"Why, to be sure I am. I shouldn't get along in this world if I wasn't in good work. And you'll be busy too I take it before you've had time to turn round. What do you mean to do, my dear?"
Meg looked hopeless.
"I can't think. I'm not fitted for service. I only wish I was. But I don't know the commonest things. I can only sing, and I should be frightened to sing in London streets now. My courage is all gone. I shouldn't have had a fear two years ago."
"It'll come back," said Mrs. Webb, cheerfully. "But I tell you what. I wonder if you'd mind giving your room a scrub to-day? It ought to have been done, but this last week I've been away. I'd be ever so grateful if you would."
"I'll do the best I can," said Meg. "But I must look for another room too. I can't let you sleep to-night in here."
"Tut, tut, my dear. Don't you worry about that. And, by the bye, I've got good news. The lady upstairs is leaving I hear, so you can get a room in this house if you've a mind to. It would be nicer for you than to be among strangers."
Meg felt thankful. She had been dreading finding a room for herself and clung to this woman who had befriended her as her one safeguard against all the horrors of London.
So when Mrs. Webb had left, leaving Willie in her charge, Meg set to work to scrub, but never having been taught housework of any kind she found it wearisome and difficult, and moreover grudged working in this way as she was wearing her one and only dress.
Mrs. Webb came home to find the floor of the bedroom wringing wet and with little chance of its drying in the damp weather.
"You've used too much water," she said. "It'll take long to dry I fear. But you don't know no better, poor dear, so don't worry."