Betty has not the courage to knock again. What a glimpse of dull, hopeless misery the woman's face and voice have revealed to her! She passes on to the next house.
The woman who answers this door is rather cleaner. "Called for the rent? But you're not the agent," she says, looking at Betty very suspiciously.
Betty explains. "Hum! I don't like the look of it. How do I know it's all right? There, you needn't look so offended. If you had had to work early and late, denying yourself your proper rest, and a bit of butter to your bread, to make up the rent, you'd be careful who you trusted it with, I can tell you."
Betty shows the poor woman her father's collecting book, and after a while the rent is put grudgingly into her hands. Betty cannot bear to take it from the poor thing.
It is a slow, miserable business, but before the morning is over Betty manages to get the greater part of the two pounds together.
"Hem; short, as usual," is Mr. Duncan's discouraging remark, as he counts it over.
Betty feels sick at heart. The morning's work has been quite a new experience. Occupied only with her own thoughts and plans, she has thought very little about other people's difficulties; and the miserable homes she has just seen have shocked and pained her deeply.
Mr. Duncan weighs the money in his hand for a moment or two, as though considering.
"Well, I can't be bothered just now with looking up anyone else. I suppose we'd better go on as we are—for the present. Here's the whole rent account-book; take it home, and let me know how much rent I've lost on the half-year. Good morning."
So she is to take up part of father's work, after all! How glad dear father will be!