Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door . . . I hope I haven’t disturbed you, madam. You weren’t asleep — were you? But I’ve just given my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps . . .

. . . Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, “Now you needn’t be in too much of a hurry to say your prayers.” But it’s always boiling before my lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they’ve all got to be prayed for — every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and my lady says afterwards, “Ellen, give me my little red book,” I feel quite wild, I do. “There’s another,” I think, “keeping her out of her bed in all weathers.” And she won’t have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. I’ve tried to cheat her; I’ve spread out the eiderdown. But the first time I did it — oh, she gave me such a look — holy it was, madam. “Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?” she said. But — I was younger at the time — I felt inclined to say, “No, but our Lord wasn’t your age, and he didn’t know what it was to have your lumbago.” Wicked — wasn’t it? But she’s too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen — saw her lying back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow — so pretty — I couldn’t help thinking, “Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!”

. . . Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, “Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference.”

. . . Only the last year, madam. Only after she’d got a little — well — feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was — she thought she’d lost something. She couldn’t keep still, she couldn’t settle. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere,— on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she’d look up at you, and she’d say — just like a child, “I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it.” “Come along,” I’d say, “come along, and I’ll lay out your patience for you.” But she’d catch me by the hand — I was a favourite of hers — and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.” Sad, wasn’t it?

. . . No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was — very slow, “Look in-the — Look — in-” And then she was gone.

. . . No, madam, I can’t say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it’s like this, I’ve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll’s hair — copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I’d sit all day, quiet as quiet — the customers never knew. Only now and again I’d take my peep from under the table-cloth.

. . . But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and — would you believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the tongs — I shall never forget it — grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers in them. “That’ll teach you!” he said. It was a fearful burn. I’ve got the mark of it today.

. . . Well, you see, madam, he’d taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something beautiful — big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done . . . But he always took the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I’d made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don’t know how far I didn’t run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me . . .

. . . No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn’t bear the sight of me after. Couldn’t eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady . . .

. . . Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don’t remember ever feeling — well — a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes — once I did! That was — funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her — we were at Sheldon at the time — and there was a fair on the common.

“Now, Ellen,” she said, “I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys.” Off we went; solemn little loves they ............