Upon the death of her mother the orphan went to live with her married sister, whose large family was always reducing itself by the most surprising feats in infant mortality. She helped in the house. She earned her keep by doing little things for the dying babies, and interviewing the undertaker and bargaining for special terms, seeing what a good customer her sister was, when those poor babies were dead. But that great source of crisis in the households of the poor--the mother-in-law--came to live in the Herodian household, and Emma Jane had such a warm time of it with this old Tartar of a woman that she determined to "get out of it" as soon as possible. "So I had a letter wrote," she says, getting up to scrub the hearthstone, a feat she performs without kneeling, for the merest forward tilt of her body brings her hands upon the floor. "Yuss, I had a letter wrote, for I'm not much of a writer myself, I ain't--a letter wrote to my other sister what was out in service in the country, down Brockley way, and then I went to live with her." "In the house where she was a servant?" I inquire. "Yuss. That was it. I went to live with her. I was like a little servant. Blacked the boots, peeled the pertaters, washed the dishes, cleaned the grates, scrubbed the door-step, polished here, polished there, helped to dish up, and they give me two shillin's a week. I was like a little servant." I remind her of her promise to forgo work and to be a little social, and, after another rub or two, she wrings out the sopping cloth, lets it drop on the hearthstone, and then, backing once more to the stool, leans back and smiles at me, with her wet hands folded in her lap. * * * * *