head to know if the "things" had come.
The postmistress replied, in her formal
manner, that they had come, and that the
whole of them would be ready in time to go
away  to London with the rest of Miss Levine's
luggage on the following morning. Whereupon
the damsel disappeared; expressing her
delight by slamming the glass door so
violently that she knocked from one of the
panes the inscription of painted tin which
informed the nobility, gentry, and public at
large, that Miss Pim made up ladies' own
material on the most reasonable terms.

Having replaced her advertisement as
quietly as if the act were a part of her day's
routine, Miss Pim produced from the bandbox
a little hat, a fold of net, a packet of
white Persian, a strip of dove-coloured cloth,
and several yards of the finest calico. She
then cut out the net for half-a-dozen caps, to
draw them up and trim them with some pillow
lace; her customer's own material.

Miss Pim was very thoughtful and very
sad. She could not work with her usual
diligence; although she was working against
time. She sighed much, and tears filled
her eyes; so that she was obliged to leave
off sewing. Was she committing a sin?
Was she wrong in undertaking, upon urgent
entreaty, to assist a single young woman
whom the world called unfortunate? Could
it be a crime to help a victim of misfortune?
Yet, when it came to be known that she had
thus secretly assisted Miss Levine, would not
ladies take away their work from her?
Perhaps. She knew Mrs. Calder Dornley
would. But right is right; and loss of work
she would not repent, if she could only be
sure that she was right! Then a glance at
the great square parlour window of Corner
Cottage opposite; and, occasionally, the sight
of a pale eager face, with eyes enlarged,
darkly bordered, and straining into the misty
road whenever the faintest sound of horses'
hoofs could be heard, banished irresolution,
and the needle darted more rapidly through
the cloth than ever.

"Besides," continued the conscientious
reasoner, "Miss Levine herself, her mother
so lately dead, and her father the late rector
—wise and pious—never made sin a
ground for withholding help." There was
hardly a family in the parish, whatever their
creed or condition, who had not to thank
them for some benefit; from simple words of
comfort and stealthy acts of charity, up to
salvation from ruin. When her own mother
lay helpless for two years up-stairs, and
herself was brought to actual want, either Parson
Levine or Mrs. Levine, or Miss Levine, came
once a day to the bedside; seldom empty-
handed. It was Parson Levine who spoke
to the county member to get her to be made
postmistress,—and she and all her family
dissenters. Then, again, Miss Levine may
not have sinned. She may be married, and
be bound down to secresy.

The shadow of the waggon, slowly grinding
the road towards Matlock, darkened the window
for an instant; and Miss Pim once more
ceased working. Her head ached. She was
not equal to all the doleful surmises that
entered her mind respecting Miss Levine.
She was haunted too by the shadow of Mrs.
Calder Dornley, that had often clouded
her house of late; silently opening her door;
sitting down stiffly in her room, and asking
spy questions about Corner Cottage: if Miss
Pim had noticed anybody go in or come out
lately; what letters had arrived, and what
letters had been sent away; speaking (even
to Miss Pim's meek apprehension)
unimpassioned venom; darting, from her sloe-like
eyes, sharp rays of anger, when she
mentioned how distinguished families may be
disgraced by the vices of low-born girls; always
applying her censures to the "young person
opposite," and ending her visits by threatening,
in measured sentences, ruin and disgrace to
any person living on the Crookston property,
who presumed to further or conceal any
family ignominy that may be brewing against
the Dornleys or Stonards, whether it related
to birth or marriage. Yet it was clear that
these objections did not proceed from rooted
principle; for Mrs. Calder was continually
showing kindness to that pert and improper
young woman, Mary Garstang, and her ill-
starred baby.

The troubled quakeress looked again for
relief from her thoughts, towards the broad
window of the cottage across the way. The
same face presented itself;—the same large
eager eyes, straining towards the Nottingham
road. Miss Pim knew that Mr. George
Dornley was expected back to take Miss
Levine with him to London, on his birth-day.
This was it;—the ninth of June. She was
watching for him, no doubt. But if he should
not come?

This brought into her mind that sudden
grief, or even joy, sometimes hastens nature,
and brings on prematurely such events as
that which Miss Levine would certainly be
subjected to; and she once more set to work,
determined to complete the order in hand
before bed-time.

Eusta Levine had been equally busy in the
parlour of Corner Cottage. After breakfast
she had to pack for the journey to London;
but without disturbing those pretty ornaments
about her rooms which The Expected loved
to see. In the intervals of activity she
continued her imaginary journey with him,
as long as imagination was under control.
It had taken her from Dover to London, from
London to Shutbury, and from Shutbury to
Nottingham; and now brought her to the
very inn in which she had spent, a year
before, the one supremely happy day of her
existence. She saw him in her mind's eye
mount Black Nan at the inn door to come
to her, and felt that only a few diminishing
hours divided them.