A week later Mrs. Rymer was in the way of recovery, and her husband went to the City as usual.  A servant had been engaged—­a girl of sixteen, who knew as much of housework as London girls of sixteen generally do; at all events, she could carry coals and wash steps.  But the mistress of the house, it was evident, would for a long time be unable to do anything whatever; the real maid-of-all-work was Miss Shepperson, who rose every morning at six o’clock, and toiled in one way or another till weary bedtime.  If she left the house, it was to do needful shopping or to take the children for a walk.  Her reward was the admiration and gratitude of the family; even little Minnie had been taught to say, at frequent intervals:  ‘I love Miss Shepperson because she is good!’ The invalid behaved to her as to a sister, and kissed her cheek morning and evening.  Miss Shepperson’s name being Dora, the baby was to be so called, and, as a matter of course, the godmother drew a sovereign from her small savings to buy little Miss Dora a christening present.  It would not have been easy to find a house in London in which there reigned so delightful a spirit of harmony and kindliness.

‘I was so glad,’ said Mrs. Rymer one day to her friend, the day on which she first rose from bed, ’that my husband took you into his confidence about our affairs.  Now you know everything, and it is much better.  You know that we are very unlucky, but that no one can breathe a word against our honour.  This was the thought that held me up through my illness.  In a very short time all our debts will be paid—­every farthing, and it will be delightful to remember how we struggled, and what we endured, to keep an honest name.  Though,’ she added tenderly, ’how we should have done without you, I really cannot imagine.  We might have sunk—­gone down!’

For months Mrs. Rymer led the life of a feeble convalescent.  She ought to have had change of air, but that was out of the question, for Mr. Rymer’s business was as unremunerative as ever, and with difficulty he provided the household with food.  One gleam of light kept up the courage of the family:  the aged relative was known to be so infirm that he could only leave the house in a bath-chair; every day there might be news even yet more promising.  Meanwhile, the girl of sixteen exercised her incompetence in the meaner departments of domestic life, and Miss Shepperson did all the work that required care or common-sense, the duties of nursemaid alone taking a great deal of her time.  On the whole, this employment seemed to suit her; she had a look of improved health, enjoyed more equable spirits, and in her manner showed more self-confidence.  Once a month she succeeded in getting a few hours’ holiday, and paid a visit to one or the other of her sisters; but to neither of them did she tell the truth regarding her position in the house at Hammersmith.  Now and then, when every one else under the roof was asleep, she took