Her advertisement was repeated for three days without result. Upon the fourth day, as she was counting her slender store of money, and wondering what she was to do when that was gone, the postman’s knock was heard on the private door below, and presently the tailor’s little boy came to Lally’s room bringing a letter. She tore it open eagerly. It was dated Sandy Lands, and was written in a painfully minute style of penmanship, with faint and spidery letters. The writer was a lady, signing herself Mrs. Blight. She stated that she had a family of nine children, five of whom were young enough to require the services of a nursery governess. If “L. B.”--the initials Lally had appended to her advertisement--could give satisfactory references, was an accomplished musician, spoke French and German, and was well versed in the English branches, she might call at Sandy Lands upon the following morning at ten o’clock. Accordingly the next morning Lally set out in a cab for Sandy Lands, whose location Mrs. Blight had described with sufficient accuracy. It was situated in one of the fashionable suburbs of the old cathedral town. Lally expected from the grandeur of its name to find a large and handsome estate, but found instead a pert little villa, close to the road, and separated from it by a high brick wall in which was a wooden gate. The domain of Sandy Lands comprised a half-acre of rather sterile soil, in which a few larches struggled for existence, and an acacia and a lime tree led a sickly life. The little villa, with plate-glass windows, green parlor shutters drawn half-way up, a gabled roof, from which three saucy little dormer windows protruded, was unmistakably the house of which Lally was in search, for on one side of the gate, over a slit in the wall required for the use of the proper letter-box, was the legend in bright gilt letters, “Sandy Lands.” The cabman alighted and rang the garden bell. A smart looking housemaid with white cap and white apron answered the call. Lally alighted and asked if Mrs. Blight were at home. The smart housemaid eyed the humbly clad stranger rather contemptuously, and remarked that she could not be sure; Mrs. Blight might be at home, and then again she might not. “I received a letter from her telling me to call at this hour,” said Lally, with what dignity she could summon. “I am seeking a situation as nursery governess.” “Oh, then Missus is at home,” replied the housemaid. “You can come in, Miss.” Bidding the cabman wait, Lally followed the servant across the garden to a rear porch and was ushered into a small over-furnished reception room. “What name shall I say, Miss?” asked the maid, pausing in the act of withdrawal. “Miss Bird,” answered poor Lally, who had relinquished her young husband’s name, believing that she had no longer any right to it.