e same way, and a girl
further on took the silks.

A stranger was always amused to watch the long rows of quiet bodies,
nimble fingers, and moving lips, and to hear the half-whispered counting
and calling of colors as they divided the pieces.

To-day Nance had a bag to pick from. Here lay her chance. The girls who
took the rags from the bags were the most apt to find treasures, and
their turn came only once a month.

She was fast nearing the bottom of the last bag. Every time she thrust
her hand in, her heart beat fast, and she thought, "Shall I keep it, if
I find anything?"

Once more, and her hand touches something cold; her fingers close round
it, and she draws it out. Her head swims, she clutches the table with
her other hand to keep from falling--perhaps, after all, it is only a
button. She collects herself, and peeps slyly into her hand.

A gold thimble!

No one has seen it, no one knows, and Nance slips it into her pocket,
and goes on with her work; but somehow it doesn't run smoothly. It is
"Silk, cotton, woollen, linen," and then "Cotton, woollen, linen, silk,"
and the girls find fault because the piles are "mixed," and then the
bell rings, and they are free for to-day.

Cautiously Nance makes inquiries about the "finds." How much did they
sell things for, if they found any?

"My aunt," said one girl, "onst foun' a gol' ring, an' the jew'ler give
her a dollar for 't."

"He melted it down," explained another. "They allus does that. He told
me one day that if ever I found a gold breas'pin or a bracelet, 'which
'tain't noways likely you will,' sez he, 'fetch it to me, an' I'll give
you what's right for it.'"

So Nance's "find" was really worth money. More money, too, than she
could earn in many days' steady toil. What would it not buy! Food,
clothing, warmth, everything, seemed within her reach now that she held
that source of wealth in her hand.

"'Tain't stealin', I hope," thought Nance. "Course not. I don' know who
it belongs to."

When alone, Nance took out the thimble. What a dainty little thing it
was! She tried it on each of her hard, bony fingers, and laughed to see
the poor grimy things wearing a golden crown.

Why, there were letters on it!

"Reel writin'!" cried Nance, as she paused under a street lamp to spell
the word by its light.

"Onst I could read writin'. That first mus' be a capertin--that's what
they call them big fellers that stands first--a kin' of a Gennyrel with
his sol