Still, we left her and find her Winifred
Gwynne. She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.
Reader, be not hasty to pronounce upon the suddenness of these changes.
Six years spent principally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy
of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid
parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly
miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless
woman in the world, provided she had a heart. And Freda has not only a
heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.
She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for
all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of
papers covered with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools,
which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses,
without ornament or extraneous adornment. She is somewhat paler and
thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her
eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.
'How stupid I am!' she exclaims. 'Gladys would reckon them up directly,
but she is at the school, and I am ashamed to ask Nita, with all her
accounts.'
She pauses a moment and lays down her pen.
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