"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I was brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father was the Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had had some experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the East End. He accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my knowledge of London is built on what I heard from him, and my own two years' sojourn here."
"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've an affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I don't suppose people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal of wickedness done in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of goodness too! For my part, I love the bustle, the continual movement, the life! It seems to me country folk are never properly alive!"
"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he looked at his landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that you always strike me as being very much alive, and you say you're a real Londoner. You do not let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs. Metherell."
Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She was at it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always bright and cheerful.
Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of honest gray eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness by a beautiful smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly, as though she had been accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she was quick in her movements, and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left a widow at thirty, she had, by means of this lodging-house in a quiet side street, contrived to bring up three children, and put them out in the world. They all had homes of their own now; but their mother kept on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance grew brighter still as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier circumstances.
Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They had taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, for, strange though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The toil-worn Londoner and the country lad had much in common; they met on the ground of their wide-hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often lingered thus for a few minutes' conversation, and Jim, being of a decidedly sociable disposition, always encouraged her to talk.
"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she asked.
Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.
"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to come, and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be like Christmas if I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go down till Easter. I want to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I know. If my mother and father were alive it would be different!"
"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs. Metherell remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house will be well-nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away. I am going to give a party on my own account, sir!"