"The pillar-box is only three or four minutes' walk from here," she said. "Besides, one can't plan things out like that, beforehand—it would be a perfect nuisance. It won't do the girl any harm; Eliza always used to go."
Eliza was a former servant. She was pretty and feather-brained, and when she left our house some few months earlier, Mrs. Norris had refused to give her a character. The reason, no doubt, was unanswerable, but the fault had appeared to me to lie with the mistress as much as with the maid.
I thought of Eliza, looked at Amy's plump, satisfied countenance and laughed a little by way of reply. Long experience had taught me that argument and explanation here—in Mrs. Norris' boarding-house—were entirely useless weapons.
As I was preparing for bed, I wondered idly if Martha had found her way safely back, and where she was to sleep. I knew there was only one room available for the servants, and I supposed that she was to share it with the cook and the housemaid. The child interested me; there was about her an unconscious earnestness which appealed to me. Her face was stamped with that expression, at once piteous and irritating, which is the result of a slow but conscientious nature striving its utmost to keep level with the demands made upon it by quicker minds. This first night away from home and in the midst of new surroundings would be very trying for the girl. My thoughts dwelt on her for a brief space and then, turning inevitably towards my own affairs, they dropped her out of their consideration. Presently, I lit a candle and went up to the box-room, where, amongst other things, I had stored away several books, one of which I particularly wanted to read. The box-room was at the top of the house, and was reached by a short staircase, so steep as to be almost a ladder. From the top of this ladder, which was of bare deal, uncarpeted, you stepped
