Elizabeth

She worked like a drudge.

She tramped through the wet streets, carrying parcels and baskets.

She labored with the childish inattention of the little one's French lessons.

As she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had better take her meals downstairs instead.

She was treated as if she was nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore.

But she never told anyone what she felt.

Soldiers don't complain, she would say between her small, shut teeth.

I'm not going to do it.

But there were hours when her child heart might almost have broken with loneliness, but for three people.

The first it must be owned was Becky.

Just Becky.

Throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall, in which the rats scuffled and squeaked, there was another young human creature.

And during the nights that followed, the sense of comfort grew stronger.

They had little chance to speak to each other during the day.

Each had her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter.

Don't mind me, miss, Becky whispered during the first morning.

But before daybreak, she used to slip into Sarah's attic and button her dress and give her such help as she required before she went downstairs to light the kitchen fire.

And when night came, Sarah always heard the humble knock at her door, which meant that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed.

During the first weeks of her grief, Sarah felt as if she were too stupefied to talk.

So it happened that some time passed before they saw each other much or exchanged visits.