“Well now, dear, I’m glad to hear it; that pretty child amused me when she spoke of cheapness and cleanliness going hand in hand.  Bless her little heart! little she knew.

“We have learned a great many things we knew nothing about six months ago Mrs. Dredge,” answered Primrose, a tinge of sadness in her voice.  “Yes, I am very glad to see you again—­please, remember me to all the ladies at Penelope Mansion.”

“Oh, my dear, they’ll be glad to hear I met you—­even Miss Slowcum will, though she’s a little bitter on the subject of age; and as to that poor Sarah Maria, or Sarah Martha—­I forget which she is, only I know she’s Sarah, with something tacked to the end of it—­why, she’ll be fairly skipping with delight.  That poor girl, she just worships the ground you three young ladies walk on.”

“Oh, do give our dear love to Poppy,” said Primrose tears springing to her eyes.

Those sudden tears did not escape the notice of fat, good-humored Mrs. Dredge.

“I hope you’re getting on comfortably in every way, dear,” she said, “money matters and all.  I had sore worries myself in the money line until poor Dredge made his fortune in the chandlery business.  My dear, I was almost forgetting to tell you that we’ve had an affliction at the Mansion.”

“I’m very sorry,” began Primrose.

“Yes, dear, and it’s an affliction which is likely to continue, and to grow heavier.  It’s poor Mrs. Mortlock, dear—­I’m afraid she’s losing her sight, and very troublesome she’ll be, and a worry to us all when it’s gone, for poor woman, she has a passion for politics that’s almost past bearing.  Miss Slowcum and me, we take turns to read her the papers now, but though our throats ache, and we’re as hoarse as ravens, we don’t content her.  Mrs. Mortlock is looking out for what she is pleased to call a ‘continual reader,’ dear, and what I’m thinking is that perhaps you or your sister would like to try for the post—­I believe you’d suit her fine, and she can pay well, for she’s fairly made of money.”

Primrose colored.  To read to Mrs. Mortlock was about the last occupation she would have chosen, but the thought of the purse at home which was getting so sadly light, and the feeling that after all her efforts she might never do much in the china-painting line, caused her to reflect anxiously.

“May I think about it and let you know, Mrs. Dredge?”

“No, no, my dear, not by any means, for she has advertised, and they are pouring in.  Poor Sarah Susan is almost off her head answering the door to them.  Stout readers and thin readers, old readers and young readers, they’re all flying to the post, as if there were nothing in life so delightful as being ‘continual reader’ of politics to poor Mrs. Mortlock.  She ought to have been suited long ago, but I’ve a strong hope that she isn’t, for she’s as fidgety and particular as if she were a countess.  Your best chance, dear, is to come straight home with me—­we’ll see Mrs. Mortlock on the spur of the moment, and try and arrange it all.”