by first post."

"Was that the postman who rang just now?" asked Janet.

"Yes, miss."

Hilda took the letter with apprehension, as she recognized the
down-slanting calligraphy of Sarah Gailey. Yes, the address was
imperfect--"Miss Lessways, c/o Osmond Orgreave, Esq., Lane End House,
Knype-on-Trent," instead of "Bursley, Knype-on-Trent." On the back of
the envelope had been written in pencil by an official, "Try Bursley."
Sarah Gailey could not now be trusted to address an envelope correctly.
The mere handwriting seemed to announce misfortune.

"From poor Sarah," Hilda murmured, with false, good-tempered
tranquillity. "I wonder what sort of trouble she thinks she's got into!"

She thought: "If only I was married, I should be free of responsibility
about Sarah. I should have to think of my husband first. But nothing
else can free me. Unless I marry, I'm tied to Sarah Gailey as long as
she lives.... And why?... I should like to know!" The answer was simple:
habit had shackled her to Sarah Gailey.

She opened the letter by the flickering firelight, which was stronger on
the hearthrug than the light of the dim November day. It began: "Dearest
Hilda, I write at once to tell you that a lawyer called here this
afternoon to inquire about your Hotel Continental shares. He told me
there was going to be some difficulty with the Company, and, unless the
independent shareholders formed a strong local committee to look after
things, the trouble might be serious. He wanted to know if you would
support a committee at the meeting. I gave him your address, and he's
going to write to you. But I thought I would write to you as well. His
name is Eustace Broughton, 124 East Street, in case. I do hope nothing
will go wrong. It is like what must be, I am sure! It has been
impossible for me to keep the charwoman. So I sent her off this morning.
Can you remember the address of that Mrs. Catkin?..." Sarah Gailey
continued to discuss boarding-house affairs, until she arrived at the
end of the fourth page, and then, in a few cramped words, she finished
with expressions of love.

"Oh dear!" Hilda exclaimed, rising, "I must write some letters at once."
She sighed, as if in tedium. The fact that her fortune was vaguely
threatened did not cause her anxiety: she scarcely realized it. What she
saw was an opportunity to evade the immediate meeting with Edwin--the
meeting which, a few minutes earlier, she had desired beyond everything.

"When? Now