ved many movements of the hand and arm, and
certainly gave a splendid effect to the fine linen or cambric on which
it was worked. Grannie could do it almost with her eyes shut, but
Alison, who thought she knew all about it, found when she began to
practice that she had not taken the right loop nor the proper twist,
and she quite forgot the clever under-movement which brought the thread
from left to right, and made that sort of crinkled scroll which all the
other workwomen in West London tried to imitate in vain. Grannie was
trimming some beautiful underlinen for a titled lady; it was made of
the finest cambric, and the feather-stitching was to be a special
feature.

She stood now, looked down at her pretty grandchild, and saw that she
had ruined the work.

"Poor dear," muttered the old woman to herself, "she dint got the turn
of it, or maybe her head is confused. No wonder, I'm sure; for a
cleverer nor neater girl than Alison don't live."

"There, my love," she said, speaking aloud, "I've come back. You can
put away the work now."

"Oh, Grannie!" said the girl, looking up with flushed cheeks, "have I
done it right? It looks wrong somehow; it aint a bit rich like what
you do."

"Dearie me," said the old woman, "as ef that mattered. You pop it back
into my drawer now."

"But have I done any harm?"

"Of course not, lovey. Pop it into the drawer and come and make
yourself smart for Jim."

"For Jim?" said Alison, looking up with a glow on her cheeks, her eyes
shining. "You speak as if you had good news; has anything been
discovered?"

Grannie had made up her mind to cheer Alison by every means in her
power. She sat down now on the nearest chair, untied her
bonnet-strings, and looked affectionately at the girl.

"I have good news," she said; "yes, all things considered, I have."

"Is the money found, grandmother?"

"You couldn't expect it to be yet. Of course, _she_ wot took it hid
it--wot else can you expect?"

"Oh, then nothing matters!" said Alison, her head drooping.

"Dearie me, child, that's no way to take misfortin. The whole thing
from first to last was just a bit of bad luck, and luck's the queerest
thing in life. I have thought over luck all my long years, and am not
far from seventy, thank the Lord for his goodness, and I can't
understand it yet. Luck's agen yer, and nothing you can do will make
it for yer, jest for a spell. Then, for no rhyme or reason, it 'll
turn round, and it's