the flushed cheeks, the pushed-out lips, were more like those of some fierce and raging animal than the features of a young girl in a Christian land. She stopped short and glared at her own reflection. It glared back as angrily at her. "What a horrid, ugly, cross thing, you are!" said Juliet.

The face in the glass said the very same words with its lips, though it made no sound. Then Juliet stood still and talked with herself.

"You are the ugliest, the crossest, most stupid, awkward creature I ever did come near; and so I tell you plainly, Juliet Mitchell. Since you came into this house not a thing but what is tiresome have you done. Why, if your aunt was to jaw you from morning to night you would do no better; and you can't stand being jawed, you know. And your aunt just looks at you in a way that is more piercing than if she was to talk for weeks! And your uncle, he's your own mother's own brother; but there! he'd be glad enough if you was to take yourself off. And that's about the best thing you can do. Take yourself off and get your own living like other girls of your age. Nobody wants you, here or in London. There's a many little places going; and when you've shown that you can take care of yourself and don't want none of their advice, nor none of their money either, then won't they be pleased to get a letter from you!"

Like many another young girl—ay, and boy too—Juliet had a great notion of independence—of getting away from advice and restraint, and of earning money for herself. In London more than in the country, girls go off and engage themselves as servants or in some other capacity, and so start alone in the world like little boats putting out on a stormy sea without sail or oar, rudder or compass. And many, many are wrecked on the first rock; and many go through wild tempests and suffer terrible hardships. A few battle through the winds and waves and reach a happy shore.

Had Juliet asked advice of anyone, or had she knelt and implored guidance from her Heavenly Father, she would not have made the mad resolve which now shaped itself in her mind. It was the resolve to go away from Littlebourne Lock, on that side of the river which she knew least—away from her relations, from the village, from the church, from the railway, to find a situation with some stranger in a place where no one knew her; in a word, to provide for herself.

As her resolve grew more fixed she felt calmer, and even pleased. Smiles began to flicker over her features; and when she next looked in the glass she murmured to her reflection, "I say, you ain't so bad-looking after all!"

A knock on the door roused her. Mrs. Rowles came in.

The good aunt sat down on the foot of the bed and drew the girl towards her, putting her motherly arm round the little figure, and smoothing the ruffled hair. Mrs. Rowles went on to explain to Juliet the great danger which she had run, and the extreme naughtiness of flat disobedience; and all the while Juliet stood with a calm face and silent manner, so that her aunt thought she was penitent. But this quietness was caused by her having so fully made up her mind as to what she would do next. She let Mrs. Rowles speak on, and appeared meek and humble; but in reality her thoughts were not on anything that she heard.

"And so," said Mrs. Rowles, rising at length and unclasping the sheltering arms, "when you have been with us a little longer, and have learnt a little more, we will get you a nice situation—and Mrs. Webster knows all the good situations that are going,—and you shall have a start in life; and I've written to your mother to tell her what I think of doing for you. We shall have her answer the day after to-morrow."

Juliet said coldly, "All right."

"I thought you might like another frock," said Mrs. Rowles, "so I have been making one for you out of a gown of my own; and here are two new print aprons, and I've put a fresh ribbon on your hat. You are quite set up now, my dear."

"I suppose," said Juliet without thanking her aunt, "that them things are good enough for going to service."

"Oh yes, quite good enough—if you should happen to hear of a little place to suit you. Don't you like them?"

"They are right enough," said Juliet.

Then Mrs. Rowles turned and went away, wondering that so young a girl should be so hard, and totally unsuspicious of the resolve which was in that young hard heart.

It was a resolve which could not be put in execution at once; Juliet must needs wait for a favourable opportunity. Two days went by and she did not find one; then came a letter from her mother saying that if Juliet could find a situation in the country it would be better than coming back to overcrowded London, where young girls in swarms were looking out for means of earning their livings. Mrs. Mitchell said little more; all were pretty well except baby, who was always poorly.

Juliet now considered that she had got a sort of permission from her mother to do what she wished to do. She thought she could defy her uncle and aunt if they found any fault with her actions.

The eventful moment arrived.

Mrs. Rowles and Emily had gone to the village to buy a few things for the lodgers who were expected shortly. Mr. Rowles was busy at the lock; Philip was going to take out the Fairy for her first trip after her repairs.

Juliet came down from the attic. She wore her new-made frock, her re-trimmed hat, and carried a parcel containing the print aprons. Phil did not notice what she wore or what she carried.

"Take me in the boat, Phil," she said coaxingly.

"I thought you had had enough of the boat," he replied.

"But you will be in it, this time."

"Oh, I don't want you," said the boy.

"Well, then, just set me down on the opposite bank."

"I don't mind doing that; but you may have to wait a long time before I come back for you."

"All right," said Juliet; "I don't care how long you are."

She stepped into the Fairy, and sat quite still while Philip rowed her to the far-off bank. Then she got out very gravely, and sat down on the grass until he was out of sight.

