It had been Keziah’s own choice to follow the sisters into exile, and to share the privations involved in their change of life.  She had given up her Redford luxuries and importance to become a general servant, with only her kitchen to sit in, for their sakes; and she had cheerfully abided by her choice—­until Rose went.  Rose was the one who had understood the cost of the sacrifice, and who had lightened it by sympathetic companionship.  They had cleaned rooms, and made cakes and puddings, and set hens, and stirred jam, and ironed frocks and laces together; they had spent hours in pleasant gossip over the many homely subjects that interested both; their relation had been more that of mother and daughter than of servant and mistress.  Regarding her as virtually her child, Keziah had been quick to spring to the side of authority in the matter of the irregular love-affair; the natural parental impulse was to nip it in the bud.  But “Providence” had decided the issue in this case.  And a flirtatious girl was one thing, and a respectable married woman another.  And Keziah was lonely, and felt neglected and “put upon” when nobody came to talk to her in her kitchen, or to help her with her cooking and ironing—­and particularly after she had told Deb that it was a shame to bear malice to Miss Rose now, and Deb had commanded her to mind her own business.

She was suspected of treacherous visits to the house next door; she was known to have spent Sunday afternoons with Mrs Peter herself.  The iniquity of these proceedings was in the secrecy she observed, or tried to observe, regarding them.  It was she who knew, before anybody else, when a baby Breen was coming—­and if a married woman was a personage to Keziah, an incipient mother was a being of the highest rank.  She had forgiven Mary everything for the sake of her black-eyed boy; now she took the news that Rose was what she called “interesting” to Deb, and demanded that action should be taken upon it, with an air that was almost truculent.  Deb, of course, did not believe in being spoken to, even by Keziah, in that way.

“Has the muffin boy been?” she inquired, with a steady look.

“It’s too soon yet—­and I can tell you, Miss Deb, that if it was you in her place, she wouldn’t keep it up like this—­and at such a time too.”

“When the muffin boy comes, Keziah, please pay him the sixpence we owe him from last week.  You will find the money on my writing-table.”

“Well, I don’t care—­I call it a shame not to go to her—­”

“Perhaps you would like to go to her yourself?” Deb swiftly changed her tone.

“I’d like nothing better,” the old woman retorted, with spirit, “if you are agreeable.”

“I am perfectly agreeable.”

“Well, it was only the other day she said she’d give anything to have me, if it wasn’t for taking me away from you.”

“Oh, pray don’t consider that.  I can easily get somebody else,” said Deb affably, though her surprise at the idea of Keziah wanting to leave her was only equalled by her dismay.