d as lunch had been:
a class of working-men was momently expected, and Robby had just time
to gulp down a cup of tea. Nor could he converse; for he was obliged to
spare his throat.

Afterwards the three of them sat listening to the loud talking
overhead. This came down distinctly through the thin ceiling, and Mr.
Shepherd's voice--it went on and on--sounded, at such close quarters,
both harsh and rasping. Mrs. Shepherd was mending a stole; Isabella
stooped over the sermon, which she was writing like copperplate. Laura
sat in a corner with her hands before her: she had finished her book,
but her eyes were still visionary. When any of the three spoke, it was
in a low tone.

Towards nine o'clock Mrs. Shepherd fetched a little saucepan, filled it
with milk, and set it on the hob; and after this she hovered
undecidedly between door and fireplace, like a distracted moth.

"Now do try to get it right to-night, Maisie," admonished Isabella;
and, turning her face, if not her glance, to Laura, she explained: "It
must boil, but not have a scrap of skin on it, or Robby won't look at
it."

Presently the working-men were heard pounding down the stairs, and
thereupon Maisie vanished from the room.

The next day Laura attended morning and evening service at St
Stephen's-on-the-Hill, and in the afternoon made one of Isabella's
class at Sunday school.

That morning she had wakened, in what seemed to be the middle of the
night, to find Isabella dressing by the light of a single candle.

"Don't you get up," said the latter. "We're all going to early service,
and I just want to make Robby some bread and milk beforehand. He would
rather communicate fasting, but he has to have something, for he
doesn't get home till dinner-time."

When midday came, Robby was very fractious. The mutton-bone--no cooking
was done--was harder than ever to carve with decency; and poor Mrs.
Shepherd, for sheer fidgetiness, could hardly swallow a bite.

But at nine o'clock that evening, when the labours of the day were
behind him, he was persuaded to lie down on the sofa and drink a glass
of port. At his head sat Mrs. Shepherd, holding the wine and some
biscuits; at his feet Isabella, stroking his soles. The stimulant
revived him; he grew quite mellow, and presently, taking his wife's
hand, he held it in his--and Laura felt sure that all his querulousness
was forgiven him for the sake of this moment. Then, finding a willing
listener in the black-eyed lit