Through that winter she lived with a strange secret in her mind, a secret which was the source of singularly varied feelings—­of astonishment, of pain, of encouragement, of apprehension, of grief.  To no one could she speak of it; no one could divine its existence—­no one save the person to whom she owed this surprising novelty in her experience.  She would have given much to be rid of it; and yet, again, might she not legitimately accept that pleasure which at times came of the thought?—­the thought that, as a woman, her qualities were of some account in the world.

She did her best to keep it out of her consciousness, and in truth had so many other things to think about that it was seldom she really had trouble with it.  Life was not altogether easy; regular work was not always to be kept; there was much need of planning and pinching, that her independence might suffer no wound, Bessie Byass was always in arms against that same independent spirit; she scoffed at it, assailed it with treacherous blandishment, made direct attacks upon it.

’I must live in my own way, Mrs. Byass.  I don’t want to have to leave you.’

And if ever life seemed a little too hard, if the image of the past grew too mournfully persistent, she knew where to go for consolation.  Let us follow her, one Saturday afternoon early in the year.

In a poor street in Clerkenwell was a certain poor little shop—­ built out as an afterthought from an irregular lump of houses; a shop with a room behind it and a cellar below; no more.  Here was sold second-hand clothing, women’s and children’s.  No name over the front, but neighbours would have told you that it was kept by one Mrs. Todd, a young widow with several children.  Mrs. Todd, not long ago, used to have only a stall in the street; but a lady named Miss Lant helped her to start in a more regular way of business.

‘And does she carry it on quite by herself?’

No; with her lived another young woman, also a widow, who had one child.  Mrs. Hewett, her name.  She did sewing in the room behind, or attended to the shop when Mrs. Todd was away making purchases.

There Jane Snowdon entered.  The clothing that hung in the window made it very dark inside; she had to peer a little before she could distinguish the person who sat behind the counter.  ’Is Pennyloaf in, Mrs. Todd?’

‘Yes, Miss.  Will you walk through?’

The room behind is lighted from the ceiling.  It is heaped with the most miscellaneous clothing.  It contains two beds, some shelves with crockery, a table, some chairs—­but it would have taken you a long time to note all these details, so huddled together was everything.  Part of the general huddling were five children, of various ages; and among them, very busy, sat Pennyloaf.

‘Everything going on well?’ was Jane’s first question.

‘Yes, Miss.’

’Then I know it isn’t.  Whenever you call me “Miss,” there’s something wrong; I’ve learnt that.’