Mrs. Dove had a great many lodgers—she let rooms on each of her floors, and she called her lodgers by the name of the floor they occupied—first floor, second floor, third floor came and went to 10, Eden Street. The girls were known as "the attics," and Jasmine felt very indignant at the name.

"It's almost as bad as being a tare," she said to Primrose. "Dear, dear! I never thought I should turn into an attic! What an unpleasant place London is! I begin to think Poppy is quite right in what she says of it."

"I begin to suspect," said Primrose, "that London, like all places, has its shady side and its bright side. We are in the shady side at present, dear Jasmine—that is all."

Mrs. Dove had not only lodgers who seemed to worry her from morning to night—for, unlike her name, she was always fretting or scolding somebody—but she also had a husband, and this husband made his presence felt by every lodger in the house. He was often away for a whole week at a time, and then comparative peace reigned in No. 10; but he would come back at unexpected moments—he would enter the house, singing out, in a loud rasping voice—

"Mrs. Dove,
My only love!"

And then poor Mrs. Dove would get flushed and uncomfortable and lose what little self-possession she ever had, and would own in confidence to the first floor, or the second floor, or the attics, just as they happened to be present, that Mr. Dove's honeyed phrases were only words after all, and meant quite the contrary.

The girls were not a week at No. 10, Eden Street, before it became very apparent to them that there was little of the real Eden to be found in the place. They kept themselves, however, quite apart from the other lodgers; they began to get out their books and their employments, and what with housekeeping, and what with cleaning their rooms, and going out for long rambling walks in all directions, they were busy from morning to night. Primrose said they would spend a fortnight in the attics, and then the education which was by-and-by to lead to bread-winning must commence. Never did three more ignorant girls gird themselves for the fray. Primrose had a natural love for painting. She had none of the knowledge, none of the grounding, which is essential for real success in all departments of art in the present day; but she had a quick and correct eye for color, and all that Miss Martineau knew she had imparted to her. Primrose looked in at the shop windows, and saw the lovely painted china, and resolved to take lessons in this art. After some little difficulty, and after questioning first Mrs. Dove, and finally the much-dreaded Mr. Dove, she was directed to a teacher, who promised to instruct her at the rate of three pounds three shillings for twelve lessons. Primrose did not know whether her teacher was good or bad, or whether she was paying too much or too little—she resolved to take the lessons and to spend some of her little capital in buying the necessary materials.

"After I've had my twelve lessons Mr. Jones thinks I may begin to offer some of my plates and things for sale; he says he will be very glad to put them up in his own shop window. He thinks," continued Primrose with her sweet, grave smile, "that I may be able to recoup myself for the expense of learning at the end of a few months."

"And now," said Jasmine, "what am I to do? It's all settled for you, Primrose—you will be an artist—and you shall paint a breakfast set for our nest in your odd moments, and I'll buy it from you when my ship comes home. Oh! and we are both going to be very successful, are we not, darling? and we won't have any trouble at all in supporting our pet Daisy and her kitty-cat. You know, Primrose, my gifts lie in the poetic and novelistic line. I have really thought of a glowing plot for a story since I came to London, and Mr. Dove is to be the ruffian of the piece. I'll introduce Mrs. Dredge and poor Miss Slowcum too, and, of course, you'll be the heroine, my beautiful sister. I mean to buy some paper, and work away at my novel in the evenings next week; but as we have come up to London expressly to have our education perfected, and our gifts developed, don't you think I ought to be having some lessons in English style? After all, Primrose, I do not think Mrs. Flint's way of speaking was correct. Arthur Noel did not talk in the least like her, nor did dear Mrs. Ellsworthy; and after all, they are a real lady and gentleman. I wonder, Primrose, who would teach me proper style. I wish I could meet Arthur Noel again, that he might tell me!"

"Oh, Jasmine, it is dreadful of you to speak of a perfect stranger by his Christian name! Don't do it, dear—I know it is not right."

"He did not seem the least like a stranger," said Jasmine, pushing back her curling locks. "Well, Rose, who is to teach me style?—you see, if I am to earn money by my pen I must be polished up. I have got a poem now in the back of my head which would exactly suit the —— Review. It's almost exactly on the lines of one they published not long ago by Tennyson; but I'd rather not send it until I've had a lesson or two from some gifted person here—who shall I go to, Primrose?"

"You must go to a school, of course," answered Primrose. "There is a seminary for young ladies just round the corner—we will call th............