They were not engaged--she would not allow that for a moment. Why, what would father and Molly say if she were to promise herself to a young fellow who only earned enough for his own keep? for Miller Armstrong was that close that he only allowed his youngest son enough to buy his clothes, and took all his hard work in exchange for food and shelter; while Martin could help himself to as much money as he chose, only he was pretty nearly as miserly as his father. Molly was always going on at Luke to leave Scroggins' Mill and better himself among strangers, and there was some talk of his coming nearer London, only he was so loath to leave the place where he was born. Well, if she must own it, Luke and she had broken a sixpence between them, and she had promised Luke that she would not listen to any other young man; and she had kept her word, and she was saving her money, because, if Luke ever made a little home for her, she would not like to go to it empty-handed. All the girls were saving money. Lydia had quite a tidy little sum in the savings bank, and that is what made Martin want her for a wife; for though Lydia had saving qualities, she was even plainer than Molly, and no one expected her to have a sweetheart. I am not ashamed to confess that Hannah's artless talk interested me greatly. True, she was only a servant, but the simplicity and reality of her narrative appealed to my sympathy; the very homeliness of her speech seemed to stamp it more forcibly on my mind. I seemed to picture it all; the low-ceiled attic crowded with girls; the honest farmer and his strapping sons; hard-featured Molly milking her cows and feeding her poultry; young Luke Armstrong and his dog Rover, strolling down to Wheeler's Farm for a peep at his rosy-faced sweetheart. Many an evening I banished the insidious advances of homesickness by talking to Hannah of her home, and there were times when I almost envied the girl her wealth of home affection. It seems to me that we lose a great deal in life by closing our ears and hearts to other people's interests; the more we widen our sympathies, and live in folk's lives, the deeper will be our own growth. Some girls simply exist: they never appear to be otherwise than poor, sickly plants, and fail to thrust out new feelers in the sunshine. In those quiet evening hours when I had work to do for my children, and dare not indulge myself in writing to Aunt Agatha, or reading some deeply interesting book that Travers had procured for me that morning, Hannah's innocent rustic talk seemed to open a new door to my inner consciousness, to admit me into a fresh phase of existence. A sentence I had read to Aunt Agatha that Sunday afternoon often haunted me as I listened. "Behold, how green this valley is, also how beautiful with lilies. I have known many labouring men that have got good estates in this Valley of Humiliation," and I almost held my breath as I remembered that our Lord had been a labouring man.