“He ought to be given an order, if ever man ought.”

“An order?  For you regular, Miss Neumann-Schultz?”

“No, no,—­the sort you pin on your breast,” said Priscilla.

“Ho,” smiled Mrs. Vickerton vaguely, who did not follow; she was so genteel that she could never have enough of aspirates.  And Priscilla, giving the parcel to her breathless new help, hurried back to Creeper Cottage.

Now this help, or char-girl—­you could not call her a charwoman she was manifestly still so very young—­was that Emma who had been obliged to tell the vicar’s wife about Priscilla’s children’s treat and who did not punctually return books.  I will not go so far as to say that not to return books punctually is sinful, though deep down in my soul I think it is, but anyhow it is a symptom of moral slackness.  Emma was quite good so long as she was left alone.  She could walk quite straight so long as there were no stones in the way and nobody to pull her aside.  If there were stones, she instantly stumbled; if somebody pulled, she instantly went.  She was weak, amiable, well-intentioned.  She had a widowed father who was unpleasant and who sometimes beat her on Saturday nights, and on Sunday mornings sometimes, if the fumes of the Cock and Hens still hung about him, threw things at her before she went to church.  A widowed father in Emma’s class is an ill being to live with.  The vicar did his best to comfort her.  Mrs. Morrison talked of the commandments and of honouring one’s father and mother and of how the less there was to honour the greater the glory of doing it; and Emma was so amiable that she actually did manage to honour him six days out of the seven.  At the same time she could not help thinking it would be nice to go away to a place where he wasn’t.  They were extremely poor; almost the poorest family in the village, and the vision of possessing ten shillings of her very own was a dizzy one.  She had a sweetheart, and she had sent him word by a younger sister of the good fortune that had befallen her and begged him to come up to Creeper Cottage that evening and help her carry the precious wages safely home; and at nine o’clock when her work was done she presented herself all blushes and smiles before Priscilla and shyly asked her for them.

Priscilla was alone in her parlour reading.  She referred her, as her habit was, to Fritzing; but Fritzing had gone out for a little air, the rain having cleared off, and when the girl told her so Priscilla bade her come round in the morning and fetch the money.

Emma’s face fell so woefully at this—­was not her John at that moment all expectant round the corner?—­that Priscilla smiled and got up to see if she could find some money herself.  In the first drawer she opened in Fritzing’s sitting-room was a pocket-book, and in this pocket-book Fritzing’s last five-pound note.  There was nothing else except the furnisher’s bill.  She pushed that on one side without looking at it; what did bills matter?  Bills never yet had mattered to Priscilla.  She pushed it on one side and searched for silver, but found none.  “Perhaps you can change this?” she said, holding out the note.