small moment in this world, not to be thought of beside such a thing
as the helping of a human brother in sore strait.

All the labour of the day seems light to them, looking forward to the
hour when they sit together in John's old shabby dining-room above
the counting-house. Yet a looker-on might imagine such times dull to
them; for they are strangely shy of one another, strangely sparing of
words--fearful of opening the flood-gates of speech, feeling the
pressure of the pent-up thought.

One evening, John, throwing out words, not as a sop to the necessity
for talk, but as a bait to catch Anne's voice, mentions girdle-cakes,
remembers that his old housekeeper used to be famous for the making
of them, and wonders if she has forgotten the art.

Anne, answering tremulously, as though girdle-cakes were a somewhat
delicate topic, claims to be a successful amateur of them herself.
John, having been given always to understand that the talent for them
was exceedingly rare, and one usually hereditary, respectfully doubts
Anne's capabilities, deferentially suggesting that she is thinking of
scones. Anne indignantly repudiates the insinuation, knows quite
well the difference between girdle-cakes and scones, offers to prove
her powers by descending into the kitchen and making some then and
there, if John will accompany her and find the things for her.

John accepts the challenge, and, guiding Anne with one shy, awkward
hand, while holding aloft a candle in the other, leads the way. It
is past ten o'clock, and the old housekeeper is in bed. At each
creaking stair they pause, to listen if the noise has awakened her;
then, finding all silent, creep forward again, with suppressed