here most circumspect,
even strict, in her manner. She is an excellent musician, and has
improved my choir. I have been tempted to comply with her request and
spend some more money upon the singing....

'While writing these lines I was interrupted. My servant brought me a
letter from Miss Glynn, telling me that a great chance had come her way.
It appears that Mr. Walter Poole, the father of one of her pupils, has
offered her the post of secretaryship, and she would like to put into
practice the shorthand and typewriting that she has been learning for
the last six months. Her duties, she says, will be of a twofold nature:
she will help Mr. Poole with his literary work and she will also give
music lessons to his daughter Edith. Mr. Poole lives in Berkshire, and
wants her to come down at once, which means she will have to leave me in
the lurch. "You will be without an organist," she writes, "and will have
to put up with Miss Ellen McGowan until you can get a better. She may
improve--I hope and think she will; and I'm sorry to give trouble to one
who has been so kind to me, but, you see, I have a child to look after,
and it is difficult to make both ends meet on less than three pounds a
week. More money I cannot hope to earn in my present circumstances; I am
therefore going down to Berkshire to-morrow, so I shall not see you
again for some time. Write and tell me you are not angry with me."

'On receiving this letter, I went round to Miss Glynn's lodgings, and
found her in the midst of her packing. We talked a long while, and very
often it seemed to me that I was going to persuade her, but when it came
to the point she shook her head. Offer her more money I could not, but I
promised to raise her wages to two pounds a week next year if it were
possible to do so. I don't think it is the money; I think it is change
that tempts her. Well, it tempts us all, and though I am much
disappointed at losing her, I cannot be angry with her, for I cannot
forget that I often want change myself, and the longing to get out of
London is sometimes almost irresistible. I do not know your part of the
country, but I do know what an Irish lake is like, and I often long to
see one again. And very often, I suppose, you would wish to exchange the
romantic solitude of your parish for the hurly-burly of a town, and for
its thick, impure air you would be willing--for a time only, of
course--to change the breezes of your mountain-tops.

'Very truly yo