Yes. The business had gone to pieces. Fashions change so, and the widow had not known how to follow the fashions in needlework. There was only enough left to pay the creditors, but every one _had_ been paid, and with the pound or two left over she had lived, trying to get needle work, or even, at last, charring or washing. But it had all been no good; nothing had been any good. "And now," said Katherine, "everything's going to be good. You'll see. Edward will think of something. Don't cry any more. You must not cry. I can't bear it, dear. Don't." "I'm only crying for joy," said the woman whose life was over. "Even if he doesn't think of anything, I can't ever despair again, and you being like you have to me." But when Edward came back he had thought of something. His old nurse, it seemed, was in temporary charge of a house that wanted a housekeeper, and he was sure Mrs. Burbidge understood housekeeping. Mrs. Burbidge owned to an understanding of plain cooking and plain housekeeping. Also needlework, both the plain and the fine. "But not where butlers are kept," she said, apprehensively. "This is a farm-house," said Edward. "Not a butler within miles." "My father was a farmer, in Somerset," said Mrs. Burbidge, "but, oh, sir, you don't know anything about me. Suppose I was a fraud like you read of in the newspapers. But the vicar at home would speak for me." "Your face speaks for you," said Katherine, and within half an hour all was settled--the old nurse telegraphed to, money found for such modest outfit as even a farmer's housekeeper must have, the train fixed that should take the widow to London, the little hotel named where she should spend a night, and the train decided on that should take her in the morning to the farm-house that needed a housekeeper. "It's no use me saying anything," said Mrs. Burbidge, at parting, "but--" "There's nothing to say," said Katherine, and kissed her, "only you will write to the Reverend Smilie at Eccles vicarage. I can't be easy unless you do," were her last words. When she was gone they stood a moment looking at each other, and each would have liked to hold out hands to the other, to come quite close in the ecstasy of a kind deed jointly done. Instead of which he said, awkwardly: "I suppose that was a thoroughly silly thing to do." And she answered, "Oh, well, let's hope it will turn out all right." An interchange which left both of them chilled and a little disenchanted. It was Edward who had the sense to say, as the motor whirled them toward Stratford, "That was all nonsense, you know, that we said just now." She was disingenuous enough to say, "What--" "About Mrs. Burbidge perhaps not being all right. She's as right as rain. I don't know what made me say it." "A sort of 'do-good-by-stealth-and-blush-to-find-it-fame' feeling, I expect, wasn't it? Of course she's all right. You know I knew you knew she was, don't you?"