‘Mrs. Byass is not at all well, sir.  But I’ll let her know—­’

‘No, no; on no account.’

‘Can’t I get you anything, sir?’

‘Miss Snowdon—­might I speak with you for a few moments?’

Jane feared it might be a complaint.  In a perfectly natural way she walked forward.  Scawthorne came in her direction, and—­closed the door.

The interview lasted ten minutes, then Jane came forth and with a light, quick step ran up to the floor above.  She did not enter the room, however, but stood with her hand on the door, in the darkness.  A minute or two, and with the same light, hurried step, she descended the stairs, sprang past the ledger’s room, sped down to the kitchen.  Under other circumstances Bessie must surely have noticed a strangeness in her look, in her manner; but to-night Bessie had thought for nothing but her own calamities.

Another day, and no further news from Sam.  The next morning, instead of going to work (the loss of wages was most serious, but it couldn’t be helped), Jane privately betook herself to Sam’s house of business.  Mrs. Byass was ill; would they let her know Mr. Byass’s address, that he might immediately be communicated with?  The information was readily supplied; Mr. Byass was no farther away, at present, than St. Albans.  Forth into the street again, and in search of a policeman.  ’Will you please to tell me what station I have to go to for St. Albans?’ Why, Moorgate Street would do; only a few minutes’ walk away.  On she hastened.  ’What is the cost of a return ticket to St. Albans, please?’ Three-and-sevenpence.  Back into the street again; she must now look for a certain sign, indicating a certain place of business.  With some little trouble it is found; she enters a dark passage, and comes before a counter, upon which she lays—­a watch, her grandfather’s old watch.  ‘How much?’ ’Four shillings, please.’  She deposits a halfpenny, and receives four shillings, together with a ticket.  Now for St. Albans.

Sam!  Sam!  Ay, well might he turn red and stutter and look generally foolish when that quiet little girl stood before him in his ‘stock-room’ at the hotel.  Her words were as quiet as her look.  ‘I’ll write her a letter,’ he cries.  ’Stop; you shall take it back.  I can’t give up the job at once, but you may tell her I’m up to no harm.  Where’s the pen?  Where’s the cursed ink?’ And she takes the letter.

’Why, you’ve lost a day’s work, Jane!  She gave you the money for the journey, I suppose?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Tell her she’s not to make a fool of herself in future.’

’No, I shan’t say that, Mr. Byass.  But I’m half-tempted to say it to someone else!’

It was the old, happy smile, come back for a moment; the voice that had often made peace so merrily.  The return journey seemed short, and with glad heart-beating she hastened from the City to Hanover Street.

Well, well; of course it would all begin over again; Jane herself knew it.  But is not all life a struggle onward from compromise to compromise, until the day of final pacification?