"She told me that she sold what she had left of the pictures she had finished, and all the materials she had bought in for others; and then, having given up the business, she began seeking employment again, answering advertisements, applying at shops, and all that sort of weary work. It made my heart ache to see her come in at nights tired out, pale, and worn--a lady like that, who ought only to have been fatigued with cycling, or tennis, or amusing herself as other young ladies do! ’Perhaps I shall have more success to-morrow,’ she would say to me, with her patient smile. But months went by, and it was always the same, until, at length, she came towards the end of her savings, and then she began to economise and pinch herself of comforts, and--necessaries." "You don’t say so!" cried Bernard in consternation. "I’m afraid you are ill, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Austin, seeing him turn very pale. "No, I’m all right. Go on," he said though his old faintness was troubling him. "Well, sir, the day came when Miss Anderson said to me very plainly that she had no money left, or next to none, so she begged me to allow her to give up her rooms and just have the garret to sleep in until she found work that she could do." "Why didn’t she write to me?" cried Bernard. "She hadn’t much time for writing, sir, when she was all day seeking work; and at nights she was too tired, too down-hearted. And I think, sir, she kept looking for a letter, which didn’t come, from you." "From me? Why, I wrote to her almost every week when I was well enough, until, latterly, having no answer, I became discouraged. But hurry on with your story. Where is she now?" "She had a letter from Miss Sinclair which made her very glad; and then Miss Sinclair found her some work, about which she was very hopeful at first; but it was difficult to do, I am sure, for she used to come home quite fagged out, and it must have paid badly, for she had very little money. ’I’m such a poor hand at it, Mrs. Austin!’ she used to say. And sometimes she used to add, ’My heart isn’t hard enough for it.’ Poor dear! If it was a hard heart the work wanted, Miss Anderson was quite the wrong lady for it. I’ve seen ladies who would ’skin a flint,’ as the saying is, but----" "Never mind that!" interrupted Bernard with more impatience than courtesy. "Tell me where Miss Anderson is?" Mrs. Austin began again, for she would tell things in her own way. "She fell into a poor state of health, and got a hacking cough, which wouldn’t be cured, though I made her linseed tea, and honey and lemon, and----" "Where is she? Speak! Tell me, is she alive?" For now Bernard’s fear caused him to leap to the conclusion that Doris must have died. "Oh, dear, sir, she’s alive, of course! Though she was in a bad state at that time, and had a regular churchyard cough." "Go on. You frighten me."