nodding at the baby, who showed pearly teeth in return; and she passed out, nor realized until later that she had not posed as a canvasser here, unless in an educational sense.

She felt just a trifle discouraged by the unflinching attitude of this Spartan mother, and was proportionately surprised when, obeying a call to enter at the next door, she stepped into a bright, tastefully furnished apartment with flowers in the window and magazines on the table. Near by, in a large invalid chair reclined a girl—nay, a woman, as Joyce decided after the second look, though a small creature—busily embroidering upon a little frame, while on a small, detachable table, now screwed to the arm of her chair, was a bright array of silks, and beside them a half-open book, with a pencil slid between its leaves. She gave Joyce an inquiring glance, and waited for her to speak. The latter flushed a little, scarcely knowing how to introduce herself, but a second look towards the magazines touched up her memory, and she began graciously,

"I see you are a reader. I wonder if you would care for the paper I have here," and she handed it over for inspection.

"Ah, I cannot tell if 'tis so; pray be seated ma'amselle. Yes, I like mooch those peectures and those patterns. They do help in my work." Her accent was distinctly foreign, yet every word was so plainly enunciated that it was easy to understand her. "You do sell this?" she asked.

Joyce was nonplussed, but caught at her waning wits enough to answer,

"Not this copy. It is only for you to look at."

"Ah yes,"—quickly, with a merry smile, "It ees a sahmple, eh?"

"Yes, a sample copy, but if you think you could use it in your work I will see that you have it every month."

"And the expense of it?" She looked up apprehensively. "That, too, must be considered."

"Surely. You see it says ten cents a number, or one dollar a year. But I think I might furnish you a sample copy free, if you would speak a good word for it among your neighbors. Not to trouble yourself any, of course."

"That is most kind, and I could do it. The girls do coom in and listen as I read, by times. It is a great deal that books do for one like me, ma'amselle. They are my friends, my coomfort. They, and my vork."

"I can well believe it. And what beautiful work you do! Doesn't it tire you while in that reclining position? You look so delicate."

"But I am so mooch bettare—quite near to well once more. I do this, while my sister, she work in the glass-house. She is all well and strong—my sister."

"That is good! And you live here alone together?"

"Yes, we do. We come across from Havre together—we, the two—and we think we will make a fortune, now we have lost our parents, and have no big strong brother. And then it is I that must get sick, and when the fevaer do go after the long weeks, it takes with it all my strength, and so I cannot yet walk."

"Poor little woman! But you have such a pretty room—how kind your sister must be."

"My Babette? Ah, she is so bright, so gay. She will not let me say that we have been onlooky—oh no! She say, 'You here, I here, nevare mind any other thing.' So she coomfort me."

"And do you send this beautiful embroidery into the city?"

"Yes, I do. To an eschange for womans. I have teeket and that make me one member."

"I see; 'tis an excellent plan. But who keeps house for you?"

"Oh, that is an easy thing. I do skin off the potatoes and schop up the meat for the hash, and Babette, she do sweep with the broom and set out the table. And while we work she can tell me all there is going about outside, and I can tell how mooch bettare I am doing this day—do not you see?"

"I see you must be very happy together! But do you stay alone all day! And what if you need something, meanwhile?" she laughed.

"See?" with a comprehensive sweep of the hands, "I have everything. But for fear I do get sick, see this?"

She put out her hand to a rope dangling along the wall close beside her. "When I pull hard once Lucie, in the next house, knows that I would like to see her, but it is not bad; when I pull twice then she must indeed run quick, for I need her. She is so good, little Lucie!"

By her motions Joyce knew she was speaking of the house upon the opposite side from that where she herself had just called. So, feeling she must economize her time, and anxious to learn all she could, she asked at once,

"Who is this Lucy? Please tell me about her."

There was a way with Joyce that made people like to confide in her. She was so bright and pretty, so interested, and so free from guile, that hearts opened to her as blossoms to the sun. One could not long be reserved in her presence. The invalid smiled upon her and chatted on in her odd English, telling of the children next door lately left motherless, where the oldest girl, Lucy, aged sixteen, was bravely keeping house for father, and looking after two younger girls, a baby boy, just learning to toddle alone and a younger baby of a few months. It was evident a great friendship existed between this little Frenchwoman and the maiden, and that there was mutual helpfulness in their intercourse, Lucy bringing youthful cheer and strength to exchange for thoughtful lessons in some of the finer ways of living, not common here.

"I hope her father is very good to her!" cried Joyce, becoming at once a partisan of the plucky child, upon whom the other was showering encomiums. "Only sixteen, and doing all that! Is he a fine workman? Does he earn much?"

"Yes, when he do work." The embroiderer bent over her frame with renewed diligence, and shut her lips together in a determined way.

"I understand," said Joyce quickly, with a little sigh; "he isn't quite steady?"

"I would nevare say ill of him. He mean well—oh, yes! But he do not know when it is time to leave off. He take one drink, that make him talk loud and laugh; he take two, that make him swear bad worts and knock round the furniture; he take t'ree, that make him come home and beat thos poor leetle girls till it make your heart sore! And poor Lucie will try so hard, and then he will be so oogly—but I should not so speak to a strangare."

"Don't let that trouble you; it shall go no further. I will try and see this Lucy, soon. What is her other name?"

"It is Hapgood, ma'amselle. I pray you to forget I have ill spoke of a man who means to be kind, but so troubled he must try somehow to forget his cares. Many men are like that. And of a truth there is no place to go for rest. In the small house the children do cry and quarrel, and tired Lucie will scold at times, and he does come home so weary, himself. If all is not to please him he snatches his hat and goes rushing away—but where? The only place that makes welcome is the saloon—you know it."

"Yes, yes, I do know. And the poor children, too! They ought to have places where they can be jolly and make a noise besides in these barren streets. Tell me, Mrs.——"

"I am not that," laughing merrily, "I am Marie Sauzay, and my sister, she is Babette, though everybody makes it Bab for short, and she likes the little name."

"I can imagine it is like her—short and sweet. Well, Ma'amselle Marie, tell me this. Is there no public hall here—no place of meeting where the people may go for music, or pleasure. Don't you have any amusements?"

"Amusements!" Marie laughed outright. "And who would care to amuse us, who have to work? No, no, that is not to be thought of. That Mr. Early, who is the high boss, he would laugh at such a question. What have we to do with amusements?"

Joyce winced at what seemed to her a direct slur upon her father's memory, but knew it was just. She could fairly hear him laugh as Marie spoke, sitting back in an easy attitude, perhaps mixing a julep and cackling amusedly in that peculiar voice that was curiously like a scolding woman's. How often she had heard him say, "Don't try to mix business and philanthropy, my dear. It won't