ikely--those eminent persons who tell the interviewers they never
write more than five hundred words a day. But I am only a hewer of wood
and a drawer of water, so to speak."

"But the thought of being useful!"

"Yes, and the thought----but here is Susie."

Susie was the friend who taught singing. Claudia thought she had never
seen a woman look more exhausted; but Claudia knew so little of life.

"You have had a long day, my dear," said Babette, as Susie threw herself
into a chair; "it is your journey to the poles, isn't it?"

"To the poles?" said Claudia.

"Yes; this is the day she has to be at a Hampstead school from 9.30 till
12.30, and at a Balham school from 2.30 till 4. It's rather a drive to
do it, since they are as far as the poles asunder."

"Still," said Claudia, "railway travelling must rest you."

"Not very much," said Susie, "when you travel third class and the trains
are crowded."

"But it must be so nice to feel that you are really filling a useful
position in the world."

"I don't know that I am," said Susie, rather wearily. "A good many of my
pupils have no ear, and had far better be employed at something else."

"But your art!"

"I am afraid few of them think much about that, and what I have to do is
to see that the parents are well enough pleased to keep their girls on
at singing. I do my best for them; but one gets tired."

[Sidenote: Another Surprise]

Claudia did not reply. This seemed a sadly mercenary view of work, and a
little shocked her. But then Claudia had not to earn her own living.

Claudia's inquiries of Sarah Griffin were scarcely more cheerful. Sarah
was at the shop from 8.30 until 7, and was unable, therefore, to see her
friend during the day. Aunt Jane and Aunt Ruth insisted that Sarah
should spend the evening at St. John's Wood, and promised that she
should leave early in the morning.

She came. Again Claudia marvelled at the change in her friend. Already
she seemed ten years older than her age; her clothes, if neat, cried
aloud of a narrow purse. She had lost a good deal of the brightness
which once marked her, and had gathered instead a patient, worn look
which had a pathos of its own.

Sarah did not announce her poverty, but under the sympathetic hands of
Aunt Ruth and Aunt Jane she in time poured out the history of her daily
life.

She was thankful to be in work, even though it was poorly paid. When
first in search of occupation, she had spent three weary we