denly remembered now that they were dependent
upon the resources of the new country for domestic service, and that
she had heard that no chance of securing a good servant must be lost, as
they were very rare. Stating her thought hastily to Sophia, and darting
to the narrow door without waiting for a reply, she stretched out her
head with an ebullition of registry-office questions.

"My good girl!" she cried, "my good girl!"

The girl came back nearer the door and stood still.

"Do you happen to know of a girl about your age who can do kitchen
work?"

"I don't know any one here. I'm travelling."

"But perhaps you would do for me yourself"--this half aside--"Can you
make a fire, keep pots clean, and scour floors?"

"Yes." She did not express any interest in her assent.

"Where are you going? Would you not like to come with me and enter my
service? I happen to be in need of just such a girl as you."

No answer.

"She doesn't understand, mamma," whispered the grey-eyed girl in a short
frock, who, having wedged herself beside her mother in the narrow
doorway, was the only one who could see or hear the colloquy. "Speak
slower to the poor thing."

"Looks very stupid," commented Mrs. Rexford, hastily pulling in her head
and speaking within the room. "But still, one must not lose a chance."
Then with head again outside, she continued, "Do you understand me, my
good girl? What is your name?"

"Eliza White."

"That is a very good name"--encouragingly. "Where do you live?"

"I used to live a good bit over there, in the French country." She
pointed with her arm in a certain direction, but as the points of the
compass had no existence for Mrs. Rexford's newly immigrated
intelligence, and as all parts of Canada, near and remote, seemed very
much in the same place in her nebulous vision of geography, the little
information the girl had given was of no interest to her and she took
little note of it.

"Did you come from Quebec just now?"

"Yes," replied the girl, after a moment's pause.

Then, in answer to further questions, she told a succinct tale. She said
that her father had a farm; that he had died the week before; that she
had no relatives in the place; that, having seen her father buried, she
thought it best to come to an English-speaking locality, and wait there
until she had time to write to her father's brother in Scotland.

"Sad, sad story! Lonely fate! Brave girl!" said Mrs. Rexford, shaking
her head for