ADRIFT
Just before Christmas of 1887, a lady past her twenties, and with a
look of discouraged weariness on her thin face, knocked at a house-door
in a little street by Lavender Hill. A card in the window gave notice
that a bedroom was here to let. When the door opened, and a clean,
grave, elderly woman presented herself, the visitor, regarding her
anxiously, made known that she was in search of a lodging.
“It may be for a few weeks only, or it may be for a longer period,” she
said in a low, tired voice, with an accent of good breeding. “I have a
difficulty in finding precisely what I want. One room would be
sufficient, and I ask for very little attendance.”
She had but one room to let, replied the other. It might be inspected.
They went upstairs. The room was at the back of the house, small, but
neatly furnished. Its appearance seemed to gratify the visitor, for she
smiled timidly.
“What rent should you ask?”
“That would depend, mum, on what attendance was required.”
“Yes—of course. I think—will you permit me to sit down? I am really
very tired. Thank you. I require very little attendance indeed. My ways
are very simple. I should make the bed myself, and—and, do the other
little things that are necessary from day to day. Perhaps I might ask
you to sweep the room out—once a week or so.”
The landlady grew meditative. Possibly she had had experience of
lodgers who were anxious to give as little trouble as possible. She
glanced furtively at the stranger.
“And what,” was her question at length, “would you be thinking of
paying?”
“Perhaps I had better explain my position. For several years I have
been companion to a lady in Hampshire. Her death has thrown me on my
own resources—I hope only for a short time. I have come to London
because a younger sister of mine is employed here in a house of
business; she recommended me to seek for lodgings in this part; I might
as well be near her whilst I am endeavouring to find another post;
perhaps I may be fortunate enough to find one in London. Quietness and
economy are necessary to me. A house like yours would suit me very
well—very well indeed. Could we not agree upon terms within my—within
my power?”
Again the landlady pondered.
“Would you be willing to pay five and sixpence?”
“Yes, I would pay five and sixpence—if you are quite sure that you
could let me live in my own way with satisfaction to yourself. I—in
fact, I am a vegetarian, and as the meals I take are so very simple, I
feel that I might just as well prepare them myself. Would you object to
my doing so in this room? A kettle and a saucepan are really
all—absolutely all—that I should need to use. As I shall be much at
home, it will be of course necessary for me to have a fire.”
In the course of half an hour an agreement had been devised which
seemed fairly satisfactory to both parties.
“I’m not one of the graspin’ ones,” remarked the landlady. “I think I
may say that of myself. If I make five or six shillings a week out of
my spare room, I don’t grumble. But the party as takes it must do their
duty on _their_ side. You haven’t told me your name yet, mum.”
“Miss Madden. My luggage is at the railway station; it shall be brought
here this evening. And, as I am quite unknown to you, I shall be glad
to pay my rent in advance.”
“Well, I don’t ask for that; but it’s just as you like.”
“Then I will pay you five and sixpence at once. Be so kind as to let me
have a receipt.”
So Miss Madden established herself at Lavender Hill, and dwelt there
alone for three months.
She received letters frequently, but only one person called upon her.
This was her sister Monica, now serving at a draper’s in Walworth Road.
The young lady came every Sunday, and in bad weather spent the whole
day up in the little bedroom. Lodger and landlady were on remarkably
good terms; the one paid her dues with exactness, and the other did
many a little kindness not bargained for in the original contract.
Time went on to the spring of ’88. Then, one afternoon, Miss Madden
descended to the kitchen and tapped in her usual timid way at the door.
“Are you at leisure, Mrs. Conisbee? Could I have a little conversation
with you?”
The landlady was alone, and with no more engrossing occupation than the
ironing of some linen she had recently washed.
“I have mentioned my elder sister now and then. I am sorry to say she
is leaving her post with the family at Hereford. The children are going
to school, so that her services are no longer needed.”
“Indeed, mum?”
“Yes. For a shorter or longer time she will be in need of a home. Now
it has occurred to me, Mrs. Conisbee, that—that I would ask you
whether you would have any objection to her sharing my room with me? Of
course there must be an extra payment. The room is small for two
persons, but then the arrangement would only be temporary. My sister is
a good and experienced teacher, and I am sure she will have no
difficulty in obtaining another engagement.”
