how that ugly and powerful organism could softly languish to the undoing of even a butty-collier, nor why, having caught a man in her sweet toils, she could ever be imbecile enough to set him free.  There are, however, mysteries in the souls of Maggies.  The drudge had probably been affianced oftener than any woman in Bursley.  Her employers were so accustomed to an interesting announcement that for years they had taken to saying naught in reply but ’Really, Maggie!’ Engagements and tragic partings were Maggie’s pastime.  Fixed otherwise, she might have studied the piano instead.

“No gloves, of course!” Sophia criticized.

“Well, you can’t expect her to have gloves,” said Constance.

Then a pause, as the bonnet and dress neared the top of the Square.

“Supposing she turns round and sees us?” Constance suggested.

“I don’t care if she does,” said Sophia, with a haughtiness almost impassioned; and her head trembled slightly.

There were, as usual, several loafers at the top of the Square, in the corner between the bank and the “Marquis of Granby.”  And one of these loafers stepped forward and shook hands with an obviously willing Maggie.  Clearly it was a rendezvous, open, unashamed.  The twelfth victim had been selected by the virgin of forty, whose kiss would not have melted lard!  The couple disappeared together down Oldcastle Street.

“Well!” cried Constance.  “Did you ever see such a thing?”

While Sophia, short of adequate words, flushed and bit her lip.

With the profound, instinctive cruelty of youth, Constance and Sophia had assembled in their favourite haunt, the show-room, expressly to deride Maggie in her new clothes.  They obscurely thought that a woman so ugly and soiled as Maggie was had no right to possess new clothes.  Even her desire to take the air of a Thursday afternoon seemed to them unnatural and somewhat reprehensible.  Why should she want to stir out of her kitchen?  As for her tender yearnings, they positively grudged these to Maggie.  That Maggie should give rein to chaste passion was more than grotesque; it was offensive and wicked.  But let it not for an instant be doubted that they were nice, kind-hearted, well-behaved, and delightful girls!  Because they were.  They were not angels.

“It’s too ridiculous!” said Sophia, severely.  She had youth, beauty, and rank in her favour.  And to her it really was ridiculous.

“Poor old Maggie!” Constance murmured.  Constance was foolishly good-natured, a perfect manufactory of excuses for other people; and her benevolence was eternally rising up and overpowering her reason.

“What time did mother say she should be back?” Sophia asked.

“Not until supper.”

“Oh!  Hallelujah!” Sophia burst out, clasping her hands in joy.  And they both slid down from the counter just as if they had been little boys, and not, as their mother called them, “great girls.”