When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, and as she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet streets, catching her full in the face.

She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her father would have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but no one could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box he might fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even if she had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment another gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. The sky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled in vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard but the melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a penny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a pound foolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the little brick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door open she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of the children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound of footsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked over the banisters, she cried—

"Who is it?"

"Me, mother."

"What! You, Esther?"

"Yes, mother."

Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her. "Well, this is nice to see you again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly, Esther." Then her face changed expression. "What has happened? Have you lost your situation?"

"Yes, mother."

"Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 'appy there and liked your mistress above all those you 'ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper and answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your own temper—you was never very sure of it."

"I've no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in the world—none better,—and my temper—it wasn't that, mother—"

"My own darling, tell me—"

Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and the front door was open. "Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there…. When do you expect father home?"

"Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet."

Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then they went into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehair sofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in their hearts betrayed itself on their faces.

"I had to leave, mother. I'm seven months gone."

"Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!"

"Yes, mother, it is quite true."

Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned her regarding details she said—

"Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don't care to talk about it more than
I can help."

Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders' cheeks, and when she wiped them away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob.

"Don't cry, mother," said Esther. "I have been very wicked, I know, but God will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do, and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow."

"Your father will never let you stop 'ere; 'e'll say, just as afore, that there be too many mouths to feed as it is."

"I don't want him to keep me for nothing—I know well enough if I did that 'e'd put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good money while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I must go, Mrs. Barfield—the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever there was one—gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my trouble. I've better than eleven pound. Don't cry, mother dear; crying won't do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holds out I can get a lodging anywhere, but I'd like to be near you; and father might be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven shillings a week—I could afford as much as that, and he never was the man to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?"

"I dunno, dearie; 'tis hard to say what 'e'll do; he's a 'ard man to live with. I've 'ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming. Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!"

"Poor mother!" said Esther, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, she passed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. "I know what he was; is he any worse now?"

"Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the other day, just as I was attending to his dinner—it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me do it, and he cries out, 'Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my dinner for?' I says, 'I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.' 'Well, then, taste that,' he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes, lucky for you to be in service; you've half forgot by now what we've to put up with 'ere."

"You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since I dashed the hot water in his face."

"Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go and drown meself. Jenny and Julia—you remember little Julia; she 'as grown up such a big girl, and is getting on so well—they are both at work now in the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word of truth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, but it ain't no use. If it wasn't for Jenny and Julia I don't think we should ever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at the warehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any other. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds; but they never complains, no more shouldn't I if he was a bit gentler and didn't take more than half of what he earns to the public-'ouse. I was glad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an 'asty temper and couldn't 'ave borne it. I don't want to make my troubles seem worse than they be, but sometimes I think I will break up, 'special when I get to thinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing less and expenses increasing. I haven't told yer, but I daresay you have noticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poor women down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you must put a brave face on it; we'll do the best we can; none of us can say no more."

Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther looked at her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further words mother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. It was a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at the back of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. There was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on the left-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid the poor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs, some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle. Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were now finishing the last few that remained of the order they had received from the shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearing the brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia. The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling them with brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous fingers.

"Why, it is Esther!" said Jenny, the elder girl. "And, lorks, ain't she grand!—quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye." And having kissed their sister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired with their pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled with consciousness of the advantage of service.

Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked him if he remembered her.

"Naw, I don't think I do. Will oo put me down?"

"But you do, Lizzie?" she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose bright red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight.

"Yes, you're my big sister; you've been away this year or more in service."

"And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?"

Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment's reflection she nodded her head vigorously.

"Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on," said Mrs. Saunders; "she makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless in drawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it: 'ere's a dog with one shoulder just 'arf the size of the other."

"Oh, mother, I'm sure nobody'd never know the difference."

"Wouldn't know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural?
Sich carelessness I never seed."

"Esther, just look at Julia's dog," cried Jenny, "'e 'asn't got no more than 'arf a shoulder. It's lucky mother saw it, for if the manager'd seen it he'd have found something wrong with I don't know 'ow many more, and docked us maybe a shilling or more on the week's work."

Julia began to cry.

"Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said I worked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled—"

"There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser—I always 'as the right for my dogs—and if you find one there with an uneven shoulder I'll—"

"Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like 'erself; that's why she stuffs so much paper into her dogs."