Mrs. Conisbee reflected, but without a shade of discontent. By this
time she knew that her lodger was thoroughly to be trusted.
“Well, it’s if _you_ can manage, mum,” she replied. “I don’t see as I
could have any fault to find, if you thought you could both live in
that little room. And as for the rent, _I_ should be quite satisfied if
we said seven shillings instead of five and six.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Conisbee; thank you very much indeed. I will write to
my sister at once; the news will be a great relief to her. We shall
have quite an enjoyable little holiday together.”
A week later the eldest of the three Miss Maddens arrived. As it was
quite impossible to find space for her boxes in the bedroom, Mrs.
Conisbee allowed them to be deposited in the room occupied by her
daughter, which was on the same floor. In a day or two the sisters had
begun a life of orderly tenor. When weather permitted they were out
either in the morning or afternoon. Alice Madden was in London for the
first time; she desired to see the sights, but suffered the
restrictions of poverty and ill-health. After nightfall, neither she
nor Virginia ever left home.
There was not much personal likeness between them.
The elder (now five-and-thirty) tended to corpulence, the result of
sedentary life; she had round shoulders and very short legs. Her face
would not have been disagreeable but for its spoilt complexion; the
homely features, if health had but rounded and coloured them, would
have expressed pleasantly enough the gentleness and sincerity of her
character. Her cheeks were loose, puffy, and permanently of the hue
which is produced by cold; her forehead generally had a few pimples;
her shapeless chin lost itself in two or three fleshy fissures.
Scarcely less shy than in girlhood, she walked with a quick, ungainly
movement as if seeking to escape from some one, her head bent forward.
Virginia (about thirty-three) had also an unhealthy look, but the
poverty, or vitiation, of her blood manifested itself in less unsightly
forms. One saw that she had been comely, and from certain points of
view her countenance still had a grace, a sweetness, all the more
noticeable because of its threatened extinction. For she was rapidly
ageing; her lax lips grew laxer, with emphasis of a characteristic one
would rather not have perceived there; her eyes sank into deeper
hollows; wrinkles extended their network; the flesh of her neck wore
away. Her tall meagre body did not seem strong enough to hold itself
upright.
Alice had brown hair, but very little of it. Virginia’s was inclined to
be ruddy; it surmounted her small head in coils and plaits not without
beauty. The voice of the elder sister had contracted an unpleasant
hoarseness, but she spoke with good enunciation; a slight stiffness and
pedantry of phrase came, no doubt, of her scholastic habits. Virginia
was much more natural in manner and fluent in speech, even as she moved
far more gracefully.
It was now sixteen years since the death of Dr. Madden of Clevedon. The
story of his daughters’ lives in the interval may be told with brevity
suitable to so unexciting a narrative.
When the doctor’s affairs were set in order, it was found that the
patrimony of his six girls amounted, as nearly as possible, to eight
hundred pounds.
Eight hundred pounds is, to be sure, a sum of money; but how, in these
circumstances, was it to be applied?
There came over from Cheltenham a bachelor uncle, aged about sixty.
This gentleman lived on an annuity of seventy pounds, which would
terminate when _he_ did. It might be reckoned to him for righteousness
that he spent the railway fare between Cheltenham and Clevedon to
attend his brother’s funeral, and to speak a kind word to his nieces.
Influence he had none; initiative, very little. There was no reckoning
upon him for aid of any kind.
From Richmond in Yorkshire, in reply to a letter from Alice, wrote an
old, old aunt of the late Mrs. Madden, who had occasionally sent the
girls presents. Her communication was barely legible; it seemed to
contain fortifying texts of Scripture, but nothing in the way of
worldly counsel. This old lady had no possessions to bequeath. And, as
far as the girls knew, she was their mother’s only surviving relative.
The executor of the will was a Clevedon tradesman, a kind and capable
friend of the family for many years, a man of parts and attainments
superior to his station. In council with certain other well-disposed
persons, who regarded the Maddens’ circumstances with friendly anxiety,
Mr. Hungerford (testamentary instruction allowing him much freedom of
action) decided that the three elder girls must forthwith become
self-supporting, and that the three younger should live together in the
care of a lady of small means, who offered to house and keep them for
the bare outlay necessitated. A prudent investment of the eight hundred
pounds might, by this arrangement, feed, clothe, and in some sort
educate Martha, Isabel, and Monica. To see thus far ahead sufficed for
the present; fresh circumstances could be dealt with as they arose.
