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“‘Bid Mrs. Moss good-day, Mary,’ said my grandmother; and added, ‘the child has been wild to come and see you, Anastatia.’

“Mrs. Moss held out her hand good-naturedly. ‘So you wanted to see me, my dear?’ said she.

“I took my hand out of my pocket, where I had been holding the pincushion, and put both into Mrs. Moss’s palm.

“‘I brought this for you ma’am,’ I said. ‘It is not a real strawberry; it is emery; I made it myself.’

“And the fact of having sacrificed something for Mrs. Moss made me almost fond of her. Moreover, there was an expression in her eyes at that moment which gave them beauty. She looked at my grandmother and laid her hand on my head.

“‘I lost all mine, Elizabeth.’

“I thought she was speaking of her pincushions, and being in a generous mood, said hastily,

“When that is worn out, ma’am, I will make you another.’

“But she was speaking of her children. Poor Mrs. Moss! She took another huge pinch of snuff, and called, ‘Metcalfe.’

“The faded little woman appeared once more.

“‘I must give you a keepsake in return, my dear,’ said Mrs. Moss. ‘The china pug, Metcalfe!’

“Metcalfe (whose face always wore a smile that looked as if it were just about to disappear, and who, indeed, for that matter, always looked as if she were just about to disappear herself) opened one of the cabinets, and brought out a little toy pug in china, very delicately coloured, and looking just like one of my friends on the mat. I fell in love with it at once, and it was certainly a handsome exchange for the strawberry pincushion.

“‘You will send the child to see me now and then, Elizabeth?’ said Mrs. Moss as we retired.

“In the end Mrs. Moss and I became great friends. I put aside my dream among the ‘vain fancies’ of life, and took very kindly to the manor in its new aspect. Even the stuffed footman became familiar, and learnt to welcome me with a smile. The real Mrs. Moss was a more agreeable person than I have, I fear, represented her. She had failed to grasp solid happiness in life, because she had chosen with the cowardice of an inferior mind; but she had borne disappointment with dignity, and submitted to heavy sorrows with patience; and a greater nature could not have done more. She was the soul of good humour, and the love of small chat, which contrasted so oddly with her fierce appearance, was a fund of entertainment for me, as I fed my imagination and stored my memory with anecdotes of the good old times in the many quiet evenings we spent together. I learnt to love her more heartily, I confess, when she bought a new gown and gave the feuille-morte satin to Mrs. Metcalfe.

“Mrs. Metcalfe was ‘humble companion’ to Mrs. Moss. She was in reality single, but she exacted the married title as a point of respect. At the beginning of our acquaintance I called her ‘Miss Metcalfe,’ and this occasioned the only check our friendship ever received. Now I would, with the greatest pleasure, have addressed her as ‘My Lord Archbishop,’ or in any other style to which she was not entitled, it being a matter of profound indifference to me. But the question was a serious one to her, and very serious she made it, till I almost despaired of our ever coming to an understanding on the subject.

“On every other point she was unassuming almost to non-entity. She was weak-minded to the verge of mental palsy. She was more benevolent in deed, and more wandering in conversation, than any one I have met with since. That is, in ordinary life. In the greenhouse or garden (with which she and the head-gardener alone had any real acquaintance) her accurate and profound knowledge would put to shame many professed garden botanists I have met with since. From her I learnt what little I know of the science of horticulture, and with her I spent many happy hours over the fine botanical works in the manor library, which she alone ever opened.