One day when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure he laughed, the hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, “Poor little love!” which was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so exceedingly stupid in their conversation! Now and again she herself had something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and pains, the only answer which she received was a soothing “Yes, dear, yes!” “No, dear, no!” or a still more maddening “Yes, darling, I quite understand!”—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not know what she was saying. As a matter of fact it was exactly the other way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a sleep when she neither dreamt, nor slipped, nor fell, but opened her eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs. Asplin sitting by a table drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting slice of cake. “I want some cake!” she said clearly, and Mrs. Asplin jumped as if a cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement— “Wh—wh—wh—what?” “Cake!” repeated Peggy shrilly. “I want some! And tea! I want my tea!” Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes like so many marionettes! Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew tired again, and rolling round into a soft little bundle among the blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers. (_To be continued._) [Illustration] GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS. A SHORT SKETCH OF “KENT HOUSE,” THE Y. W. C. A. HOME FOR STUDENTS AND OTHERS AT 91, GREAT PORTLAND STREET, LONDON. BY THE HON. SUPERINTENDENT. Their number is so great now that the most old-fashioned and conservative of us are bound to recognise women workers as a separate factor in our national life.