Some people I know employ this morning leisure in scrubbing their consciences clean, thus thriftily making room for the sins of the coming day.

But Sarah Brown's conscience was dreadfully receptive, almost magnetic; little sins like smuts lay always deep upon it.

There were a few regrettable seconds in every minute she lived, I think, though she never enjoyed the compensations attached to a really considerable sin.

Anyway her conscience would have been a case for pumice-stone, and when she was happy she always tried to forget it.

Yet she was not without a good many very small and unessential resources for sleepless moments.