Alice obtained a situation as nursery-governess at sixteen pounds a
year. Virginia was fortunate enough to be accepted as companion by a
gentlewoman at Weston-super-Mare; her payment, twelve pounds. Gertrude,
fourteen years old, also went to Weston, where she was offered
employment in a fancy-goods shop—her payment nothing at all, but
lodging, board, and dress assured to her.
Ten years went by, and saw many changes.
Gertrude and Martha were dead; the former of consumption, the other
drowned by the overturning of a pleasure-boat. Mr. Hungerford also was
dead, and a new guardian administered the fund which was still a common
property of the four surviving daughters. Alice plied her domestic
teaching; Virginia remained a “companion.” Isabel, now aged twenty,
taught in a Board School at Bridgewater, and Monica, just fifteen, was
on the point of being apprenticed to a draper at Weston, where Virginia
abode. To serve behind a counter would not have been Monica’s choice if
any more liberal employment had seemed within her reach. She had no
aptitude whatever for giving instruction; indeed, had no aptitude for
anything but being a pretty, cheerful, engaging girl, much dependent on
the love and gentleness of those about her. In speech and bearing
Monica greatly resembled her mother; that is to say, she had native
elegance. Certainly it might be deemed a pity that such a girl could
not be introduced to one of the higher walks of life; but the time had
come when she must “do something,” and the people to whose guidance she
looked had but narrow experience of life. Alice and Virginia sighed
over the contrast with bygone hopes, but their own careers made it seem
probable that Monica would be better off “in business” than in a more
strictly genteel position. And there was every likelihood that, at such
a place as Weston, with her sister for occasional chaperon, she would
ere long find herself relieved of the necessity of working for a
livelihood.
To the others, no wooer had yet presented himself. Alice, if she had
ever dreamt of marriage, must by now have resigned herself to spinsterhood.
Virginia could scarce hope that her faded prettiness, her
health damaged by attendance upon an exacting invalid and in profitless
study when she ought to have been sleeping, would attract any man in
search of a wife. Poor Isabel was so extremely plain. Monica, if her
promise were fulfilled, would be by far the best looking, as well as
the sprightliest, of the family. She must marry; of course she must
marry! Her sisters gladdened in the thought.
Isabel was soon worked into illness. Brain trouble came on, resulting
in melancholia. A charitable institution ultimately received her, and
there, at two-and-twenty, the poor hard-featured girl drowned herself
in a bath.
Their numbers had thus been reduced by half. Up to now, the income of
their eight hundred pounds had served, impartially, the ends now of
this, now of that one, doing a little good to all, saving them from
many an hour of bitterness which must else have been added to their
lot. By a new arrangement, the capital was at length made over to Alice
and Virginia jointly, the youngest sister having a claim upon them to
the extent of an annual nine pounds. A trifle, but it would buy her
clothing—and then Monica was sure to marry. Thank Heaven, she was sure
to marry!
Without notable event, matrimonial or other, time went on to this
present year of 1888.
Late in June, Monica would complete her twenty-first year; the elders,
full of affection for the sister, who so notably surpassed them in
beauty of person, talked much about her as the time approached,
devising how to procure her a little pleasure on her birthday. Virginia
thought a suitable present would be a copy of “the Christian Year”.
“She has really no time for continuous reading. A verse of Keble—just
one verse at bedtime and in the morning might be strength to the poor
girl.”
Alice assented.
“We must join to buy it, dear,” she added, with anxious look. “It
wouldn’t be justifiable to spend more than two or three shillings.”
“I fear not.”
They were preparing their midday meal, the substantial repast of the
day. In a little saucepan on an oil cooking-stove was some plain rice,
bubbling as Alice stirred it. Virginia fetched from downstairs (Mrs.
Conisbee had assigned to them a shelf in her larder) bread, butter,
cheese, a pot of preserve, and arranged the table (three feet by one
and a half) at which they were accustomed to eat. The rice being ready,
it was turned out in two proportions; made savoury with a little
butter, pepper, and salt, it invited them to sit down.
