"Yes. We sell lots of flimsy silk lampshades that cost heaps of money. And we’re often asked for something cheaper. Our manager might be inclined to buy some like this." "Would he indeed? Oh, Sandy, Sandy!" In her eagerness the good woman caught hold of his arm. "Poor dear Miss Anderson does not know where to turn for a penny. Could you get her this work to do, for good pay, do you think?" Sandy grinned again. "You said I never have an idea in my head," he began teasingly. "I did. Yes, I did, but I won’t say so again. I won’t if you’ll get my dear young lady some work that will keep the wolf from her door." "The wolf? What wolf?" Sandy looked round with an assumed air of alarm. "The wolf of hunger." "I shouldn’t have thought you would have allowed him to come near a lodger of yours." "Get out with you!" Mrs. Austin pushed him towards the door. "Run and see if there is a chance for Miss Anderson." "A chance? Oh, I see what you mean. Just ask her first if she would be willing to do the work at a fair price." "Willing? She’d jump at it. But I tell you what, Sandy, we must not have her disappointed again. I won’t say anything to her about it until we know whether she can have the work and on what terms." "But the manager will want to see a specimen," protested Sandy. "He’s a big man. You can’t rush before him with nothing. He’d order me off at once for fooling round in that way." "Specimen? Oh, well, if you want one, take this," said Mrs. Austin, carefully taking down the pretty shade Doris had made, blowing the dust from it, and wrapping it lightly up in a huge newspaper. "Now you must hold it in this way not to crush it," she said, "and make as good terms as you can for my young lady; tell your manager she is a real lady, who won’t do things for nothing." "All right!" Sandy darted off with the shade, and Mrs. Austin went upstairs with her tea-tray. Doris opened the door slowly. Her eyes were red with weeping, and her hair was dishevelled and dress untidy. "Oh, Mrs. Austin," she said, "I’ve been so unfortunate! No one will have my pictures. They are not good enough to sell----" "Nay, nay. That’s not it. But there’s no market for such pretty things. I know all about it, my dear young lady. I met Sam and he told me. He is so sorry, he has a feeling heart, has Sam. But there, there, don’t you take on so! Don’t cry, dearie!" She was crying herself, with sympathy. Doris had burst into tears, and sat down weeping as if her heart would break. "Come! come! we mustn’t give way. It’s always the darkest hour before the dawn," said the good woman soothingly. "If only I hadn’t wasted all this time, and used your painting materials! And now what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried Doris.