"Why, it's this way. Feel me your hand. I'll show you." And as if she could see perfectly, Nanette guided Amy to the further side of the room, where stood a pretty, polished box upon the bookshelf. The box had a slit in its cover, and it jingled merrily in the blind child's hand.

"Hear! We must have been pretty bad this month. But that makes it all the better for the little 'fresh airers,' doesn't it? Sometimes, when I think about them, I just want to do things —not nice things– all the time, so as to make more money for them. But of course it wouldn't be honorable, and I wouldn't do it."

"Do you put the nickels in when you are 'naughty'?"

"Yes, for crossness and unpolite words and messing at table and – lots of things. Once – " Nanette paused and turned her eyes toward Amy for a long time. Then she again passed those delicate finger-tips over the other's face, and decided: —

"Yes, I can trust you. Once one of us, I couldn't tell you which one, but one of us told a wrong story, a falsehood, an untruth. One of the dreadful things that made our dear Lord kill Ananias and Sapphira dead. Wasn't that awful? Mamma and papa didn't know what to do. A nickel didn't seem much pay for a lie, did it? So they made it a dollar. Yes, ma'am, one whole dollar. That's twenty nickels. Oh, it was so unhappy those days! I was gladder than ever that I was blind. I think I should have died to see the bad face of the one that did it while it was bad. But mamma says such a lesson is never, never forgotten. You see, we haven't any right to be bad, have we?"

"I suppose not, dear. What a wise little thinker you are!"

"Papa says I think too much. That's why, one why, he was so glad to get me the burro. He hopes it will stop me some. But in a home a body must remember it isn't his home nor her home, but the home of everybody that belongs. If I should be naughty, it would throw things all out of – of smoothness, don't you know. I can't be naughty all by myself. If I could – no, I wouldn't like it either. When I'm selfish or bad, I always feel as if I had on a dirty apron, and I do just hate dirty clothes!"

"And you do just love to talk, little one," cried the superintendent, coming in and catching up his daughter in his strong arms. "We tell her, Miss Amy, that she makes up for what she doesn't see by what she does say. Eh, midget?"

Nanette cuddled her fair head against her father's beard, and turned her eyes toward Amy. It seemed impossible to believe that those beautiful eyes could not really behold whereon they rested, and the tears of sympathy rose to Amy's own as she tried to comprehend this.

"Isn't he a dear, funny papa? But you just wait until you see my mother. She's the nicest thing in this whole world. Oh, papa, shall I call the baby 'Amy'?"

"If you like, darling. It's a pleasant, old-fashioned name."

"I'll tell you a better one, though it's longer. That is 'Salome.'"

"Who's she?" asked Nanette.

"My mother. As you feel about yours, I think she is the sweetest thing in this whole world."

"Sa-lo-me, Sa-lo-me," repeated the child, slowly. "That is pretty. What do you say about that, papa?"

"As you and mother please, darling. It is a good name. But now, dear, run away. I have to talk business with this new friend of yours, and where you are – eh?"

"Yes, I do talk, don't I? I love to talk. Good-by, Amy. Please come again to see me, and every time you must ride on Peppy – what is her name?"

"Pe-pi-ta. It is Spanish and very pretty, I think."

"Pay-pee-tah," repeated Nanette, imitating the sound and ignorant of the spelling.

"Now, Miss Amy, I've had your saddle put upon your brother's burro. You can ride him home, and I will have 'Bony' carry the other saddle. To-morrow he shall bring the girl's saddle back to Nanette, and I echo her invitation that you should come often to visit us and ride upon your own, old favorite. Here is the envelope with the money, and since you must go at all, I'll urge you to go at once. There is another squall coming, and it will darken early."

As she rode homeward a doctor's phaeton passed her. It was being driven rapidly, and a face peered out at her from beneath the hood. Then it stopped and waited for her to approach.

"Do you belong at the 'Spite House'?"

"Yes; why?"

"Make haste. Drive on."

CHAPTER XV.
FACING HARD FACTS

"Make haste. Drive on."

The words sang themselves into Amy's brain as she urged Balaam up the slope, and for days thereafter they returned to her, the last vivid memory of that happy time before bereavement came.

Then followed a season of confusion and distress; and now that a fortnight was over she sat beside a freshly made mound in Quaker burying-ground, trying to collect her thoughts and to form a definite plan for her future.

