“For Clary wor always a light sleeper,” she said to herself. She poured a little water with great skill and care into the heavy basin, grumbling at the weight and beauty of the jug as she did so. At each process of her toilet she objected more and more to the comforts which surrounded her. “I ’ates them soft towels,” she muttered to herself, as she dried her face. Having dressed and once more arranged her little black shawl and her neat poke bonnet, the old woman made for the door. She took a long time opening it, but she succeeded at last. Clara, who had been awake until an hour before, was now in heavy slumber. This was her time for repose. Tarbot was not in the house, the servants’ rooms were far away. Mrs. Ives stole like a thief down-stairs. Step by step she went, holding her candle high and looking straight before her. “Dear heart, what a gloomy sort of place! If this is what grandeur and riches mean, give me poverty,” she muttered to herself. “Clary, you don’t get no promise out of me.” By and by she reached the hall, and the next moment found herself standing by the door. It was bolted and chained, but Mrs. Ives saw to her relief that it was not locked. She could manage to remove the bolts and chains. In a few seconds she was out in the open air. She gave a little skip and spring of delight, and running down the steps walked nimbly up the street. “I’ll walk to Paddington,” she said to herself. “I don’t know when the next train goes to Falmouth, but it’s sure to start early. Dear heart! how refreshing the morning air is! Give me poverty and fresh air and a feather bed. None of them springs for me again. My darter will be in a state, but I ain’t agoin’ to promise her, not I. I’ll take little Sir Piers back to Pelham Towers, that I will. I won’t hold that awful secret another day.” Mrs. Ives, busy with her thoughts, stepped cheerfully along. Presently she saw a policeman walking by. She quickened her steps almost to a run and went up to him. “My good sir,” she said, “can you tell me the way to Paddington?” The policeman gave her directions and she walked on again. “I wish I had asked him when the next train started for Falmouth,” she said to herself, “but perhaps he wouldn’t ha’ known. Dear heart! how hunted Clary do look! She ain’t at all a nice sort, not at all. She never wor, and she grows less so as she gets older.” Mrs. Ives continued her walk. From Harley Street to Paddington was scarcely thirty minutes’ walk. She arrived at the great terminus soon after five o’clock, and found to her relief that a train started for Falmouth at 5.30. She took her ticket, and, as soon as ever she could, seated herself in the corner of a third-class compartment. It was cold at this hour, but Mrs. Ives was made of stern metal, and she drank in the keen air with appreciation. “A sight better than Clara’s stifling house,” she thought. A porter was passing and she called out to him. “When does this train arrive at Falmouth, my good man?”