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The Lady’s Maid settle. All day long she’d be up and down, up and down; you’d meet her everywhere—on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And she’d look up at you, and she’d say—just like a child, “I’ve lost it, I’ve lost it.” “Come along,” Id say, “come along, and I’ll lay out your patience for you.” But she’d catch me by the hand—I was a favourite of hers—and whisper, “Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.” Sad, wasn’t it?

. . . No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was—very slow, “Look in—the Look—in” And then she was gone.

. . . No, madam, I can’t say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, it’s like this, I’ve got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresser’s shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my doll’s hair—copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. And there I’d sit all day, quiet as quiet—the customers never knew. Only now and again I’d take my peep from under the tablecloth.

. . . But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and—would you believe it, madam? 270