have rejoiced at the sight of it, and have retraced her four miles to
Mallowe in absolute jubilation. She would have shortened and beguiled
her return journey by depicting to herself Lady Maria's pleasure and
relief.

But the letter from Mrs. Cupp lay like a weight of lead in her pocket.
It had given her such things to think of as she walked that she had been
oblivious to heather and bees and fleece-bedecked summer-blue sky, and
had felt more tired than in any tramp through London streets that she
could call to mind. Each step she took seemed to be carrying her farther
away from the few square yards of home the bed-sitting-room had
represented under the dominion of the Cupps. Every moment she recalled
more strongly that it had been home--home. Of course it had not been the
third-floor back room so much as it had been the Cupps who made it so,
who had regarded her as a sort of possession, who had liked to serve
her, and had done it with actual affection.

"I shall have to find a new place," she kept saying. "I shall have to go
among quite strange people."

She had suddenly a new sense of being without resource. That was one of
the proofs of the curious heaviness of the blow the simple occurrence
was to her. She felt temporarily almost as if there were no other
lodging-houses in London, though she knew that really there were tens of
thousands. The fact was that though there might be other Cupps, or their
counterparts, she could not make herself believe such a good thing
possible. She had been physically worn out before she had read the
letter, and its effect had been proportionate to her fatigue and lack of
power to rebound. She was vaguely surprised to feel that the tears kept
filling her eyes and falling on her cheeks in big heavy drops. She was