Fields came down to the water's edge. Where Juliet sat there was a muddy bit of gravel shelving to the river. She did not know what made this break in the bank. It had been formed by cows and horses coming down to drink. In the field there were now no animals; had there been she would have hesitated about remaining in it. But as soon as Phil had disappeared she stood and looked about her, and perceived that there was no living creature in sight, except the larks singing on high and the grasshoppers chirping among the grass.

Juliet walked swiftly across the field to a gate which stood open, and through which she passed. Hardly had she entered the second field when she saw at the further side of it about a dozen cows. Her heart fell. Like most London girls she was horribly afraid of cows. Yet to go back would be to undo her plan; besides the animals had already seen her, and all their heads were turned in her direction.

"I must not irritate them," she thought, "and yet I must get on out of this field. If I creep along under the hedge they will not notice me."

Her frock was a dark green, and her hat a black one. She sidled along close to the hedge, keeping her eyes on the cows, which presently resumed their feeding. But as she did not look where she was treading she went down, splash! into a ditch.

Mud and duckweed covered her boots, several dirty marks were made on her frock, the parcel fell out of her hand, and probably the black stains on the paper had penetrated to the contents. This was her first misfortune.

She got herself out of the ditch and went on more carefully, keeping still in the shade of the hedge. Then a great spray of bramble caught a bow of ribbon on her hat and lifted the whole thing off her head. It flew up in the air, and only after repeated jumps could she get hold of it and bring it down again. This was her second misfortune.

Her tumblings and jumpings had attracted the attention of the cows once more, and a calf being young and inquisitive thought he would like to have a nearer view of the intruder, and began to follow Juliet. This was her third misfortune.

Her first impulse was to run, but a second thought told her that the cows would be sure to run after her. So she did not run, but walked as fast as she could, the calf walking faster and gaining on her. She stumbled and tripped and panted, and fixed her eyes on a gate, hoping that she might reach it before the calf came up with her. On she went with terrified steps, arrived at the gate, and found it fastened.

She threw the parcel over, climbed up the five wooden bars, and was going to climb down on the other side when she felt the great, warm, wet lips of the calf playing with her left ankle. She gave one screech of horror and threw herself head-foremost to the ground. It was soft and mossy, and she rose, shaken and bruised, and with a hole in the knee of each stocking.

But she had escaped from the calf. The copse or wood into which she had entered was dark and cool. A pathway went curving in and out among the trees. At a sharp turn she came suddenly upon a big man with a beard, who pointed a gun full at her, and said, "Stand, or I'll fire!"

This was her fourth misfortune.

Here was a dreadful, cruel robber such as she had read about in badly-printed penny books, and he would shoot her dead in half a minute. She gave a scream and turned to run back, but the man strode after her and laid a huge hand on her shoulder. At this she screamed and danced with terror.

"Now, now," roared the man, "stop that row! What are you doing here?"

"I want to go away!" cried Juliet.

"So you shall. But answer my questions first."

Glancing up at him Juliet perceived that he was laughing. All her fears vanished and she began to laugh too.

"What are you doing here?" asked the man again.

"I'm only walking through the wood," said Juliet, recovering her courage. "There ain't no law against that, I suppose."

"Yes, but there is. 'Trespassers will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.' Where do you come from?"

"From over there," and Juliet pointed behind her.

"Oh! And where are you going?"

"Over there," and she pointed before her.

The man whistled. "If you're not a Londoner, I'm a Dutchman. You're pretty sharp, you are."

"No, I ain't," said Juliet, stolidly; "I'm that stupid and awkward that I can't do nothing right. So I want a general place, I do."

"Oh!" said the big man, laughing; "awkward and stupid wants a place. Hope you'll get it, miss. Well, now, look here. Go right on and get out of the wood as quick as ten thousand lightnings, or else you'll be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."

Juliet wriggled away from under his heavy hand and ran right ahead, thankful to escape from the gun.

She came soon to the edge of the wood and found a fence easy to climb. On the other side of this she came into a lane which led out on a highroad. It was now late in the day; the sun was getting low, and the shadows grew longer and the air sweeter. She walked on quietly, thinking herself safe from pursuit. How surprised every one would be when they discovered that she had started in life by herself! Perhaps they would see that she was not so stupid and awkward as they thought.

"But I've got no place yet," said the girl to herself. "I must find one pretty sharp or I shall have nowhere to sleep to-night. Here's two houses; either on 'em would do for me."

Two small brick houses stood by the roadside. They had green doors, and shutters outside the windows, and little gardens in front.

"There ain't not a bit of use in being shy," said Juliet to herself, her courage all the while sinking lower and lower. "I'm as bold as brass, I always was. Here goes!"

She walked up to the door of the first cottage and rapped on it with her knuckles.

It was opened by a tall, thin, elderly woman in a high black bonnet. "What do you want?" she said.

