“No, no; how was it likely I should?  I wandered about till I could stand no longer, and then I went up to the door of a house which stood in a garden, and begged for something to eat.  The servant who opened was sending me away, when her mistress heard, and came to the door.  She stood looking at me for some time, and then told me to come in.  I went into the kitchen, and she asked me all about myself.  I told her the truth; I was too miserable now to do anything else.  Well, the result was—­she kept me there.”

“For good?”

“Indeed, for good.  In that very house I lived for six years.  Oh; she was the queerest and kindest little body!  At first I helped her servant in the kitchen,—­she lived quite by herself, with one servant,—­but little by little she made me a sort of lady’s maid, and I did no more rough work.  You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous fancies of that dear old woman!  She thought herself a great beauty, and often told me so very plainly, and she used to talk to me about her chances of being married to this and the other person in the neighbourhood.  And the result of all this was that she had to spend I don’t know how long every day in dressing herself, and then looking at herself in the glass.  And I had to learn how to do her hair, and put paint and powder on her face, and all sorts of wonderful things.  She was as good to me as she could be, and I never wanted for anything.  And so six years passed, and one morning she was found dead in her bed.

“Well, that was the end of the happiest time of my life.  In a day or two some relatives came to look after things, and I had to go.  They were kind to me, however; they gave me money, and told me I might refer to them if I needed to.  I came to London, and took a room, and wondered what I should do.

“I advertised, and answered advertisements, but nothing came.  My money was going, and I should soon be as badly off as ever.  I began to do what I had always thought of as the very last thing, look for needlework, either for home or in a workroom.  I don’t know how it is that I have always hated sewing.  For one thing, I really can’t sew.  I was never taught as a child, and few girls are as clumsy with a needle as I am.  I’ve always looked upon a work-girl’s life as the most horrible drudgery; I’d far rather scrub floors.  I suppose I’ve a rebellious disposition, and just because sewing is looked upon as a woman’s natural slavery, I rebelled against it.

“By this time I was actually starving.  I had one day to tell my landlady I couldn’t pay my rent.  She was a very decent woman, and she talked to me in a kind way.  What was better, she gave me help.  She had a sister who kept a laundry, and she thought I might perhaps get something to do there; at all events she would go and see.  The result was I got work.  I was in the laundry nearly six months, and became quite clever in getting up linen.  Now this was a kind of work I liked.  You can’t think what a pleasure it was to me to see shirts and collars turning out so spotless and sweet—­”