SPRINGTIME

Days passed swiftly for Mavis; weeks glided into months, months into seasons.  When the anniversary of the day on which she had commenced work at the boot factory came round, she could not believe that she had been at Melkbridge a year.  When she had padded the streets of London in quest of work, she had many times told herself that she had only to secure a weekly wage in order to be happy.  Now this desire was attained, she found (as who has not?) that satisfaction in one direction breeds hunger in another.  Although her twenty shillings a week had been increased to twenty-five, and she considerably augmented this sum by teaching music to pupils to whom Mr Medlicott recommended her, Mavis was by no means content.  Her regular hours, the nature of her employment, the absence of friendship in the warm-hearted girl’s life, all irked her; she fearfully wondered if she were doomed to spend her remaining days in commencing work at nine-thirty and leaving off at half-past four upon five days of the week, and one on Saturdays.  If the fifty-two weeks spent in Melkbridge had not brought contentment to her mind, the good air of the place, together with Mrs Farthing’s wholesome food, had wrought a wondrous change in her appearance.  The tired girl with the hunted look in her eyes had developed into an amazingly attractive young woman.  Her fair skin had taken on a dazzling whiteness; her hair was richer and more luxuriant than of yore; but it was her eyes in which the chief alteration had occurred.  These now held an unfathomable depth of tenderness, together with a roguish fear that the former alluring quality might be discovered.  If her figure were not as unduly stout as the skinny virgins of Melkbridge declared it to be, there was no denying the rude health apparent in the girl’s face and carriage.

So far as her colleagues at the boot factory were concerned, Miss Toombs hardly took any notice of her, whilst Miss Hunter gave her the impression of being extremely insincere, all her words and actions being the result of pose rather than of conviction.

The only people Mavis was at all friendly with were Mr and Mrs Medlicott, whom she often visited on Sunday evenings, when they would all sing Moody and Sankey’s hymns to the accompaniment of the cabinet piano.

When she had been some months at Melkbridge, a new interest had come into her life.  One day, Mr Devitt, who, with his family, had showed no disposition to cultivate Mavis’s acquaintance, sent for her and asked her if she would like to have a dog.

“Nothing I should like better,” she replied.

“There’s only one objection.”

“One can’t look gift dogs in the mouth.”

“It’s a she, a lady dog:  there’s risk of an occasional family.”

“I’ll gladly take that.”

“She’s rather a dear, but she’s lately had pups, and some people might object to her appearance.”

“I know I should love her.”