nough in praise of them. They would
be a little hard to understand, perhaps; but then she was going to read
books more than ever, and get knowledge.

She was in the part of Lambeth Walk farthest from her own street,
having come there by chance, for she had observed nothing on the way.
She did not wish to go home yet. One end of Paradise Street joins the
Walk, and into that she turned. If only there were a chance of Totty
Nancarrow's being at home! But Totty was very regular at work. Still,
an inquiry at the door would be no harm.

Little Jack Bunce was standing in the open doorway; he had a rueful
countenance, marked with recent tears.

'Do you know whether Miss Nancarrow's in?' Thyrza asked of the little
fellow.

He regarded her, and nodded silently.

'Really? She's really in?'

'Yes, she's up in her room,' was the grave answer.

Thyrza ran upstairs. A tap at the door, and Totty's
voice--unmistakable--gave admission. The girl sat sewing; on the bed
lay a child, asleep.

Totty, looking delighted at Thyrza's coming, held up her finger to
impose quietness. Thyrza took the only other chair there was, and drew
it near to her friend.

'That's Nelly Bunce,' Totty said in a low voice, nodding to the bed.
'Just when I was going back to work, what did the child do but tumble
head over heels half down stairs, running after me. It's a wonder she
don't kill herself. I don't think there's no more harm done except a
big bump on the back of the head, but Mrs. Ladds wasn't in, and I
didn't like to go and leave the little thing; she cried herself to
sleep. So there's half a day lost!

Thyrza kept silence. She had felt that she would like to talk with
Totty, yet now she could find nothing to say.

'How's things going on?' Totty asked, smiling.

'Very well, I think.'

'So the day's coming, Thyrza.'

Thyrza played with the ends of a small boa which was about her neck.
She had no reply. Her tongue refused to utter a sound.

'What's the matter?'

Thyrza's hand fell, she touched the sewing that was on Totty's lap.
Then she touched Totty's hand.

'Will you tell me about--about Mr. Ackroyd?'

Totty drew in her lips, knitted her brows, then bent to bite off an end
of cotton.

'What is there to tell?' she asked.

'Is he doing as he promised?'

'As far as I know,' said the other, in a voice which affected
indifference.

'And do you think he'll keep right till Christmas?'

'That's a good deal more than I can say, or