cold, wet night, ma'am, and Mr. Lewis will want to dry his
clothes," persisted Nora.

"_Is_ it a wet night, Nora?"

"Lord bless you, Mrs. Clavering, it has been pouring down rain for an
hour past!" and she ran back to the coal house, returning in a second
with the scuttle. "You see, ma'am," continued Nora, as she lighted the
fire and the cheerful light filled the room, "you thinks too much. I've
been here half a dozen times to-night, and seen you a ponderin' on sad
things. It won't do, ma'am; thinking don't fatten folks."

Cora smiled, and Nora went on. She was privileged, for she had been a
servant in old Mrs. Clavering's family, and at her instance came to live
with Cora when her household cares began.

"You see, Miss Cora"--(Nora never said Mrs. Clavering more than once or
twice)--"I know what ails you, and you ought not to take on about it so.
The darkest hour's before the dawn, and _your_ dawn an't come yet."

"I wish it were, Nora," said Cora, smiling again. "But there is a hope,
at all events, for worse than I am. You say that you know why I am sad,
Nora, and I am sure that you feel for one whom you have served so long.
Now, is there nothing I can do to help Mr. Clavering that you know of?
Nothing that will enable me to keep _you_? for, as things are now, there
is no use in concealing that I could no longer afford to employ a
servant, were there no brighter prospect."

"Takes two to make a bargain, Miss Cora, and you couldn't send me off if
I didn't choose to go," said Nora, stoutly. "It's a hard thing to see
you work, but I s'pose it's got to be. Would you sew, ma'am? I'm sure I
could get plenty of that."

"Certainly I would, gladly I would," said Cora, eagerly. "So keep your
word, Nora, and bring me something to do as soon as you can. You know
how nicely I can do fine work."

But Nora was crying, and went out of the room. Her pride for "the
Claverings" was sadly humbled, and her "poor Miss Cora too unhappy!" She
kept her promise, however; and long after the portfeuille lay useless in
the drawer, Cora's busy fingers earned wherewith to supply the every-day
wants of the house. What mattered it if her bonnet grew rusty and her
gloves were mended? She was always pretty and neat, and had always that
sweet fresh color that a consciousness of right sent to her cheek. The
same glad smile ever welcomed her husband, the same rich, clear voice
sang the touching songs he loved, and he seemed to catch a portion of