girlhood; even Miss Leaf could not draw her into much
demonstrativeness: she was one of those people who never "come out"
till they are strongly needed, and then-- But it remained to be
proved what this girl would be.

Years afterward Hilary remembered with what a curious reticence
Elizabeth used to go about in those days: how she remained as
old-fashioned as ever; acquired no London ways, no fripperies of
dress or flippancies of manner. Also, that she never complained of
anything; though the discomforts of her lodging-house life must have
been great--greater than her mistresses had any idea of at the time.
Slowly, out of her rough, unpliant girlhood, was forming that
character of self-reliance and self-control, which, in all ranks,
makes of some women the helpers rather than the helped, the laborers
rather than the pleasure-seekers; women whose constant lot it seems
to be to walk on the shadowed side of life, to endure rather than to
enjoy.

Elizabeth had very little actual enjoyment. She made no
acquaintances, and never asked for holidays. Indeed she did not seem
to care for any. Her great treat was when, on a Sunday afternoon,
Miss Hilary sometimes took her to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's;
when her pleasure and gratitude always struck her mistress--may, even
soothed her, and won her from her own many anxieties. It is such a
blessing to be able to make any other human being, even for an hour
or two, entirely happy.

Except these bright Sundays, Elizabeth's whole time was spent in
waiting upon Miss Leaf, who had seemed to grow suddenly frail and
old. It might be that living without her child six days out of the