“And sad affliction bravely borne,” murmured Miss Bunner, her eyes suffusing with tears. “I always think of that verse. True patience; true resignation. Such courage and patience ought to be rewarded, that is what I say. What I feel is that nothing is too good for dear Miss Blacklock, and whatever good things come to her, she truly deserves them.”

“Money,” said Miss Marple, “can do a lot to ease one’s path in life.”

She felt herself safe in this observation since she judged that it must be Miss Blacklock’s prospects of future affluence to which her friend referred.

The remark, however, started Miss Bunner on another train of thought.

“Money!” she exclaimed with bitterness. “I don’t believe, you know, that until one has really experienced it, one can know what money, or rather the lack of it, means.”

Miss Marple nodded her white head sympathetically.

Miss Bunner went on rapidly, working herself up, and speaking with a flushed face:

“I’ve heard people say so often ‘I’d rather have flowers on the table than a meal without them.’ But how many meals have those people ever missed? They don’t know what it is—nobody knows who hasn’t been through it—to be really hungry. Bread, you know, and a jar of meat paste, and a scrape of margarine. Day after day, and how one longs for a good plate of meat and two vegetables. And the shabbiness. Darning one’s clothes and hoping it won’t show. And applying for jobs and always being told you’re too old. And then perhaps getting a job and after all one isn’t strong enough. One faints. And you’re back again. It’s the rent—always the rent—that’s got to be paid—otherwise you’re out in the street. And in these days it leaves so little over. One’s old age pension doesn’t go far—indeed it doesn’t.”

“I know,” said Miss Marple gently. She looked with compassion at Miss Bunner’s twitching face.

“I wrote to Letty. I just happened to see her name in the paper. It was a luncheon in aid of Milchester Hospital. There it was in black and white, Miss Letitia Blacklock. It brought the past back to me. I hadn’t heard of her for years and years. She’d been secretary, you know, to that very rich man, Goedler. She was always a clever girl—the kind that gets on in the world. Not so much looks—as character. I thought—well, I thought—perhaps she’ll remember me—and she’s one of the people I could ask for a little help. I mean someone you’ve known as a girl—been at school with—well, they do know about you—they know you’re not just a—begging letter-writer—”

Tears came into Dora Bunner’s eyes.