This poem seemed to me so simple, so sweet, that I recited it while I did the washing or cleaned the floor. It is a habit of mine to recite a poem whenever my occupation permits it; the even movement of a verse produces a most soothing effect on me, and I know of no other thing in existence holding so much grace and sweetness as the symmetrical flow of poetry. In this quiet manner, time slipped away. During the first month of my stay in England my friend had written to me often, but little by little his letters became rare; sometimes he kept me waiting for months, and then I thought that he had forgotten me. At such hours my longing for him was beyond all telling; how I watched for him and waited, expecting vaguely that something unaccountable, something wonderful would happen to bring him to me; and so firmly did I believe this, that I began to tremble each time the bell was rung, thinking that he had come. But he never came. One day my mistress told me that she had received an invitation to go to Scotland, but could not take me with her. "I think," she said, "as you have not seen much of London yet, you might like to become better acquainted with the town. So the best thing for you would be to stay at the home for a few weeks." "I don't think I should like to stay at the home," I replied. "Why not? That home is a very worthy home indeed, and I feel sure that you will be well cared for." After that I did not dare to say more. Chapter XVI The preparation for the departure began at once. The next day my mistress took me to the home herself, commended me to the special care of the directress, and I lived once more in the room containing the eight beds. I knew none of the girls and was not at all eager to know them. However, when I entered the dining-room in the evening I had a surprise. Somebody called my name. I was much astonished, and asked myself which of the girls could know me. The one who had called my name was sitting at the table beckoning to me with both of her hands. "Do come," she said vivaciously. I did not remember that I had ever seen her, and believed already that she was mistaking me for somebody else, when suddenly it came into my mind who she was. She was the girl who had slept next to me during my first stay at the home--the girl with the large, bright eyes and the auburn hair. I was now glad after all that somebody knew and greeted me. "Are you looking out for a situation?" I asked her during supper. "No," she replied, "I am living here"; and then she told me that she was a correspondent for German. I listened and shook my head. "I cannot understand how you can put up with it--to stay here for good." "Why?" she asked. "Well, on account of the sleeping." "I am used to it." "I could never get used to that."