It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of the excellence of Jenny's dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in the interval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther. Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and to make an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia's dog and told her that it must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped to force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould.

"Now," she said, "it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was a real dog he could walk."

"Oh, bother!" cried Jenny, "I shan't be able to finish my last dozen this evening. I 'ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins that Julia is a-using of for her little one won't do for this size."

"Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money they would bring to finish the week with."

"No, we can't get no buttons in the shop: that's 'ome work, they says; and even if they 'ad them they wouldn't let us put them in there. That's 'ome work they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot."

"But 'aven't you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run and get them."

"No, I've run short."

"But," said Esther, "I'll give you sixpence to get your buttons with."

"Yes, that's it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow if you are 'ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we'll send it."

"I'm not going back just yet."

"What, 'ave yer lost yer situation?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Saunders, "Esther ain't well—she 'as come up for 'er 'ealth; take the sixpence and run along."

"May I go too?" said Julia. "I've been at work since eight, and I've only a few more dogs to do."

"Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don't bother me any more,
I've got to get your father's supper."

When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely; the other children were too young to understand.

"There is times when 'e is well enough," said Mrs. Saunders, "and others when 'e is that awful. It is 'ard to know 'ow to get him, but 'e is to be got if we only knew 'ow. Sometimes 'tis most surprising how easy 'e do take things, and at others—well, as about that piece of steak that I was a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour 'e's as like as not to take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour 'e's as like as not to say, 'Well, my gal, make yerself at 'ome.'"

"He can but turn me out, I'll leave yer to speak to 'im, mother."

"I'll do my best, but I don't answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper do make a difference in 'im, and as ill luck will 'ave it, I've nothing but a rasher, whereas if I only 'ad a bit of steak 'e'd brighten up the moment he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful."

"But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slip round to the butcher's and——"

"Yes, get half a pound, and when it's nicely cooked and inside him it'll make all the difference. That will please him. But I don't like to see you spending your money—money that you'll want badly."

"It can't be helped, mother. I shan't be above a minute or two away, and
I'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak."

Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchases they remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasant evening.

"When he's done eating 'e'll go out to smoke his pipe with some of his chaps," said Jenny, "and we shall have the 'ouse to ourselves, and yer can tell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don't they? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he very handsome? I've 'eard that they all is."

"And you'll show us yer dresses, won't you?" said Julia. "How many 'ave you got, and 'ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy such beauties, if they're all like that?"

"This dress was given to me by Miss Mary."

"Was it? She must be a real good 'un. I should like to go to service; I'm tired of making dogs; we have to work that 'ard, and it nearly all goes to the public; father drinks worse than ever."

Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther's purchase; it was a beautiful bit of steak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat was roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work, pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply to the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs. Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread in the passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he would come to them mollified and amiable.

"Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready with yer supper."

"I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice, what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?"

"Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender."

"That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and
I'm that 'ungry."

Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle; around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay sniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly a whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken.

"What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty well this evening, I reckon. What's up?"

"Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought we'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'as been doing pretty well, and can afford it."

Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said——

"Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug.
"Where did you get this?"

"In Durham street, at the 'Angel.'"

"I thought as much; they don't sell stuff like this at the 'Rose and
Crown.' Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; and
I see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman—is it
nearly done? Yer know I don't like all the goodness burnt out of it."

"It isn't quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more——"

Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther.

"Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toff yer are! Quite a lady…. There's nothing like service for a girl; I've always said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn't yer like to go into service, like yer sister? Looks better, don't it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence the gross?"

"I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take my place, I mean to try."

"It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress," said
Julia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite."

At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, "Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot."

Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none of them ever had suppers like that. He didn't speak until he had put away the better part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of beer, he said—

"I 'aven't enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was that beat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meat into one's stomach after a 'ard day's work!"

Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she was staying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered his questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve only increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of the race-horses.

"I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing through the yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of talk about them in the servants' hall, but I didn't notice it. They were a great trouble to Mrs. Barfield—I told you, mother, that she was one of ourselves, didn't I?"

A look of contempt passed over Jim's face, and he said—

"We've quite enough talk 'ere about the Brethren; give them a rest. What about the 'orses? Did they win any races? Yer can't 'ave missed 'earing that."

"Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards' Cup."

"Silver Braid was one of your horses?"

"Yes, Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, everyone in Shoreham won something, and a ball for the servants was given in the Gardens."

"And you never thought of writing to me about it! I could have 'ad thirty to one off Bill Short. One pound ten to a bob! And yer never thought it worth while to send me the tip. I'm blowed! Girls aren't worth a damn…. Thirty to one off Bill Short—he'd have laid it. I remember seeing the price quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. If you had told me all yer knowed I might 'ave gone 'alf a quid—fifteen pun to 'alf a quid! as much as I'd earn in three months slaving eight and ten hours a day, paint-pot on 'and about them blooming engines. Well, there's no use crying over what's done—sich a chance won't come again, but something else may. What are they going to do with the 'orse this autumn—did yer 'ear that?"

"I think I 'eard that he was entered for the Cambridgeshire, but if I remember rightly, Mr. Leopold—that's the butler, not his real name, but what we call him—"

"Ah, yes; I know; after the Baron. Now what do 'e say? I reckon 'e knows. I should like to 'ave 'alf-an-hour's talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do 'e say? For what 'e says, unless I'm pretty well mistaken, is worth listening to. A man wouldn't be a-wasting 'is time in listening to 'im. What do 'e say?"

"Mr. Leopold never says much. He's the only one the Gaffer ever confides in. 'Tis said they are as thick as thieves, so they say. Mr. Leopold was his confidential servant when the Gaffer—that's the squire—was a bachelor."

Jim chuckled. "Yes, I think I know what kind of man your Mr. Leopold is like. But what did 'e say about the Cambridgeshire?"

"He only laughed a little once, and said he didn't think the 'orse would do much good in the autumn races—no, not races, that isn't the word."

"Handicaps?"

"Yes, that's it. But there's no relying on what Mr. Leopold says—he never says what he really means. But I 'eard William, that's the footman—"

"What are you stopping for? What did yer 'ear 'im say?"

"That he intends to have something on next spring."

"Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub.?"

"Yes, that was the race he mentioned."

"I thought that would be about the length and the breadth of it," Jim said, as he took up his knife and fork. There was only a small portion of the beef-steak left, and this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing the last remaining beer, he leaned back in the happiness of repletion. He crammed tobacco into a dirty clay, with a dirtier finger-nail, and said—

"I'd be uncommon glad to 'ear how he is getting on. When are you going back? Up for the day only?"

Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly as he reached across the table for the matches. The decisive moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunders said—

"Esther ain't a-going back; leastways—"

"Not going back! You don't mean that she ain't contented in her situation—that she 'as—"

"Esther ain't going back no more," Mrs. Saunders answered, incautiously.
"Look ee 'ere, Jim—"

"Out with it, old woman—no 'umbug! What is it all about? Ain't going back to 'er sitooation, and where she 'as been treated like that—just look at the duds she 'as got on."

The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight flickered over the back of the toy dogs piled up on the dresser. Jim had lit his pipe, and the acrid and warm odour of quickly-burning tobacco overpowered the smell of grease and the burnt skin of the baked potato, a fragment of which remained on the plate; only the sickly flavour of drying paste was distinguishable in the reek of the short black clay which the man held firmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire, her hands crossed over her knees, no signs of emotion on her sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saunders stood on the other side of Esther, between her and the younger children, now quarrelling among themselves, and her face was full of fear as she watched her husband anxiously.

"Now, then, old woman, blurt it out!" he said. "What is it? Can it be the girl 'as lost her sitooation—got the sack? Yes, I see that's about the cut of it. Her beastly temper! So they couldn't put up with it in the country any more than I could mesel'. Well, it's 'er own look-out! If she can afford to chuck up a place like that, so much the better for 'er. Pity, though; she might 'ave put me up to many a good thing."

"It ain't that, Jim. The girl is in trouble."

"Wot do yer say? Esther in trouble? Well, that's the best bit I've heard this long while. I always told ye that the religious ones were just the same as the others—a bit more hypocritical, that's all. So she that wouldn't 'ave nothing to do with such as was Mrs. Dunbar 'as got 'erself into trouble! Well I never! But 'tis just what I always suspected. The goody-goody sort are the worst. So she 'as got 'erself into trouble! Well, she'll 'ave to get 'erself out of it."

"Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn't be 'ard on 'er; she could tell a very different story if she wished it, but yer know what she is. There she sits like a block of marble, and won't as much as say a word in 'er own defence."

"But I don't want 'er to speak. I don't care, it's nothing to me; I only laughed because—"

"Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we thought was that you might let her stop 'ere till her time was come to go to the 'orspital."

"Ah, that's it, is it? That was the meaning of the 'alf-pound of steak and the pint of porter, was it. I thought there was something hup. So she wants to stop 'ere, do she? As if there wasn't enough already! Well, I be blowed if she do! A nice thing, too; a girl can't go away to service without coming back to her respectable 'ome in trouble—in trouble, she calls it. Now, I won't 'ave it; there's enough 'ere as it is, and another coming, worse luck. We wants no bastards 'ere…. And a nice example, too, for the other children! No, I won't 'ave it!"

Jenny and Julia looked curiously at Esther, who sat quite still, her face showing no sign of emotion. Mrs. Saunders turned towards her, a pitying look on her face, saying clearly, "You see, my poor girl, how matters stand; I can do nothing."

The girl, although she did not raise her eyes, understood what was passing in her mother's mind, for there was a grave deliberativeness in the manner in which she rose from the chair.

But just as the daughter had guessed what was passing in the mother's mind, so did the mother guess what was passing in the daughter's. Mrs. Saunders threw herself before Esther, saying, "Oh, no, Esther, wait a moment; 'e won't be 'ard on 'ee." Then turning to her husband, "Yer don't understand, Jim. It is only for a little time."

"No, I tell yer. No, I won't 'ave it! There be too many 'ere as it is."

"Only a little while, Jim."

"No. And those who ain't wanted 'ad better go at once—that's my advice to them. The place is as full of us that we can 'ardly turn round as it is. No, I won't 'ear of it!"

"But, Jim, Esther is quite willing to pay her way; she's saved a good little sum of money, and could afford to pay us ten shillings a week for board and the parlour."

A perplexed look came on Jim's face.

"Why didn't yer tell me that afore? Of course I don't wish to be 'ard on the girl, as yer 'ave just heard me say. Ten shillings a week for her board and the parlour—that seems fair enough; and if it's any convenience to 'er to remain, I'm sure we'll be glad to 'ave 'er. I'll say right glad, too. We was always good friends, Esther, wasn't we, though ye wasn't one of my own?" So saying, Jim held out his hand.

Esther tried to pass by her mother. "I don't want to stop where I'm not wanted; I wants no one's charity. Let me go, mother."

"No, no, Esther. 'Aven't yer 'eard what 'e says? Ye are my child if you ain't 'is, and it would break my 'eart, that it would, to see you go away among strangers. Yer place is among yer own people, who'll look after you."

"Now, then, Esther, why should there be ill feeling. I didn't mean any 'arm. There's a lot of us 'ere, and I've to think of the interests of my own. But for all that I should be main sorry to see yer take yer money among strangers, where you wouldn't get no value for it. You'd better stop. I'm sorry for what I said. Ain't that enough for yer?"

"Jim, Jim, dear, don't say no more; leave 'er to me. Esther, for my sake stop with us. You are in trouble, and it is right for you to stop with me. Jim 'as said no more than the truth. With all the best will in the world we couldn't afford to keep yer for nothing, but since yer can pay yer way, it is yer duty to stop. Think, Esther, dear, think. Go and shake 'ands with 'im, and I'll go and make yer up a bed on the sofa."

"There's no bloody need for 'er to shake my 'and if she don't like," Jim replied, and he pulled doggedly at his pipe.

Esther tried, but her fierce and heavy temper held her back. She couldn't go to her father for reconciliation, and the matter might have ended quite differently, but suddenly, without another word, Jim put on his hat and went out to join "his chaps" who were waiting for him about the public-house, close to the cab-rank in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. The door was hardly closed behind him when the young children laughed and ran about joyously, and Jenny and Julia went over to Esther and begged her to stop.

"Of course she'll stop," said Mrs. Saunders. "And now, Esther, come along and help me to make you up a bed in the parlour."