ning, Miss Abbot. Thank you so much for letting me know about
the flowers." Then she saw that Miss Abbot was crying--crying in a
hopeless, helpless way that made Jean's heart ache. She went to her and
put her hand on her arm. "Won't you tell me what's wrong? Do sit down
here in the arm-chair. I'm sure you're not well."

Miss Abbot allowed herself to be led to the arm-chair Having once given
way she was finding it no easy matter to regain control of herself.

"Is it that you aren't well?" Jean asked. "I know it's a wretched
business trying to go on working when one is seedy."

Miss Abbot shook her head. "It's far worse than that. I have to refuse
work for I can't see to do it. I'm losing my sight and ...and there is
nothing before me but the workhouse."

Over and over again in the silence of the night she had said those
words to herself: she had seen them written in letters of fire on the
walls of her little room: they had seemed seared into her brain, but she
had never meant to tell a soul, not even the minister, and here she was
telling this slip of a girl.

Jean gave a cry and caught her hands. "Oh no, no! Never that!"

"I've no relations," said Miss Abbot. She was quiet now and calm, and
hopeless. "And if I had I couldn't be a burden on them. Nobody wants a
penniless, half-blind woman. I've had to use up all my savings this
winter ...it will just have to be the workhouse."

"But it shan't be," said Jean. "What's the use of me if I'm not to help?
No. Don't stiffen and look at me like that. I'm not offering you
charity. Perhaps you may have heard that I've been left a lot of
money--in trust. It's your money as much as mine; if it's anybody's it's
God's money. I felt I just couldn't pass your door this morning, and I
spoke to you, though I was frightfully scared--you looked so
stand-offish.... Now listen. All I've got to do is to send your name to
my lawyer--he's in London, and he knows nothing about anybody in
Priorsford, so you needn't worry about him--and he will arrange that you
get a sufficient income all your life. No, it isn't charity. You've
fought hard all your life for others, and it's high time you got a rest.
Everyone should get a rest and a competency when they are sixty. (Not
that you are nearly that, of course.) Some day that happy state of
affairs will be. Now the kettle's almost boiling, and I'm going to make
you a cup of tea. Where's the caddy?"

There was a spoonful of tea in the caddy, but in