As they had been out in the morning, the afternoon would be spent in
domestic occupations. The low cane-chair Virginia had appropriated to
her sister, because of the latter’s headaches and backaches, and other
disorders; she herself sat on an ordinary chair of the bedside species,
to which by this time she had become used. Their sewing, when they did
any, was strictly indispensable; if nothing demanded the needle, both
preferred a book. Alice, who had never been a student in the proper
sense of the word, read for the twentieth time a few volumes in her
possession—poetry, popular history, and half a dozen novels such as
the average mother of children would have approved in the governess’s
hands. With Virginia the case was somewhat different. Up to about her
twenty-fourth year she had pursued one subject with a zeal limited only
by her opportunities; study absolutely disinterested, seeing that she
had never supposed it would increase her value as a “companion,” or
enable her to take any better position. Her one intellectual desire was
to know as much as possible about ecclesiastical history. Not in a
spirit of fanaticism; she was devout, but in moderation, and never
spoke bitterly on religious topics. The growth of the Christian Church,
old sects and schisms, the Councils, affairs of Papal policy—these
things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances favouring,
she might have become an erudite woman; But the conditions were so far
from favourable that all she succeeded in doing was to undermine her
health. Upon a sudden breakdown there followed mental lassitude, from
which she never recovered. It being subsequently her duty to read
novels aloud for the lady whom she “companioned,” new novels at the
rate of a volume a day, she lost all power of giving her mind to
anything but the feebler fiction. Nowadays she procured such works from
a lending library, on a subscription of a shilling a month. Ashamed at
first to indulge this taste before Alice, she tried more solid
literature, but this either sent her to sleep or induced headache. The
feeble novels reappeared, and as Alice made no adverse comment, they
soon came and went with the old regularity.
This afternoon the sisters were disposed for conversation. The same
grave thought preoccupied both of them, and they soon made it their
subject.
“Surely,” Alice began by murmuring, half absently, “I shall soon hear
of something.”
“I am dreadfully uneasy on my own account,” her sister replied.
“You think the person at Southend won’t write again?”
“I’m afraid not. And she seemed so _very_ unsatisfactory. Positively
illiterate—oh, I couldn’t bear that.” Virginia gave a shudder as she
spoke.
“I almost wish,” said Alice, “that I had accepted the place at
Plymouth.”
“Oh, my dear! Five children and not a penny of salary. It was a
shameless proposal.”
“It was, indeed,” sighed the poor governess. “But there is so little
choice for people like myself. Certificates, and even degrees, are
asked for on every hand. With nothing but references to past employers,
what can one expect? I know it will end in my taking a place without
salary.”
“People seem to have still less need of _me_,” lamented the companion.
“I wish now that I had gone to Norwich as lady-help.”
“Dear, your health would _never_ have supported it.”
“I don’t know. Possibly the more active life might do me good. It
_might_, you know, Alice.”
The other admitted this possibility with a deep sigh.
“Let us review our position,” she then exclaimed.
It was a phrase frequently on her lips, and always made her more
cheerful. Virginia also seemed to welcome it as an encouragement.
“Mine,” said the companion, “is almost as serious as it could be. I
have only one pound left, with the exception of the dividend.”
“I have rather more than four pounds still. Now, let us think,” Alice
paused. “Supposing we neither of us obtain employment before the end of
this year. We have to live, in that case, more than six months—you on
seven pounds, and I on ten.”
“It’s impossible,” said Virginia.
“Let us see. Put it in another form. We have both to live together on
seventeen pounds. That is—” she made a computation on a piece of
paper—“that is two pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence a
month—let us suppose this month at an end. That represents fourteen
shillings and twopence a week. Yes, we can do it!”
She laid down her pencil with an air of triumph. Her dull eyes
brightened as though she had discovered a new source of income.
“We cannot, dear,” urged Virginia in a subdued voice. “Seven shillings
rent; that leaves only seven and twopence a week for
everything—everything.”
“We _could_ do it, dear,” persisted the other. “If it came to the very
worst, our food need not cost more than sixpence a day—three and
sixpence a week. I do really believe, Virgie, we could support life on
less—say, on fourpence. Yes, we could dear!”
They looked fixedly at each other, like people about to stake
everything on their courage.
“Is such a life worthy of the name?” asked Virginia in tones of awe.
