On she hastened. 'What is the cost of a return
ticket to St. Albans, please?' Three-and-sevenpence. Back into the
street again; she must now look for a certain sign, indicating a
certain place of business. With some little trouble it is found; she
enters a dark passage, and comes before a counter, upon which she
lays--a watch, her grandfather's old watch. 'How much?' 'Four
shillings, please.' She deposits a halfpenny, and receives four
shillings, together with a ticket. Now for St. Albans.
Sam! Sam! Ay, well might he turn red and stutter and look generally
foolish when that quiet little girl stood before him in his
'stock-room' at the hotel. Her words were as quiet as her look.
'I'll write her a letter,' he cries. 'Stop; you shall take it back.
I can't give up the job at once, but you may tell her I'm up to no
harm. Where's the pen? Where's the cursed ink?' And she takes the
letter.
'Why, you've lost a day's work, Jane! She gave you the money for the
journey, I suppose?'
'Yes, yes, of course.'
'Tell her she's not to make a fool of herself in future.'
'No, I shan't say that, Mr. Byass. But I'm half-tempted to say it to
someone else!'
It was the old, happy smile, come back for a moment; the voice that
had often made peace so merrily.
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