"Please, missus, I want a place; general servant, like."

The woman looked at her from the crown of her hat to the heels of her boots. "Oh, do you? Where have you been living?"

"Over there," said Juliet.

"Over where?"

"Littlebourne way."

The woman seemed to be thinking deeply.

"Got a first-rate character, I suppose?"

"Oh, well," said Juliet hastily, "I've not been in a regular situation, as the saying is, but helping a friend, you know."

"It's a pity you've left her," said the woman. "What wages were you getting?"

Juliet said, lamely enough, "I didn't have no regular wages. They kep' me, and gave me these," showing the aprons.

"Ah! Did they send you away?"

"No, missus; I just took French leave and come away when it suited me. I want to better myself."

"I see. Well, come in. I'll try you. My name is Bosher. Do you hear—Mrs. Bosher?"

While Juliet stood in the narrow passage Mrs. Bosher locked and bolted the door, and at every sound the poor, foolish girl grew more and more unhappy, and more cut off from all hope and all happiness. Mrs. Bosher's bonnet and Mrs. Bosher's name were enough to terrify any young person with a bad conscience.

"Yes," said Juliet's new mistress, "my name is Bosher"—here the bonnet nodded,—"and now you are my servant, and while you are in my service you will do precisely everything that I tell you. I have a brother who has a gun; sometimes he shoots rooks, sometimes he shoots—other things. He lives next door. If you do a single thing that displeases me, you shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."

Juliet longed to scream, or kick, or run away; but she did not dare to move. "The utmost rigour of the law" might mean something awful: it might mean being hanged, or being shot by Mrs. Bosher's brother. The passage was almost dark, and Juliet stood trembling beside her dreadful mistress. Oh, if only it were possible to be back once more at the lock! Oh, if only she could escape from this new situation! Locked doors, and windows shuttered on the outside, made this cottage a very prison. The man with the gun living-next door, the unknown rigour of the law hanging over her head, Mrs. Bosher glaring through the twilight—how endure them even for a night? And how get away from them in the morning?

She was pushed into a kitchen and bidden to wash up some cups and saucers. "And woe betide you if you break one of them!" said Mrs. Bosher, her bonnet nodding so strangely that it seemed to be the speaker rather than its wearer.

Juliet was so fearful lest she might let slip a cup or saucer that she spent about half an hour in washing the crockery. While she did this at a side table, Mrs. Bosher was ironing linen at the table in the middle of the room. From time to time the sharp, sensible eyes of the woman rested upon the face of the girl, and at such moments the top of the black bonnet nodded as if it were alive.

When Juliet had finished her task Mrs. Bosher said, "Now, you shall have bread-and-milk for supper, and then go to bed."

"I don't like bread-and-milk," returned Juliet, "and it is too early to go to bed."

"Indeed. What do you like for supper? And at what hour do you prefer to go to bed?"

"I like bread and cheese; and we went to bed at ten o'clock when uncle's work was done."

The bonnet nodded faster than before.

"You will eat bread-and-milk or nothing, and if your aunt let you sit up till ten o'clock I am not so foolish."

A basin of the food which Juliet declined to eat was set before her. She was very hungry, but having refused it already she let it lie untasted. Meanwhile Mrs. Bosher lighted a lamp.

"It is nearly nine o'clock. Now you go to bed. Come along."

There was a door which Mrs. Bosher opened, revealing a flight of stairs. She pushed Juliet up them, and though the girl would have liked to rebel, she did not dare to do so. In fact, she thought the wisest plan would be to go quietly up to the bed-room, and, as soon as Mrs. Bosher herself was in bed, to get out by the window and make her way back to Littlebourne Lock. There was a full moon, and the night was almost as light as the day.

So she let herself be pushed upstairs into an almost empty little room in the roof, and when she heard the door locked upon her she laughed silently, thinking that the cruel woman had done the very thing her prisoner wished her to do. Mrs. Bosher's heavy steps went down the wooden stairs; the door of the house was opened, shut, and locked, and Juliet's spirits rose when she knew that she was alone. She might as well run away at once.

She looked at the window. It was in the roof—a skylight. There was no means of getting up to it, and no means of opening it that Juliet could perceive. Oh, she was caught in a trap! One or two large stars stared down through the small panes, and the diffused light of the moon was enough to show the girl how hopeless was her condition. She was in prison, caught, with no chance of escape. What a terrible position she had brought herself into! If her aunt could see her! If her own dear mother could see her!

Juliet threw herself on the little hard bed and wept bitterly. Not a sound could she hear! Alone, hungry, miserable!

After a while her sobs ceased and she felt sleepy. She pulled up a blanket and quilt which she had been lying on and thought that she might as well sleep a little, and waken with fresh courage and fresh plans. Like many other people Juliet made her most earnest prayers when she was in trouble. She turned and knelt upon the bed, saying all her petitions with earnestness; then she lay down again, and her dreams took her far away from all her many misfortunes.