“Eh, dear!” she exclaimed dismally. “I’m right sorry she took it like that!” She stepped back into the road, an expression of real trouble on her honest face. “It’s a real pity, that is; ay, it’s a sad pity! She must have been a deal keener on yon house than ever I thought.” “She wasn’t never the sort for almshouses,” Emma repeated stolidly, unperturbed. “One o’ them Homes or suchlike is the right spot for Martha Jane; not to speak of yon Home in partic’lar as is under lock and key.” Mrs. Clapham gave an involuntary but unhappy giggle. “Nay, now, Emma Catterall,” she protested, “it’s not kind to speak like that!” For the time being the ecstatic joy had gone out of her face, leaving it looking worried and almost guilty. It was true that she was spared the shadow of a dangling Martha Jane, but even Martha Jane drunk was enough of a blot on her beautiful day. “The poor thing’s done nowt to deserve being shoved into prison,” she went on lamely. “I doubt we all on us make out she done a deal more than she ever did in the flesh.” She saw Emma’s smile beginning to broaden pleasantly, and pushed on again hurriedly. “She keeps her cottage a fair sight, I’ll give you that, but then it was nobbut a poor sort o’ spot when she first come. Once up at t’ almshouse she’d likely have shaped a good deal better. I’ve often noticed how folks perk up when they get a good spot, and a few nice sticks as they think is worth their while. And I don’t know as I ever see her drunk in my life, though they _do_ say as she likes a drop with her tea.... Nay, I doubt it’s just disappointment and nowt else. It’s driven her to it, that’s what it’s done—me beating her over yon house!” “She wasn’t suited nohow,” Emma repeated firmly and almost mechanically, her eyes still running over the other’s bonnet and gown. They were calm enough now, however, as was also her voice. Whatever had been the cause of that strange upheaval, it had passed and left no trace, yet the charwoman still moved uneasily under her gaze, feeling as if the beady black eyes were pricing her toilet from head to foot. She was thankful at least that there could be no question about the soberness of her gown, and more than thankful that under no circumstances whatever could there have been any question of a pale blue _crêpe de Chine_. Emma’s eyes completed their tour by coming to rest on the currant loaf, which was hastily produced by its owner from its snowy cloth. “I brought her a bit o’ my currant cake,” she explained awkwardly, and with a somewhat embarrassed laugh. “I thought it’d show there was no ill-feeling!... Door’ll be locked, though, likely,” she added, with her hand on the latch. “I doubt I might just as well take it back.”