“So do I,” answered Miss Newton, “but I know very little more about her than you do, except that she is a most exquisite worker with those taper fingers of hers, and that she has worked for the same baby-linen house for the last three years, and has lived in the same second-floor back in Hercules’ Buildings. I think she is as fond of me as she can be, yet she has never told me where she was born, or who her people were, or what her life has been like. Once she went so far as to tell me that it had been a very commonplace life, and that her troubles had been in nowise extraordinary—except the fact of her having had a very severe attack of typhus fever, which left her a wreck. Once, from some chance allusion, I learnt that it was in Italy she caught the fever, and that it was badly treated by a foreign doctor; but that one fact is all she ever let slip in her talk, so carefully does she avoid every mention of the past. I need hardly tell you that I have never questioned her. I have reason to know that her life for the last three years has been spotless—an industrious, temperate, Christian life—and that she is charitable and kind to those who are poorer than herself. That is quite enough for me, and I have encouraged her to make a friend of me in every way in my power.” “She is happy in having found such a friend, an invaluable friend to a woman who has sunk from happier surroundings.” “Yes, I think I have been a comfort to her. She comes to me for books, and we meet nearly every day at the Free Library, and compare notes about our reading. My only regret is that I cannot induce her to take enough air and exercise. She spends all the time that she can spare from her needlework in reading. But I take her for a walk now and then, and I think she enjoys that. A penn’orth of the tramcar carries us to Battersea Park, and we can stroll about amongst grass and trees, and in sight of the river. She is better off than most of the girls in the way of getting a little rest after toil, for that fine, delicate needlework of hers pays better than the common run of work, and she is the quickest worker I know.” The tables were cleared by this time, and space had been made for that half-circle round the fire of which Miss Newton had spoken on the previous night. The younger girls brought hassocks and cushions, and seated themselves in the front rank, while their elders sat in the outer row of chairs. Theodore was now called upon to contribute his share to the entertainment, and thereupon took a book from his pocket. “You told me you and your friends were fond of creepy stories, Miss Newton,” he said. “Is that really so?” “Really and truly.” “And you are none of you afflicted with weak nerves—you are not afraid of being made uncomfortable by the memory of a ghastly story?” “No. I think that with most of us the cares of life are too real and too absorbing to leave any room in our minds for imaginary horrors. Isn’t it so, now, friends?”