The end of a gentle, beneficent life had come with merciful suddenness, and the face of Salome Kaye was now hidden beneath this mound where her child sat, struggling with her grief, and bravely endeavoring to find the right way out of many difficulties. Finally, she seemed to have done so, for she rose with an air of grave decision and kneeling for one moment in that quiet spot, rose again, and passed swiftly from the place.

Hallam was at the cemetery gate, resting sadly against the lichen-covered stone post, and waiting for her return. Indian summer had come, a last taste of warmth and brightness before the winter closed, and despite their sorrow nature soothed them with her loveliness. In any case, whether from that cause or from her own will, the girl found it easier than she had expected to speak with her brother upon their material affairs.

"Shall we stop here a little while, Hal dear, to talk, or will we go on slowly toward home? I've been thinking, up – up there beside mother, and I've found a way, I hope."

"I don't care where, though I'd rather not talk. What good does it do? I hate it. I hate home. I hate this place worse – Oh, it's wicked! It's cruel! Why did she ever have to leave Fairacres! She might be – "

Amy's hand went up to Hallam's lips. "Hush! Do you suppose God blunders? I don't. If He had meant her to stay with us, He would have found a way to cure her. To think otherwise is torture. No. No, no, indeed no! Father is left and so are we. We have got to live and take care of him and of ourselves."

"I should like to know how. I – a miserable good-for-naught, and you – a girl."

"Exactly, thank you, just a girl. But a girl who loves her brother and her father all the more because —she loved them too. A girl who has made up her mind to do the first thing and everything that offers, which will help to make them comfortable; who is going to put her family pride in her pocket and go to work. There, it's out!"

"Go – out – to – work, Amy – Kaye!"

"Yes, indeed. Don't take it so hard, dear."

In spite of himself he smiled. Then he remembered. "I don't see how you can laugh or jest – so soon. As if – but you must care."

"Just because I do care, so very, very much. Oh, Hal, don't dream I'm not missing her every hour of the day. I fancy I hear her saying now, this moment, as she used to say when I'd been naughty and was penitent: 'If thee loves me so much, dear, thee will try to do the things I like.' The one thing she liked, she lived, was a brave helpfulness toward everybody she knew. She didn't wait for great things, she did little things. Now, the first little things that are facing us are: the earning of our rent and of our food."

Hallam said nothing. He knocked a stone aside with the end of his crutch, and groaned.

"I'm going to work in the mill," she continued.

"Amy! Father expressly forbade that, or even any mention of it. You, a Kaye!"

"He has given me permission, even though I am a Kaye." She tried to smile still, but found it hard in the face of his want of sympathy, even indignation.

"Do you think he knew what he was saying when he did it?"

"Yes, Hallam, I do. It seems to me that father is more like other folks since this trouble came than he was before. I was worried and asked the doctor, for I remembered mother always used to spare him everything painful or difficult that she could. The doctor said: —

"'It may be that this blow will do more to restore him than all her tender care could do.'

"And then I asked him something else. It was – what was the matter with him – if it was all his heart. He said, 'No, indeed. It's his head.' He was in a great fire, at a hotel where he was staying, a long time ago. He was nearly killed, and many other people were killed. For a while he thought that mother had been burned, they had gotten separated some way, and it made him – insane, I suppose. But when she was found, in a hospital where he was taken, he got better. He isn't at all insane now, the doctor says, but is only a little confused. Mother never had us told about it, because she wanted we should think our father just perfect, and for that reason she drew him into this quiet life that we always have lived. If he wanted to spend money foolishly, she never objected. She hoped that by not opposing any wish he would get wholly well. Part of this Cleena has told me, for she thought we ought to know, now, and part the doctor said. Oh, Hal, I think it will be grand, grand, to take care of him as nearly like she did as we can. Don't you?"

Hallam's eyes sparkled. "Amy, I always said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, in character as well as person."

"To us, she certainly was. My plan is this: I will go to Mr. Metcalf and ask him to give me a place in the mill. If those other girls can work, so can I."

"Do you know who owns the mills now?"

"Yes; our cousin Archibald Wingate."

"And you would work for him? You would demean yourself to that? Yet you know how, when he offered us money last week, or to do other things for us, both father and I indignantly declined."

