Phœbe turned away with a slight shudder. The "third from this end" in the grip of a hard winter when work was scarce did not present an attractive face.
Towards the middle of September, in the ordinary routine of their migratory habits, the Bartletts turned their thoughts towards more urban quarters. Marianna would probably be bound to be in the way; possibly very much in the way; in scarcely any contingency useful. Phœbe, however, was pledged to a policy of "frightful good-nature," and as this vapidly-expressed quality covered a sublimer heroism (after the manner of people who in self-defence wear something imitation on their sleeves) than the little slum-hearted gamin could ever rise to the height of conceiving, the immediate future was not a matter for any concern on Marianna's part. Nevertheless, she it was who, at this period, airily and light-heartedly sprang a mine one morning that sent Phœbe flying to the wire in despair, to send a message which involved Philip in no slight perplexity. "Everyone all right," she wailed from Sunbury to Strand West, "but do come if you possibly conveniently can;" and Philip came.
"It's Marianna,” said Phœbe, taking up her wail at closer range. "I knew how frightfully disappointed you would be. She wants to leave."
"Leave!" he exclaimed blankly. "Leave here? Leave?" The possibility had never occurred to him.
"She wants," continued Phœbe, with slow horror, "to—go—into—a—laundry—at Acton!"
"Go into a laundry! God in heaven! she's mad. Marianna," he cried, striding into the kitchen, "why is this?"
Marianna stood by the table, engaged, after the manner of her kind in moments of embarrassment, with a
