granted that she would like to be shown round, and had seemed so pleased
and eager, that she had not the heart to repel her. A curious little old
party with a smooth, peach-like complexion and white soft hair that the
fading twilight, stealing through the yellow glass, turned to gold. So
that at first sight Joan took her for a child. The voice, too, was so
absurdly childish--appealing, and yet confident. Not until they were
crossing the aisle, where the clearer light streamed in through the open
doors, did Joan see that she was very old and feeble, with about her
figure that curious patient droop that comes to the work-worn. She
proved to be most interesting and full of helpful information. Mary
Stopperton was her name. She had lived in the neighbourhood all her
life; had as a girl worked for the Leigh Hunts and had "assisted" Mrs.
Carlyle. She had been very frightened of the great man himself, and had
always hidden herself behind doors or squeezed herself into corners and
stopped breathing whenever there had been any fear of meeting him upon
the stairs. Until one day having darted into a cupboard to escape from
him and drawn the door to after her, it turned out to be the cupboard in
which Carlyle was used to keep his boots. So that there was quite a
struggle between them; she holding grimly on to the door inside and
Carlyle equally determined to open it and get his boots. It had ended in
her exposure, with trembling knees and scarlet face, and Carlyle had
addressed her as "woman," and had insisted on knowing what she was doing
there. And after that she had lost all terror of him. And he had even
allowed her with a grim smile to enter occasionally the sacred study with
her broom and pan. It had evidently made a lasting impression upon her,
that privilege.

"They didn't get on very well together, Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle?" Joan
queried, scenting the opportunity of obtaining first-class evidence.

"There wasn't much difference, so far as I could see, between them and
most of us," answered the little old lady. "You're not married, dear,"
she continued, glancing at Joan's ungloved hand, "but people must have a
deal of patience when they have to live with us for twenty-four hours a
day. You see, little things we do and say without thinking, and little
ways we have that we do not notice ourselves, may all the time be
irritating to other people."

"What about the other people irritating us?" suggested Joan.

"Y