"Yes, I know. I, too, was glad we didn't have to take it, though I do not believe he is as bad as we think. We look at him from this side; but if we could from the other, he might not seem so hard-hearted. He said he was sorry. He seemed to feel very badly."

"Yes, and when he came and asked Cleena to let him see – her, just once more, she gave him a reproof that must have struck home. She told him he was practically the cause of mother's death, – his driving her from Fairacres, – and I shall always feel so, too."

"I hope not, dear."

"Well, I hate him. I hope I can sometime make him suffer all he has made us."

"But, Hal, that is vindictive. To be vindictive is not half as noble as to be just. Mother was just. While it grieved her to leave her home, she fully appreciated how much he must long for it. It was their grandmother's, you know, and he felt he had a right there. I do not blame him half as much as I pity him. He's such a lonely old fellow, it seems to me."

"Humph! I wouldn't work for him and take his money. I should feel as if it were tainted."

For a moment Amy was staggered by this view of her brother's. Then it dropped into its proper place in the argument, and she went on: —

"It would be pleasanter to work for somebody else. But there is nobody else. I think Mr. Wingate has very little to do with the employees of the mill. It's Mr. Metcalf who pays them, and he's a dear, good friend already. I'm going to see him this afternoon. I asked Gwendolyn to tell him I was coming, but I suppose he thinks it is about selling Balaam. He's ready to take him off your hands if you want to part with him. That seventy-five dollars he paid for Pepita and the saddle and harness was such a blessing. It carried us through; we couldn't have done without it, unless we'd let Mr. Wingate help."

"Never! Well, I suppose he'll have to take him. If I can't work, I can give up, as well as you."

"No, Hal, I don't want to sell him yet. Wait till the last thing and we can't help it. Do try to think kindly of what I'm doing, dear. Down in my heart I'm pretty proud, too. But you start home. I'll take a bit of lunch and then start out to seek my fortune. Wish me luck, laddie; or, rather, bid me God-speed."

She lifted her face for his kiss, and he gave it heartily. It was to the sensitive, proud, undisciplined boy the very hardest moment of his life, save and apart from his bereavement.

"To think, Amy, little sister, that I, who should be your protector and supporter, am just – this!"

"Hush! you shall not point so contemptuously to those poor legs. I think they are very good legs, indeed. There's nothing the matter with them except that they won't move. They've been indulged so long – "

"Amy, I don't understand you. First you seem so cheerful; then you make light of my lameness. Are you forgetful, or what?"

"Not forgetful, nor hard-hearted. Just 'what,' which means that I believe you could learn to walk if you would."

"Amy! Amy!!"

"Hallam!"

"Do you suppose I wouldn't if I could?"

"Hal, do you ever try?"

He looked at her indignantly; then he reflected that, in fact, he never did try. But to convince her he made an effort that instant. Tossing his crutches to the ground, he tried to force his limbs forward over the ground. They utterly failed to respond to his will, and he would have fallen had not Amy's arms caught and supported him.

"There, you see!"

"For the first attempt it was fine. Bravo! Encore!"

Yet she picked up his "other legs" and gave him, then led Balaam away from the late thistle blooms he was browsing. Hallam mounted, crossed his crutches before him, and lifted his cap. Amy tossed him a kiss and turned millward, while he ascended the hill road. But no sooner was she out of sight than her assumed cheerfulness gave way, and for a time it was a sad-faced girl who trudged diligently onward toward duty and a life of toil.

Gwendolyn had delivered her message, and the superintendent welcomed Amy to his office at the mill with a friendly nod and smile; but, at that moment, he was deep in business with a strange gentleman, negotiating for a large sale of carpets, and after his brief greeting he apparently forgot the girl. She remained standing for some moments, then Mr. Metcalf beckoned an attendant to give her a chair and the day's newspaper.

Her heart sank even lower than before. The superintendent appeared a different person from the friend she had met in his own home. Her throat choked. She felt that she should cry, if she did not make some desperate effort to the contrary; so she began to read the paper diligently, though her mind scarcely followed the words she saw, and would deflect to those she heard, which were very earnest, indeed, though all about a matter no greater than one-eighth cent per yard.

"How queer! Two great grown men to stand there and argue about such a trifle. Why, there isn't any such coin, and what does it mean? Well, I'm eavesdropping, and that's wrong. Now I will read. I will not listen."

