he came into the room, or carried on in
half-phrases and under-tones. Of course she _had_ heard of Macclesfield
Buildings; and of a club and an institute and a hospital, and what not;
but the words had gone over her head, being destitute of meaning and of
interest for her. She had been blind and deaf, it seemed to her now,
ever since she came into the house; but Maurice Kenyon and her father's
book had opened her eyes to the reality of things.

Later on in the day her maid came to help her to dress for dinner.
Lesley looked at her with new interest. For was she not one of the
great, poor, struggling mass of human beings whom her father called "the
People?" Not the happy peasant-class, as depicted in sentimental
storybooks: whether that existed or not, Lesley was not learned enough
to say: it certainly did not exist in London. She looked at the woman
who waited on her with keenly observant eyes. Her name was Mary
Kingston, and Lesley knew that she was not one of the prosperous,
self-satisfied, over-dressed type, so common amongst ladies' maids; for
she had been "out of a situation" for some time, and had fallen into
dire straits of poverty. It would not have been like Miss Brooke to hire
a common-place, conventional ladies' maid; she really preferred a
servant "with a history." Lesley remembered that she had heard of Mary
Kingston's past difficulties without noting them.

"Kingston," she said, gently, "do you know much about the poor?"

Kingston started and colored. She was a woman of more than thirty years
of age--pale, thin, flat-chested, not very tall; she had fairly good
features and dark, expressive eyes; but she was not attractive-looking.
Her lips were too pale and her dark eyes too sunken for beauty. There
was a gentleness in her manner, however, a patience in her low voice,
which Lesley had always liked. It reminded her, in some undefined way,
of her old friend, Sister Rose.

"I've lived among the poor all my life, ma'am," Kingston said.

"Do they suffer very much?" Lesley asked.

Kingston looked slightly puzzled. "Suffer, ma'am?"

"Yes--from hunger and cold, I mean: I have been reading about poor
people in this book--and----"

Kingston cast a rapid glance at the volume. Her face kindled at once.

"Oh," she said, "I've read that book, ma'am, and what a beautiful book
it is!"

"Do you know it?" Lesley asked, amazed. Then, moved by a sudden impulse,
"And you know it was written by my father?"

Who wou