Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb—obscure, for it had just sprung into existence. The scaffolding that had built it now littered an adjoining field, where in a few months it would rise about Horsely Gardens, whose red gables and tiled upper walls will correspond unfailingly with those of Avondale Road. Nowhere in this neighbourhood could Esther detect signs of eighteen pounds a year. Scanning the Venetian blinds of the single drawing-room window, she said to herself, "Hot joint today, cold the next." She noted the trim iron railings and the spare shrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable windows of the cupboard-like rooms where the single servant kept in these houses slept.

A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. The thin passage and the meagre staircase confirmed Esther in the impression she had received from the aspect of the street; and she felt that the place was more suitable to the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair who waited in the passage. This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she had come after the place a painful change of expression passed over her face, and she said—

"You'll get it; I'm too old for anything but charing. How much are you going to ask?"

"I can't take less than sixteen."

"Sixteen! I used to get that once; I'd be glad enough to get twelve now. You can't think of sixteen once you've turned forty, and I've lost my teeth, and they means a couple of pound off."

Then the door opened, and a woman's voice called to the gaunt woman to come in. She went in, and Esther breathed a prayer that she might not be engaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman came out; there were tears in her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, "No good; I told you so. I'm too old for anything but charing." The abruptness of the interview suggested a hard mistress, and Esther was surprised to find herself in the presence of a slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whose small grey eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle nature. As she stood speaking to her, Esther saw a tall glass filled with chrysanthemums and a large writing-table covered with books and papers. There was a bookcase, and in place of the usual folding-doors, a bead curtain hung between the rooms.

The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a writer, and Esther remembered that she had noticed even at the time Miss Rice's manuscript, it was such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on the table, ready to be continued the moment she should have settled with her.

"I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss; I've come after the situation."

"You are used to service?"

"Yes, miss, I've had several situations in gentlemen's families, and have excellent characters from them all." Then Esther related the story of her situations, and Miss Rice put up her glasses and her grey eyes smiled. She seemed pleased with the somewhat rugged but pleasant-featured girl before her.

"I live alone," she said; "the place is an easy one, and if the wages satisfy you, I think you will suit me very well. My servant, who has been with me some years, is leaving me to be married."

"What are the wages, miss?"

"Fourteen pounds a year."

"I'm afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking the place; I've so many calls on my money that I could not manage on fourteen pounds. I'm very sorry, for I feel sure I should like to live with you, miss."

But what was the good of taking the place? She could not possibly manage on fourteen, even if Miss Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and that didn't look likely. All her strength seemed to give way under her misfortune, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears.

"I think we should suit each other," Miss Rice said reflectively.

"I should like to have you for my servant if I could afford it. How much would you take?"

"Situated, as I am, miss, I could not take less than sixteen. I've been used to eighteen."

"Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it over. Give me your name and address."

"Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich."

As Esther turned to go she became aware of the kindness of the eyes that looked at her. Miss Rice said—

"I'm afraid you're in trouble…. Sit down; tell me about it."

"No, miss, what's the use?" But Miss Rice looked at her so kindly that Esther could not restrain herself. "There's nothing for it," she said, "but to go back to the workhouse."

"But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you fourteen pounds a year and everything found."

"You see, miss, I've a baby; we've been in the workhouse already; I had to go there the night I left my situation, to get him away from Mrs. Spires; she wanted to kill him; she'd have done it for five pounds—that's the price. But, miss, my story is not one that can be told to a lady such as you."

"I think I'm old enough to listen to your story; sit down, and tell it to me."

And all the while Miss Rice's eyes were filled with tenderness and pity.

"A very sad story—just such a story as happens every day. But you have been punished, you have indeed."

"Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years of striving it is hard to have to take him back to the workhouse. Not that I want to give out that I was badly treated there, but it is the child I'm thinking of. He was then a little baby and it didn't matter; we was only there a few months. There's no one that knows of it but me. But he's a growing boy now, he'll remember the workhouse, and it will be always a disgrace."

"How old is he?"

"He was six last May, miss. It has been a hard job to bring him up. I now pay six shillings a week for him, that's more than fourteen pounds a year, and you can't do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And now that he's growing up he's costing more than ever; but Mrs. Lewis—that's the woman what has brought him up—is as fond of him as I am myself. She don't want to make nothing out of his keep, and that's how I've managed up to the present. But I see well enough that it can't be done; his expense increases, and the wages remains the same. It was my pride to bring him up on my earnings, and my hope to see him an honest man earning good money. But it wasn't to be, miss, it wasn't to be. We must be humble and go back to the workhouse."

"I can see that it has been a hard fight."

"It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how hard. I shouldn't mind if it wasn't going to end by going back to where it started…. They'll take him from me; I shall never see him while he is there. I wish I was dead, miss, I can't bear my trouble no longer."

"You shan't go back to the workhouse so long as I can help you. Esther, I'll give you the wages you ask for. It is more than I can afford. Eighteen pounds a year! But your child shall not be taken from you. You shall not go to the workhouse. There aren't many such good women in the world as you, Esther."