"There are worse things," Connie said sadly. "It is very terrible--very indeed; but what can poor people do? And yet there are others who waste thousands on their dress and amusement and pleasures, little dreaming of the sort of hell that forms half the life of the poor. Mrs. Speed sees that her household is in danger--her furniture is the one thing that stands between herself and the workhouse. The poor creature is so distressed that she has no thought for anybody else--she forgets our existence. She finds another house to go to, and she hires a man to come late at night and remove the things. I understand that there is a contractor who holds himself ready for this kind of thing. He employs very rapid workmen, and he uses vans with no name on the cover. The thing is easily done in this stony-hearted town, where your next door neighbour is a matter of indifference to you. "Mrs. Speed is in the new house waiting to receive her goods. In the haste and confusion everything is packed, sent away. I have no doubt we shall get our belongings back again." "And meanwhile, we have lost everything," Mary protested. "We have exactly what we stand up in. And every penny of my money, to say nothing of my jewels, has gone. We ought to go straight to the police." "No," Connie said firmly. "A year or two ago I should have done so without hesitation, but not now. Ah, my dear I know how the poor live, how fierce are their temptations. When the great Day of Judgment comes God will be tender to His poor." The fierce flame of Mary's anger died away, and a feeling of shame succeeded it. She was forced to recognise the many ways in which her companion was the superior of herself. Should she ever grow soft and sympathetic like that? Would her misfortunes render her more lenient to the failings of others? And yet Connie had said that she had been at one time the child of hard selfishness. "Perhaps you are right," Mary admitted. "But what are we going to do? Where are we going to sleep tonight? And have you any money?" "Two shillings," Connie replied. "Two shillings in my pocket, more by accident than anything else. My bank has vanished with my tin box. We can't go back to Grace's lodgings at this time of night. But that is not the worst." Mary's heart sank within her. Could there be any worse than this? "It is that very question of lodgings," Connie explained. "Nobody will take us without belongings. They would regard us as a pair of swindlers." "Swindlers!" Mary's face flamed at the new word. The late mistress of Dashwood Hall regarded by a common Cockney landlady as a swindler! "It seems so cold, so hard-hearted," she protested. "And just now you were speaking of the virtues of the poor, their kindness to each other, and----"