“We shan’t be driven to that. Oh, we certainly shall not. But it helps
one to know that, strictly speaking, we are _independent_ for another
six months.”
That word gave Virginia an obvious thrill.
“Independent! Oh, Alice, what a blessed thing is independence! Do you
know, my dear, I am afraid I have not exerted myself as I might have
done to find a new place. These comfortable lodgings, and the pleasure
of seeing Monica once a week, have tempted me into idleness. It isn’t
really my wish to be idle; I know the harm it does me; but oh! if one
could work in a home of one’s own!”
Alice had a startled, apprehensive look, as if her sister were touching
on a subject hardly proper for discussion, or at least dangerous.
“I’m afraid it’s no use thinking of that, dear,” she answered awkwardly.
“No use; no use whatever. I am wrong to indulge in such thoughts.”
“Whatever happens, my dear,” said Alice presently, with all the
impressiveness of tone she could command, “we must never entrench upon
our capital—never—never!”
“Oh, never! If we grow old and useless—”
“If no one will give us even board and lodging for our services—”
“If we haven’t a friend to look to,” Alice threw in, as though they
were answering each other in a doleful litany, “then indeed we shall be
glad that nothing tempted us to entrench on our capital! It would just
keep us”—her voice sank—“from the workhouse.”
After this each took up a volume, and until teatime they read quietly.
From six to nine in the evening they again talked and read alternately.
Their conversation was now retrospective; each revived memories of what
she had endured in one or the other house of bondage. Never had it been
their lot to serve “really nice” people—this phrase of theirs was
anything but meaningless. They had lived with more or less well-to-do
families in the lower middle class—people who could not have inherited
refinement, and had not acquired any, neither proletarians nor
gentlefolk, consumed with a disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated
with the miasma of democracy. It would have been but a natural result
of such a life if the sisters had commented upon it in a spirit
somewhat akin to that of their employers; but they spoke without
rancour, without scandalmongering. They knew themselves superior to the
women who had grudgingly paid them, and often smiled at recollections
which would have moved the servile mind to venomous abuse.
At nine o’clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an
hour later they went to bed. Lamp oil was costly; and indeed they felt
glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by.
Their hour of rising was eight. Mrs. Conisbee provided hot water for
their breakfast. On descending to fetch it, Virginia found that the
postman had left a letter for her. The writing on the envelope seemed
to be a stranger’s. She ran upstairs again in excitement.
“Who can this be from, Alice?”
The elder sister had one of her headaches this morning; she was clay
colour, and tottered in moving about. The close atmosphere of the
bedroom would alone have accounted for such a malady. But an unexpected
letter made her for the moment oblivious of suffering.
“Posted in London,” she said, examining the envelope eagerly.
“Some one you have been in correspondence with?”
“It’s months since I wrote to any one in London.”
For full five minutes they debated the mystery, afraid of dashing their
hopes by breaking the envelope. At length Virginia summoned courage.
Standing at a distance from the other, she took out the sheet of paper
with tremulous hand, and glanced fearfully at the signature.
“What _do_ you think? It’s Miss Nunn!”
“Miss Nunn! Never! How could she have got the address?”
Again the difficulty was discussed whilst its ready solution lay
neglected.
“Do read it!” said Alice at length, her throbbing head, made worse by
the agitation, obliging her to sink down into the chair.
The letter ran thus:—
“DEAR Miss MADDEN,—This morning I chanced to meet with Mrs. Darby, who
was passing through London on her way home from the seaside. We had
only five minutes’ talk (it was at a railway station), but she
mentioned that you were at present in London, and gave me your address.
After all these years, how glad I should be to see you! The struggle of
life has made me selfish; I have neglected my old friends. And yet I am
bound to add that some of _them_ have neglected _me_. Would you rather
that I came to your lodgings or you to mine? Which you like. I hear
that your elder sister is with you, and that Monica is also in London
somewhere. Do let us all see each other once more. Write as soon as you
can. My kindest regards to all of you.—Sincerely yours,
RHODA NUNN.”
“How like her,” exclaimed Virginia, when she had read this aloud, “to
remember that perhaps we may not care to receive visitors! She was
always so thoughtful. And it is true that I _ought_ to have written to
her.”
“We shall go to her, of course?”
