a Miss
Katherine Trenchard, had begged Maggie to let her know if she came to
London and needed help or advice. Miss Trenchard divided her life
between London and a place called Garth in Roselands in Glebeshire, and
Maggie did not know where she would be now--but, after some little
hesitation, she wrote a letter, speaking of the death of her father and
of her desire to find some work in London, and directed it to Garth.

Now of course she must post it herself--no allowing it to lie on the
hall-table with old Martha to finger it and the aunts to speculate upon
it and finally challenge her with its destiny.

On a bright evening when the house was as dark as a shut box and an
early star, frightened at its irregular and lonely appearance, suddenly
flashed like a curl of a golden whip across the sky, Maggie slipped out
of the house. She realised, with a triumphant and determined nod of her
head, that she had never been out alone in London before--a ridiculous
and shameful fact! She knew that there was a pillar-box just round the
corner, but because she had a hat upon her head and shoes upon her feet
she thought that she might as well post it in the Strand, an EXCITING
river of tempestuous sound into which she had as yet scarcely
penetrated. She slipped out of the front door, then waited a moment,
looking back at the silent house. No one stirred in their street; the
noise of the Strand came up to her like wind beyond a valley. She must
have felt, in that instant, that she was making some plunge into
hazardous waters and she must have hesitated as to whether she would
not spring back into the quiet house, lock and bolt the door, and never
go out again. But, after that one glance, she went forward.

She had never before in her life been on any errand alone, and at this
evening hour the Strand was very full. She stood still clinging to the
safe privacy of her own street and peering over into the blaze and
quiver of the tumult. In the Strand end of her own street there were
several dramatic agencies, a second-hand book and print shop with piles
of dirty music in the barrow outside the window, a little restaurant
with cold beef, an ancient chicken, hard-boiled eggs and sponge cakes
under glass domes in the window; everywhere about her were dim doors,
glimpses of twisting stairs, dusty windows and figures flitting up and
down, in and out as though they were marionettes pulled by invisible
strings to fulfil some figure.

These w