"I am," answered Mrs. Seymour, sinking into the seat with a weary sigh. "I was going to set out to call on you this morning, but, stupid-like, I never asked Jem where you lived before he went to his work. So I couldn't come." "And Jem never told you where I lived?" asked Mrs. Seymour, astonished. "I asked him," answered Meg, "and he smiled at me, and said he should tell me nothing about it, but take me to see." "Why, I live in the very same house, my dear." Meg looked too surprised to speak. When at last she could find any words, she said anxiously-- "How very unkind you must have thought me, mother, in not coming to see after you. Times I have meant to ask Jem, but then he was out; and these few days have passed so quickly, I have been so busy getting out all my little treasures." Mrs. Seymour looked round. "Your things have made a lot o' difference, my dear. You have smartened it up a deal." "Oh, it did not want smartening up," said Meg; "but the young ladies at the Hall did give me such pretty things. Look at this workbox, and this tea-caddy, and that pretty vase. Those were the young ladies' gifts, and those glass dishes from the other servants." Mrs. Seymour said they were very kind, and then sat looking somewhat abstractedly into the little fire. "And he never told you what a job he had to get these rooms for you?" she asked at last. "No," said Meg; "did he have a job?" "Oh, that he had. For the party that was in them didn't want to move out. You must know, Meg, that I and Jem lived in two rooms in this house ever since I buried his poor father. But when he got to earn enough, he took the front room on this floor for himself, and used to come and have his meals with me. I've lived in this house twenty years come Michaelmas. I'm a laundress, you know, and wash for poor folks." "A laundress!" exclaimed Meg, looking at her pale, thin face; "then that's what makes you so tired?" "No, my dear," briefly answered her mother, "not if I had got my usual help. But she's took a day's holiday, as she does whenever it suits her, and I and my work may go then, for aught she cares." The old woman's face had begun to assume a hard look, but it was only for a moment. "Well, well," she said hastily, "it's not for me to be coming down hard on others; I'm not so good myself to my Master. But there was a day, Meg, when I couldn't have felt like that; and it ain't so long ago, neither. It was my Jem as brought me the good news, and since I've been forgiven myself, I'm learnin' to forgive. It makes all the difference." "It does indeed," answered Meg gently, seating herself in a low chair close to the old woman, and putting her hand in hers. The caress was unexpected, and her mother looked down upon her with quick watering eyes. "I might help you to-day," said Meg, hesitating a little.