She alone stood firm as the group broke to receive the child, so that, carried along by her rush, the latter ran almost into her arms. Emma laid a hand on her shoulder and bent to look at the note, but the child backed away so sharply that the hand tore the frill at her neck. “Not you!” she exclaimed, frowning and clutching the letter, and actually looking at Emma as if she hated her. Nevertheless, Mrs. Catterall did not seem disturbed. The smile on her lips seemed suddenly to hold some added element of satisfaction, and slowly her hands came up from her sides and fell placidly into place.... The contact, however, seemed to have upset the little girl, for she stood looking around the group with dubious eyes. The women waited patiently, smiling kindly at her confusion. Once, indeed, Mrs. Dunn began “Now then, dearie”—in her colourless tone, but was instantly elbowed into silence by her sister. Again the child looked round, caught Martha Jane’s appealing glance, and broke into a brilliant smile. Darting forward with the same butterfly lightness, she thrust the note into her uncertain hand. The world swung round Mrs. Clapham; the ground tilted under her feet. As for the Chorus, its feelings had vent in an actual scream, which was followed at once by a paralysed silence. Only Emma retained her satisfied air, and her hands stayed quiet at her waist.... And then, out of the mists surrounding and overwhelming her, Mrs. Clapham heard Martha Jane’s laugh.... “’Tain’t for me, dearie ... you’ve made a mistake; thanking you kindly, all the same!...” The laugh was nearer this time, and a thin, long-fingered hand came under the charwoman’s nose. “No use being dishonest under the circs!” said Martha Jane. “Here, Ann Clapham! You may as well have what’s your own.” The thin hand thrust the letter into the groping plump one, and then Martha’s face backed away with a twisted smile. “Sorry I can’t come scrubbing your floors,” she finished, discordantly cheerful, “but I don’t mind going so far as to wish you luck!” Her voice broke on a note like that of a cracked dish, and she edged quickly away with trembling lips. The child ran after her, however, saying “She tore my frill! Look, my frill’s all torn!” and casting angry glances at the imperturbable Emma; and Martha Jane, stopped by the clutching hands, made a valiant effort to struggle with her tears, and bent herself to the woes of little Miss Baines.