ould live to see the day," said Miss Pinnegar.

"You might almost have expected it," said Mrs. Rollings. "But you're
all right, yourself, Miss Pinnegar. Your money isn't with his, is
it?"

"No," said Miss Pinnegar. "What little I have put by is safe. But
it's not enough to live on. It's not enough to keep me, even
supposing I only live another ten years. If I only spend a pound a
week, it costs fifty-two pounds a year. And for ten years, look at
it, it's five hundred and twenty pounds. And you couldn't say less.
And I haven't half that amount. I never had more than a wage, you
know. Why, Miss Frost earned a good deal more than I do. And _she_
didn't leave much more than fifty. Where's the money to come
from--?"

"But if you've enough to start a little business--" said Alvina.

"Yes, it's what I shall _have_ to do. It's what I shall have to do.
And then what about you? What about you?"

"Oh, don't bother about me," said Alvina.

"Yes, it's all very well, don't bother. But when you come to my age,
you know you've _got_ to bother, and bother a great deal, if you're
not going to find yourself in a position you'd be sorry for. You
_have_ to bother. And _you'll_ have to bother before you've done."

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," said Alvina.

"Ha, sufficient for a good many days, it seems to me."

Miss Pinnegar was in a real temper. To Alvina this seemed an odd way
of taking it. The three women sat down to an uncomfortable dinner of
cold meat and hot potatoes and warmed-up pudding.

"But whatever you do," pronounced Miss Pinnegar; "whatever you do,
and however you strive, in this life, you're knocked down in the
end. You're always knocked down."

"It doesn't matter," said Alvina, "if it's only in the end. It
doesn't matter if you've had your life."

"You've never had your life, till you're dead," said Miss Pinnegar.
"And if you work and strive, you've a right to the fruits of your
work."

"It doesn't matter," said Alvina laconically, "so long as you've
enjoyed working and striving."

But Miss Pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. Alvina knew it
was useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. None the
less, she also felt as if she had been knocked down. And she almost
envied poor Miss Pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-day
haberdashery shop in Tamworth. Her own problem seemed so much more
menacing. "Answer or die," said the Sphinx of fate. Miss Pinnegar
could answer her own