“Oh yes, as she gives us the choice. How delightful! I wonder what she
is doing? She writes cheerfully; I am sure she must be in a good
position. What is the address? Queen’s Road, Chelsea. Oh, I’m so glad
it’s not very far. We can walk there and back easily.”
For several years they had lost sight of Rhoda Nunn. She left Clevedon
shortly after the Maddens were scattered, and they heard she had become
a teacher. About the date of Monica’s apprenticeship at Weston, Miss
Nunn had a chance meeting with Virginia and the younger girl; she was
still teaching, but spoke of her work with extreme discontent, and
hinted at vague projects. Whether she succeeded in releasing herself
the Maddens never heard.
It was a morning of doubtful fairness. Before going to bed last night
they had decided to walk out together this morning and purchase the
present for Monica’s birthday, which was next Sunday. But Alice felt
too unwell to leave the house. Virginia should write a reply to Miss
Nunn’s letter, and then go to the bookseller’s alone.
She set forth at half-past nine. With extreme care she had preserved an
out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby. Her
mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had gone
to an indeterminate grey. Her hat of brown straw was a possession for
ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a few pence, when that
became unavoidable. Yet Virginia could not have been judged anything
but a lady. She wore her garments as only a lady can (the position and
movement of the arms has much to do with this), and had the step never
to be acquired by a person of vulgar instincts.
A very long walk was before her. She wished to get as far as the Strand
bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this region
pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. Past Battersea Park, over
Chelsea Bridge, then the weary stretch to Victoria Station, and the
upward labour to Charing Cross. Five miles, at least, measured by
pavement. But Virginia walked quickly; at half-past eleven she was
within sight of her goal.
A presentable copy of Keble’s work cost less than she had imagined.
This rejoiced her. But after leaving the shop she had a singular
expression on her face—something more than weariness, something less
than anxiety, something other than calculation. In front of Charing
Cross Station she stopped, looking vaguely about her. Perhaps she had
it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was dreading the expense.
Yet of a sudden she turned and went up the approach to the railway.
At the entrance again she stopped. Her features were now working in the
strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed her. In
her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood apart.
Another quick movement, and she entered the station. She went straight
to the door of the refreshment room, and looked in through the glass.
Two or three people were standing inside. She drew back, a tremor
passing through her.
A lady came out. Then again Virginia approached the door. Two men only
were within, talking together. With a hurried, nervous movement, she
pushed the door open and went up to a part of the counter as far as
possible from the two customers. Bending forward, she said to the
barmaid in a voice just above a whisper,—
“Kindly give me a little brandy.”
Beads of perspiration were on her face, which had turned to a ghastly
pallor. The barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her promptly
and with a sympathetic look.
Virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing, as
she did so, half turned from the bar. Then she sipped hurriedly two or
three times, and at length took a draught. Colour flowed to her cheeks;
her eyes lost their frightened glare. Another draught finished the
stimulant. She hastily wiped her lips, and walked away with firm step.
In the meantime a threatening cloud had passed from the sun; warm rays
fell upon the street and its clamorous life. Virginia felt tired in
body, but a delightful animation, rarest of boons, gave her new
strength. She walked into Trafalgar Square and viewed it like a person
who stands there for the first time, smiling, interested. A quarter of
an hour passed whilst she merely enjoyed the air, the sunshine, and the
scene about her. Such a quarter of an hour—so calm, contented,
unconsciously hopeful—as she had not known since Alice’s coming to
London.
She reached the house by half-past one, bringing in a paper bag
something which was to serve for dinner. Alice had a wretched
appearance; her head ached worse than ever.
“Virgie,” she moaned, “we never took account of illness, you know.”
“Oh, we must keep that off,” replied the other, sitting down with a
look of exhaustion. She smiled, but no longer as in the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square.
“Yes, I must struggle against it. We will have dinner as soon as
possible. I feel faint.”
If both of them had avowed their faintness as often as they felt it,
the complaint would have been perpetual. But they generally made a
point of deceiving each other, and tried to delude themselves;
professing that no diet could be better for their particular needs than
this which poverty imposed.
“Ah! it’s a good sign to be hungry,” exclaimed Virginia. “You’ll be
better this afternoon, dear.”
Alice turned over “The Christian Year,” and endeavoured to console
herself out of it, whilst her sister prepared the meal.