Susan closed the door after her, and Miss Martineau took up her
knitting. Knitting woollen mittens is an occupation which harmonizes
very well with reflection and while the old lady's active fingers
moved her thoughts were busy.

"Thirty pounds a year," she said softly to herself, "thirty pounds
certain, and a lump sum of two hundred in the bank. Doubtless they owe
some of that for their mother's funeral and their own mourning. They
probably owe quite thirty pounds of that, and to make it safe, I had
better say forty. That leaves a balance of one hundred and sixty;
just enough to put away for emergencies, illness, and so forth. My
dear girls, my dear Primrose, and Jasmine, and my pretty little pet
Daisy, you cannot touch your little capital; you may get a few pounds
a year for it, or you may not--Mr. Danesfield must decide that--but
all the money you can certainly reckon on for your expenses is thirty
pounds per annum, and on that you cannot live."

Here Miss Martineau threw down her knitting, and began with some
agitation to pace up and down her tiny room.

"What was to be done with these lonely and defenceless girls? how were
they to meet the world? how were they to earn their living?"

Miss Martineau had never before found herself propounding so painful
and interesting a problem; her mind worked round it, and tried to
grapple with it, but though she stayed up far into the night, and even
had recourse to figures, and marked down on paper the very lowest sum
a girl could possibly exist on, she went to bed, having found no
solution to this vexed question.