“Well, Charley,” said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed in all kinds of ways, “we are improving.  If we only get to make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley.”

Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn’t join Charley’s neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.

“Never mind, Charley.  We shall do it in time.”

Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.

“Thank you, miss.  If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of the name of Jenny?”

“A brickmaker’s wife, Charley?  Yes.”

“She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said you knew her, miss.  She asked me if I wasn’t the young lady’s little maid—­meaning you for the young lady, miss—­and I said yes, miss.”

“I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley.”

“So she had, miss, but she’s come back again to where she used to live—­she and Liz.  Did you know another poor person of the name of Liz, miss?”

“I think I do, Charley, though not by name.”

“That’s what she said!” returned Charley.  “They have both come back, miss, and have been tramping high and low.”

“Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?”

“Yes, miss.”  If Charley could only have made the letters in her copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would have been excellent.  “And this poor person came about the house three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss—­all she wanted, she said—­but you were away.  That was when she saw me.  She saw me a-going about, miss,” said Charley with a short laugh of the greatest delight and pride, “and she thought I looked like your maid!”

“Did she though, really, Charley?”

“Yes, miss!” said Charley.  “Really and truly.”  And Charley, with another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round again and looked as serious as became my maid.  I was never tired of seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner, and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the pleasantest way.

“And where did you see her, Charley?” said I.

My little maid’s countenance fell as she replied, “By the doctor’s shop, miss.”  For Charley wore her black frock yet.

I asked if the brickmaker’s wife were ill, but Charley said no.  It was some one else.  Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to Saint Albans and was tramping he didn’t know where.  A poor boy, Charley said.  No father, no mother, no any one.  “Like as Tom might have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father,” said Charley, her round eyes filling with tears.