Running in this wise, her thoughts at last fixed themselves upon a paragraph which she had perused several times without comprehending. Now it began to have a meaning for her, and one so intense that she half rose to beg the loan of the newspaper that she might show it to Hallam.

"The very thing. The very thing I heard those doctors talking about in mother's room. I'll ask for it, or copy it, if I can, and show my boy. Who knows what it might do?"

There was a little movement in the office. The gentleman in the big top-coat, with his eyeglasses, his gold-handled umbrella, and his consequential air, was leaving. He was bowing in a patronizing sort of way, and Mr. Metcalf was bowing also, smiling almost obsequious. He was rubbing his hair upward from his forehead, in a way Amy had already observed to be habitual when he was pleased. Evidently he was pleased now, and greatly so, for even after the stranger had passed out and entered the cab in waiting, the superintendent remained before the glass door, still smiling with profound satisfaction.

Then, as if he had suddenly remembered her, he turned toward Amy.

"Well, miss, what can I do for you to-day? I saw you were interested in our argument over the fraction of a cent, and I'm glad to tell you I won. Yes, I carried my point."

The girl was disgusted. Though she liked to know her friends from every side of their characters, she was not pleased by this glimpse of Mr. Metcalf's.

He saw her feeling in her face and took it merrily, dropping at last into the manner which she knew and liked best.

"A small business, you're thinking, eh? Well, Miss Amy, let me tell you that on this one deal, this one sale, my gaining that fraction of a cent means the gaining to my employer of several thousand dollars. And that is worth contesting, don't you think?"

"It doesn't seem possible. Just that tiny eighth! Why, how many, many yards you must sell!"

"Indeed, yes. The mills are constantly turning out great quantities and, fortunately, the market is free. We dispose of them as fast as we can finish. We could sell more if we could manufacture more. But this is not what has brought you here, I fancy. Tell me your errand, please. I have much to get through with before closing."

The return to his business manner again chilled Amy's enthusiasm, but she thought of her father and what she hoped to do for him, and needed no other aid to her courage.

"I've come to ask a place in the mill. I want to work and get paid."

"Certainly. If you work, you will be paid. What makes you want to do it? Does your father know?"

"He has consented. I think he understands, though he didn't seem to care greatly, either way. I must do it, sir, or something. It was the only thing I knew about."

"You know nothing about that, really. The girls here are from an altogether different class than that to which you belong. You would not find it pleasant."

"That wouldn't matter. And aren't we all Americans? Equal?"

"Theoretically. How much do you suppose you could earn?"

"I don't know. Whatever my work was worth."

"That, at the beginning, would be not more than two dollars a week, and probably less. It would be fatiguing, constant standing in attending to your 'jenny.' I really think that you would better abandon the idea at once. Try to think of something nearer what you have known."

Yet he saw the deepening distress in her face and it grieved him. He was bound, in all honesty to her, to set the dark side of things before her, and he waited for her decision with some curiosity.

"If you'll let me try, I would like to do so."

CHAPTER XVI.
AMY BEGINS TO SPIN

"Well, deary, it's time. Oh, me fathers, to think it! Wake up, Amy, me colleen, me own precious lamb."

Six o'clock of a gray November morning is not an inspiriting hour to begin any undertaking. Amy turned in her comfortable bed, rubbed her eyes, saw Cleena standing near with a lighted candle in her hand, and inquired, drowsily: —

"Why – what's happened? Why will you get up in the middle of the night? Don't bother me – yet."

"Faith, an' I won't. Upon honor it's wrong, it's all wrong. What'll your guardian angel think of old Cleena to be leavin' you do it! Body an' bones, I'll do naught to further the business – not I!"

The woman's voice was tremulous with indignation or grief, and all at once Amy remembered. Then she sprang from her cosy nest, wide-awake and full of courage.

"Hush, dear old Goodsoul, I forgot. I forgot, entirely. I was dreaming of Fairacres. It was a beautiful dream. The old house was full of little children and young girls. They were singing and laughing and moving about everywhere. I can hardly believe it wasn't real; but, I'm all right now. I'll be down stairs in a few minutes. Don't wake anybody else, for there's no need. Is it six o'clock already? It might be midnight or – any time. Why, what's this?"

"A frock I've made for you, child."

"You made a frock for me? Why, Cleena!"

