paid servant, and if ever it happened that she could not supply a can of soup quickly enough sharp words reached her ear. “Now then, you gyurl there! Are you goin’ to keep me all d'y? I’ve got somethink else to do but stand ‘ere.” And Jane, by her timid hastening, confirmed the original impression, with the result that she was treated yet more unceremoniously next time. Of all forms of insolence there is none more flagrant than that of the degraded poor receiving charity which they have come to regard as a right.
Jane did speak at length. Miss Lant had called to see her in Hanover Street; seated quietly in her own parlour, with Michael Snowdon to approve,—with him she had already discussed the matter,—Jane ventured softly to compare the present state of things and that of former winters, as described to her by various people.
“Wasn’t it rather a pity,” she suggested, “that the old people were sent away?”
“You think so?” returned Miss Lant, with the air of one to whom a novel thought is presented. “You really think so. Miss Snowdon?”
“They got on so well with everybody,”
