Cuckoo--cuckoo!
The world is mad to-day."

"What unusual words for a pair of street singers!" Miss Bunce
murmured, setting down the tea-pot. But as Miss Charlotte was busy
cracking an egg, and Miss Susan in a sort of coma, dwelling perhaps
on death and its terrors, the remark went unheeded.

"Citizens, doff your coats of black,
And dress to suit the almanack--
Cuckoo--"

The voices broke off, and a rat-tat sounded on the front door.

"Say that we never give to beggars, under any circumstances,"
murmured Miss Susan, waking out of her lethargy.

The servant entered with a scrap of crumpled paper in her hand.
"There was a woman at the door who wished to see Miss Lefanu."

"Say that we never give--" Miss Susan began again, fumbling with the
note. "Bunce, I have on my gold-rimmed spectacles, and cannot read
with them, as you know. The black-rimmed pair must be up-stairs, on
the--"

"How d'ye do, my dears?" interrupted a brisk voice. In the doorway
stood a plump middle-aged woman, nodding her head rapidly. She wore
a faded alpaca gown, patched here and there, a shawl of shepherd's
plaid stained with the weather, and a nondescript bonnet. Her face
was red and roughened, as if she lived much out of doors.