Mrs Manners has another malady besides her cough. It's an obscure disease, but I have diagnosed it as "chronic inflammation of the conscience". For four long years she has been kept incessantly at work, looking after house and children, and has been unable to have one undisturbed hour, either by day or by night. Now, when she gets the chance, her conscience is horrified at the prospect. The first time I took the children for their afternoon walk I found, on my return, that she had used the time to turn out a cupboard, and looked more tired than ever. The next day I sent the maid downstairs to settle the children in the perambulator, when I produced a hot-water bottle from under my coat, and had a heart to heart talk with her there and then. "Mrs Manners, I am going to take you into your bedroom, tuck you up under the quilt, give you this hot-water bottle to cuddle, pull down the blinds, and leave you to rest there till we come in." She positively shook with horror. "Oh, Miss Harding, I _can't_. It is quite impossible! All that time? If you knew all I have to do. There is another cupboard--" "Mrs Manners, if you think I am taking charge of the children out of consideration for your cupboards, you are mistaken. I am doing it so that you may rest. A bargain is a bargain, and you are not playing fair. Now, are you coming, or are you not?" She came, not daring to refuse, but protesting all the way. "Well, if I must--For a little time. For half an hour. I couldn't _possibly_ rest more than half an hour." "You've got to try. If I'm on duty for two hours, so are you. Don't dare to move from this bed till I give you leave." It was pathetic to see her thin little face peering at me over the edge of the eider-down, quite dazed, if you please, at the idea of a two hours' rest! I felt as happy as a grig as I ran downstairs; happier still when we re-entered the flat two hours later, and not a sound came from behind that closed door. I undressed the children, and the maid tiptoed in with their tea with the air of a conspirator in a dark and stealthy plot. "Not a sound out of her since you left! Poor thing! First chance of a bit of peace and quietness she's had for many a long day." "Well, Mary, you and I are going to give her plenty more!" I said graciously, and Mary made me a slice of buttered toast on the spot to seal the partnership. Tea was over when the door opened, and a sleepy, flushed face peeped round the door to look at the clock. When she saw the hands pointing to five, she looked as guilty as if she had robbed the bank. Oh, it's a glorious thing to be able to help other people! It gives one a warm, glowey feeling about the heart which comes in no other way. These last days I have just lived for the moment when I could tuck that poor little woman in her cosy bed, and the other moment when I saw her rested, freshened face on rising. Even at the end of one week she looked a different creature, and felt it too.