ompelled to sign an agreement
for the girl to remain at school for at least three years. But the widow
was practically starving, although working fourteen hours daily. Verily,
the conflict of duties forms the tragedy of everyday life. The widow was
saved by the advanced French; poor mother and poor girl!

By and by the girl was comforted as we held the prospective of a bright
future before her, and got her to talk of her studies; she recited for
us a scene from AS YOU LIKE IT, and also Portia's speech, "The quality
of mercy is not strained."

Standing near was a boy of not more than ten years, who looked as if he
would like to recite for us, and I asked him what standard he was in.
"The sixth, sir." "And do you like English Literature?" He did not
answer the question exactly, but said, "I know the 'Deserted Village,'
by Oliver Goldsmith."

"Where was the 'Deserted Village'?" "Sweet Auburn was supposed to be
in Ireland, but it is thought that some of the scenes are taken from
English villages."

"Can you give us the 'Village Schoolmaster'?" And he did, with point
and emphasis. "Now for the 'Village Parson.'" His memory did not fail
or trip, and the widow sat there machining; so we turned to her for more
information, and found that she was a Leicester woman, and her parents
Scots; she had been a boot machinist from her youth.

Her husband was a "clicker" from Stafford; he had been dead eight years.
She was left with four children. She had another daughter of fourteen
who had done brilliantly at school, having obtained many distinctions,
and at twelve years had passed her "Oxford Local." This girl had picked
up typewriting herself, and as she was good at figures and a splendid
writer, she obtained a junior clerk's place in the City at seven
shillings and sixpence per week. Every day this girl walked to and from
her business, and every day the poor widow managed to find her fourpence
that the girl might have a lunch in London City.

I felt interested in this girl, so I wrote asking her to come to lunch
with me on a certain day. She came with a book in her hand, one of
George Eliot's, one of her many prizes. A fourpenny lunch may be
conducive to high thinking, may even lead to an appreciation of great
novels: it certainly leaves plenty of time for the improvement of the
mind, though it does not do much for nourishing the body. I found
her exceedingly interesting and intelligent, with some knowledge of
"political econo