"Oh dear, I didn't mean exactly that. Not exactly," said the little Warden. "What I meant was that married women understand give-and-take better than the others who have lived alone. But you mustn't think that all the single ones are cross, or all the widows are always good tempered. It isn't so. This one, for example"--and she knocked at a door--"is the sweetest spinster you could wish to meet. Her name is Selina Still. Isn't that pretty?" Miss Still let us in--a little grey woman. Her room was a marvel of radiant precision. "Mr. Falconer has come from London all the way in a motor-car," said Miss Mitt. "It's very wonderful," said the little grey woman. "But I should be frightened to go in one;" and indeed, how could a Selina Still be in a motor-car? It would be a sin against Nature. The others now joined us, and Farrar laughed at the notion of fear. "What about flying, then?" he asked. "Oh," said Miss Still very solemnly, "I think this flying's dreadful, and I don't believe it's going to last. For I can't help feeling there's One above Who won't much longer brook those things getting so near Him." Miss Still expressed a wish to see London again, but did not expect to. She was last there in 1860, when she was a lady's maid. Her two most prized recollections were the Crystal Palace and Spurgeon's preaching. Next to Selina Still lived Gipsy Woods, who must in her long-ago youth have been a beauty. Her mother had named her Gipsy for her black eyes. She was now nearing eighty, and was very rheumatic. She had married a gentleman--that is to say, one who would walk about as if he had money in his pockets and do no work, while she was toiling day and night bringing up eleven children. For her belief was that so long as you kept a roof over your head nothing else matters, and that is what she always told the children. She had twins when she was fifty-one, and brought them up too! Her husband disappeared, and most of the children dropped away, and a few years ago she had to go into hospital because her legs were so bad; and when she came out the people in the house where she had a room had vanished with all her few things, and had it not been for these almshouses she would be in the union. Quite a typical story, this, not only as illustrating the wife's dogged courage and the husband's unthrift, but also the uselessness of so many children. It would seem indeed to be the exception rather than the rule to find sons and daughters of the poor growing up to help their parents, poverty being so hard put to it to provide any spring-board from which to take off for a better position.