bare and comfortless the room, so was Miss Sophie's lonely life. She
rented these four walls from an unkempt little Creole woman, whose
progeny seemed like the promised offspring of Abraham,--multitudinous.
The flickering life in the pale little body she scarcely kept there by
the unceasing toil of a pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching,
ceaselessly, wearingly on the bands and pockets of pants. It was her
bread, this monotonous, unending work, and though while days and nights
constant labor brought but the most meagre recompense, it was her only
hope of life.

She sat before the little charcoal brazier and warmed her transparent,
needle-pricked fingers, thinking meanwhile of the strange events of the
day. She had been up town to carry the great, black bundle of pants and
vests to the factory and receive her small pittance, and on the way home
stopped in at the Jesuit Church to say her little prayer at the altar of
the calm, white Virgin. There had been a wondrous burst of music from
the great organ as she knelt there, an over-powering perfume of many
flowers, the glittering dazzle of many lights, and the dainty frou-frou
of silken skirts of wedding guests filing and tripping. So Miss Sophie
stayed to the wedding, for what feminine heart, be it ever so old and
seared, does not delight in one? And why shouldn't a poor little Creole
old maid be interested too?

When the wedding party had filed in solemnly, to the rolling, swelling,
pealing tones of the organ. Important-looking groomsmen, dainty, fluffy,
white-robed maids, stately, satin-robed, illusion-veiled bride, and
happy groom. She leaned forward to catch a better glimpse of their
faces. Ah!--

Those near the Virgin's altar who heard a faint sigh and rustle on the
steps glanced curiously as they saw a slight, black-robed figure clutch
the railing and lean her head against it. Miss Sophie had fainted.

"I must have been hungry," she mused over the charcoal fire in her
little room, "I must have been hungry," and she smiled a wan smile, and
busied herself getting her evening meal of coffee and bread and ham.

If one were given to pity, the first thought that would rush to one's
lips at sight of Miss Sophie would have been: Poor little Miss Sophie!
She had come among the bareness and sordidness of this neighborhood five
years ago, robed in crepe, and crying with great sobs that seemed to
fairly shake the vitality out of her. Perfectly silent, too, about her
form