was married and the mother of three children, and
had probably forgotten the difference between `demy' and `post' octavos;
and this youth had taken her place and the place of two unsatisfactory
maids in black who had succeeded her. None but males were now employed
in the Clayhanger business, and everybody breathed more freely; round,
sound oaths were heard where never oaths had been heard before. The
young man's name was Stifford, and he was addressed as `Stiff.' He was
a proof of the indiscretion of prophesying about human nature. He had
been the paper boy, the minion of Edwin, and universally regarded as
unreliable and almost worthless. But at sixteen a change had come over
him; he parted his hair in the middle instead of at the side, arrived in
the morning at 7:59 instead of at 8:05, and seemed to see the
earnestness of life. Every one was glad and relieved, but every one
took the change as a matter of course; the attitude of every one to the
youth was: "Well, it's not too soon!" No one saw a romantic miracle.

"I suppose you haven't got `The Light of Asia' in stock?" began Janet
Orgreave, after she had greeted the youth kindly.

"I'm afraid we haven't, miss," said Stifford. This was an
understatement. He knew beyond fear that "The Light of Asia" was not in
stock.

"Oh!" murmured Janet.

"I think you said `The Light of Asia'?"

"Yes. `The Light of Asia,' by Edwin Arnold." Janet had a persuasive
humane smile.

Stifford was anxious to have the air of obliging this smile, and he
turned round to examine a shelf of prize books behind him, well aware
that "The Light of Asia" was not among them. He knew "The Light of
Asia," and was proud of his knowledge; that is to say, he knew by
visible and tactual evidence that such a book existed, for it had been
ordered and supplied as a Christmas present four months previously, soon
after its dazzling apparition in the world.

"Yes, by Edwin Arnold--Edwin Arnold," he muttered learnedly, running his
finger along gilded backs.

"It's being talked about a great deal," said Janet as if to encourage
him.

"Yes, it is... No, I'm very sorry, we haven't it in stock." Stifford
faced her again, and leaned his hands wide apart on the counter.

"I should like you to order it for me," said Janet Orgreave in a low
voice.

She asked this exactly as though she were asking a personal favour from
Stifford the private individual. Such was Janet's way. She could not
help