"Sure, it's not so handy with the needle as the broom me fingers is. But what for no? Them pretty white ones will never do for the nasty old mill. This didn't need so much. The body'll about fit, thinks I, if I sew it fast in the front an' split it behind. The skirt's not so very long. She was a mite of a woman, God rest her. Well, I'll go an' see the milk doesn't boil over, an' be back in a jiffy to fasten it for you. Ah, me lamb! Troth, a spirit's brave like your own will be prospered, I know."

Then Cleena went hurriedly out of the room. The frock which she had prepared for Amy's use in the mill was remodelled from an old one of her mistress's. As has been said, Amy had never worn any sort of dress except white. The fabric was changed to suit the season, but the color was not. Even her warm winter cloak was of heavy white wool, faced here and there with scarlet, to match the simple scarlet headgear that suited her dark face so well. Quite against the habits of her own upbringing, Mrs. Kaye had clothed her daughter to please the taste of her artist husband, and therefore it had not greatly mattered that this taste dictated a style more fanciful than useful.

Now everything was altered, and Cleena had consulted Mrs. Jones with the result just given. But from a true delicacy, the faithful old servant did not stay to watch the girl as she adopted the new garb which belonged to the new fortunes, though she need not have been afraid.

For a moment Amy held the gray dress in her hand, feeling it almost a sacrilege to put it on. She remembered it as the morning gown of her mother, plain to the extreme, yet graceful and precious in her sight because of the dear wearer. Then she lifted the garment to her lips, and touched it lightly.

"Mother, darling, it is a good beginning. It seems to me it is like a sister of mercy putting on her habit for the first time. It is a protection and a benediction. If I can only put on my mother's beautiful character with her clothing, I shall do well, indeed." Then she examined the alterations which Cleena had been instructed by the cottager to make, and was able to smile at them.

"The new sewing and the old do not match very well, but it will answer, and it does fit me much better than I would have thought. My! but I must already be as large, or nearly so, as she was. Well, no time for thinking back now. It's all looking forward, and must be, if I am to keep my courage."

Then she knelt beside her bed, prayed simply and in full faith for success in her efforts to provide for her beloved ones, and went below, smiling and gay.

"Think of it, Cleena Keegan. This is Monday morning. On seventh day I expect to bring back two splendid dollars and put into your hands. I, just I, your own little Amy. Think of the oatmeal it will buy."

It was not in Cleena's heart to dampen this ardor by remarking how small a sum two dollars really was, considered in the light of a family support; and, after all, oatmeal was cheap. Fortunately, it also formed the principal diet of this plainly nurtured household, and even that very breakfast to which the young breadwinner now sat down.

But the meal was exquisitely cooked, and the hot milk was rich and sweet. Also, there lay, neatly wrapped in a spotless napkin, the mid-day luncheon, which Cleena had been told to prepare, and which Mrs. Jones suggested should be of something "hearty and strong" for "working in the mill beats all for appetite."

Then Amy took the big gingham pinafore, that Cleena had also prepared, and with her little parcels under her arm, skipped away down the slope to the Joneses' cottage, where Gwendolyn was to meet and escort her to her first day's work.

"Pshaw! I thought you wasn't coming. We'll be late if we don't hurry. Hmm. Wore your white cloak, didn't you? Well, I guess the girls won't laugh at you much. A dark one would have been better."

"But I have no dark one, so it was this or nothing. How fast you walk, almost as if you were running!"

"We'll be late, I tell you. I don't want to get docked, if you do."

"What is 'docked'?"

"Why, having something taken from your wages."

"Would that be done for just so short a time?"

"Yes, indeed. The time-keeper watches out and nobody has a chance to get off. To be late five minutes means losing a quarter day's wages. They count off a quarter, a half, three-quarters, or a whole, according to time."

"Then Gwendolyn, let's run. I wouldn't make you lose for anything."

"All right."

When they arrived at the mill, Gwendolyn said: —

"You come this way with me. Hang your cap and coat right here, next to mine. Never mind if the girls do stare, you'll get used to that. I felt as if I should sink the first day I came, though that was ages ago. Hello, Maud, where was you last night?"

Amy did not feel in the least like "sinking." She had overcome her drowsiness, and the light was already growing much stronger. She looked around upon these strangers who were to be her comrades at toil, with a friendly interest and curiosity. Some of her new mates regarded her with equal curiosity, though few with so kindly an interest as her own. The unconscious ease of Amy's bearing they esteemed "boldness," or even "cheek," and her air of superior breeding was distasteful to them.

