dden her to have. In the bitter web of her
thought ran the threads that if she had pretty clothes like Helen, and
a rich mother like Bessy, and a father who was not a drunkard, her lot
in life would have been happy.

Rose lived with her stepfather in three dingy rooms in the mill
section of Middleville. She never left the wide avenues and lawns and
stately residences, which she had to pass on her way to and from
school, without contrasting them with the dirty alleys and grimy walls
and squalid quarters of the working-class. She had grown up in that
class, but in her mind there was always a faint vague recollection of
a time when her surroundings had been bright and cheerful, where there
had been a mother who had taught her to love beautiful things. To-day
she climbed the rickety stairs to her home and pushed open the
latchless door with a revolt brooding in her mind.

A man in his shirt sleeves sat by the little window.

"Why father--home so early?" she asked.

"Yes lass, home early," he replied wearily. "I'm losing my place
again."

He had straggling gray hair, bleared eyes with an opaque, glazy look
and a bluish cast of countenance. His chin was buried in the collar of
his open shirt; his shoulders sagged, and he breathed heavily.

One glance assured Rose her father was not very much under the
influence of drink. And fear left her. When even half-sober he was
kind.

"So you've lost your place?" she asked.

"Yes. Old Swann is layin' off."

This was an untruth, Rose knew, because the mills had never been so
full, and men never so in demand. Besides her father was an expert at
his trade and could always have work.

"I'm sorry," she said, slowly. "I've been thinking lately that I'll
give up school and go to work. In an office uptown or a department
store."

"Rose, that'd be good of you," he replied. "You could help along a
lot. I don't do my work so well no more. But your poor mother won't
rest in her grave. She was so proud of you, always dreamin'."

The lamp Rose lighted showed comfortless rooms, with but few articles
of furniture. It was with the deft fingers of long practice that the
girl spread the faded table-cloth, laid the dishes, ground the coffee,
peeled the potatoes, and cut the bread. Then presently she called her
father to the meal. He ate in silence, having relapsed once more into
the dull gloom natural to him. When he had finished he took up his hat
and with slow steps left the room.

"No