ng--but she came an' stayed by me when I was in hell an' no one
else would give me a drop of water to cool my tongue."

"I know something about that," said Miss Amory; "I have heard it talked
of. Where's your child?"

Susan did not redden, but the hard look came back to her face for a
moment.

"It didn't live but a few minutes," she answered.

"What are you doing for your living?"

A faint red showed itself on the girl's haggard cheeks, and she stared at
her with indifferent blankness.

"I worked in the mill till my health broke down for a spell, an' I had to
give up. I'm better now, but I've not got a cent to live on, an' my place
was filled up right away."

"Where's the man?" Miss Amory demanded.

"I don't know. I've never heard a word of him since he slid off to
Chicago."

"Humph!" said Miss Amory.

For a moment or so she sat silent, thinking. She held her chin in her
hand and pinched it. Presently she looked up.

"Could you come and live with me for a month?" she enquired. "I believe
we might try the experiment. I daresay you would rub me when I want
rubbing, and go errands and help me up and down stairs and carry things
for me. It just happens that my old Jane has been obliged to leave me
because she's beginning to be as rheumatic as I am myself, and her
daughter offers her a good home. Would you like to try? I don't promise
to do more than make the experiment."

The girl flushed hot this time, as she looked down on the floor.

"You may guess whether I'm likely to say 'yes' or not," she said. "I
ain't had a crust to-day. I believe I could _learn_ to suit you. But I
never expected anything as good as this to happen to me. Thank you,
ma'am. May I--when must I come?"

"Take off your bonnet and go and have your dinner, and stay now,"
answered Miss Amory.

When John Baird called later in the day, Miss Amory was walking in the
sun in her garden and Susan was with her, supporting her stiff steps. She
had been fed, her dress had been changed for a neat print, and the
dragged lines of her face seemed already to have relaxed. She no longer
wore the look of a creature who is hungry and does not know how long her
hunger may last and how much worse it may become.

"I am much obliged to you, Miss Amory," Baird said when he joined her,
and he said it almost impetuously. To-day he was in the state of mind
when even vicarious good deeds are a support and a consolation. To have
been a means of doing a good turn