"My, ain't she a brazen thing! Looks around on the whole crowd as if she thought she could put on all the airs she pleased, even in the mill. Well, 'ristocrat or no 'ristocrat, she'll have to come down here. We're just as good as she is and – "

"A little better, too, you mean," commented a lad, just passing.

The girl who scorned "'ristocrats" paused in fastening her denim apron and looked after the youth, who was, evidently, a personage of importance in the eyes of herself and mates. They watched his jaunty movements with undisguised admiration, and his passing left behind him a wake of smiles and giggles which to Amy seemed out of proportion to the wit of his remark.

However, there was little loitering, and the long procession of girls, with its sprinkling of men and boys, swiftly ascended the narrow open staircase to the upper floors. This staircase was built along the side wall of the great structure, flight above flight, an iron frame with steps of board. The only protection from falling upon the floor below, should one grow dizzy-headed, was a gas-pipe hand-rail; and even this might not have been provided had not the law compelled.

As she fell into line behind Gwendolyn and began the upward climb, Amy grasped this slender support firmly; but everything about her seemed very unlike her memory of her first visit here. Then the sun was shining, she was under the guidance of the genial superintendent, and the scene was novel – like a picture exhibited for her personal entertainment. Now the novelty was past, the scene had become dingy, and herself a part of it.

All around her were voices talking in a sort of mill patois concerning matters which she did not understand. But nobody, not even Gwendolyn, spoke to her, and a sudden, overpowering dismay seized her stout heart and made her head reel. Then she made a misstep and her foot slipped through the space between two stairs. This brought the hurrying procession to a standstill, and recalled attention to the "new hand."

"My sake! Somebody's fell. Who? Is she hurt? Oh, that donkey girl. Well, she ain't so used to these horrid stairs as we be."

"Hold back! She's sort of giddy-headed, I guess."

Amy felt an arm thrown round her waist, a rather ungentle pull was given her dangling foot, and she was set right to proceed. But for an instant she could not go on, and she again felt the arm supporting and forcing her against the bare brick wall, so that those below might not be longer hindered.

Then she half gasped: —

"Oh, I am so sorry. I didn't mean – "

"Of course you didn't. Never mind. You ain't the first girl has had her foot through these steps, and you won't be the last. After somebody has broke a leg or two, then they'll put backboards to 'em. Not before. Is your head swimming yet?"

"It feels queerly. It jars so."

"That's the machinery and the noise. The whole building just shakes and buzzes when we get fairly started. Don't be scared. You're all safe. Lots of girls feel just that way when they first come. Lots of 'em faint away. Some can't stand it at all. But you'll get used, don't fear. I was one of the fainters, and I kept it up quite a spell. The 'boss' of the room got so mad he told me if I didn't quit fainting I'd have to quit spinning. So I made a bold face and haven't fainted since. You see, I couldn't afford to. I had to do this or starve."

By this time Amy's fright was past, and she was regarding her comforter with that friendly gratitude which won her the instant liking of the other, who resumed: —

"Pshaw! The girls didn't know what they were saying. You don't look a mite stuck up. You aren't, are you?"

"Indeed, no. Why should I be? But I do thank you so much for your kindness just now, and I'm sorry if my blundering has made you late. Will you be 'docked'?"

"Oh, no. We've time enough. Gwen is always in a desperate hurry. She likes a chance to talk before she begins work. She's a nice girl, but she isn't very deep. Say, have you seen her new winter hat?"

"No; has she another than that she wore this morning?"

"My! yes."

The "old hand" and the "new" were now quietly climbing to the top floor where their tasks were to be side by side, and Amy had time to examine her companion's face. It was plain and freckled, boasting none of that "prettiness" of which Gwendolyn was so openly proud, but it was gentle and intelligent, and had a look of delicacy which suggested chronic suffering, patiently borne. Amy had not far to seek the cause of this pathetic expression, for Mary Reese was a hunchback. In her attire there was as much simplicity as in Amy's own, but without grace or harmony of coloring.

"You're looking at my clothes, aren't you? Well, they're the great trouble of my life. After I pay my board and washing, I don't have more than fifty cents left. I do the best I can, but I'm no hand with a needle, and Saturday-halves are short. I thought you were the loveliest thing I ever saw, that day you went round the mill with the 'Supe.'"