"I always admire the flowers in your window," said Jean. "How do you manage to keep them so fresh looking? Ours get so mangy. May I come in for a second and look at them?" Miss Abbot stood aside and said coldly that Jean might come in if she liked, but her flowers were nothing extra. It was the tidiest of kitchens she entered. Everything shone that could be made to shine. A hearthrug made by Miss Abbot's mother lay before the fireplace, in which a mere handful of fire was burning. An arm-chair with cheerful red cushions stood beside the fire. It was quite comfortable, but Jean felt a bareness. There were no pots on the fire--nothing seemed to be cooking for dinner. She admired the flowers and got instructions from their owner when to water and when to refrain from watering, and then, seating herself in a chair with an assurance she was far from feeling, she proceeded to try to make Miss Abbot talk. That lady stood bolt upright waiting for her visitor to go, but Jean, having got a footing, was determined to remain. "Are you very busy just now?" she asked. "I was wondering if you could do some sewing for me? I don't know whether you ever go out by the day?" "No," said Miss Abbot. "We could bring it you here if you would do it at your leisure." "I can't take in any more work just now. I'm sorry." "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Perhaps later on.... I'm keeping you. It's Saturday morning, and you'll want to get on with your work." "Yes." There was a silence, and Jean reluctantly rose to go. Miss Abbot had turned her back and was looking into the fire. "Good morning, Miss Abbot. Thank you so much for letting me know about the flowers." Then she saw that Miss Abbot was crying--crying in a hopeless, helpless way that made Jean's heart ache. She went to her and put her hand on her arm. "Won't you tell me what's wrong? Do sit down here in the arm-chair. I'm sure you're not well." Miss Abbot allowed herself to be led to the arm-chair Having once given way she was finding it no easy matter to regain control of herself. "Is it that you aren't well?" Jean asked. "I know it's a wretched business trying to go on working when one is seedy." Miss Abbot shook her head. "It's far worse than that. I have to refuse work for I can't see to do it. I'm losing my sight and ...and there is nothing before me but the workhouse." Over and over again in the silence of the night she had said those words to herself: she had seen them written in letters of fire on the walls of her little room: they had seemed seared into her brain, but she had never meant to tell a soul, not even the minister, and here she was telling this slip of a girl. Jean gave a cry and caught her hands. "Oh no, no! Never that!" "I've no relations," said Miss Abbot. She was quiet now and calm, and hopeless. "And if I had I couldn't be a burden on them. Nobody wants a penniless, half-blind woman. I've had to use up all my savings this winter ...it will just have to be the workhouse."