morning, however, soon after Mrs. Flaherty's accident, Joyce made an
errand into the central office, and while waiting for some distant
connection to be made ventured to ask some questions of Marie who, alert
and bright-eyed, sat in her wheeled chair, so adjusted that the
switch-board was within easy reach.

"You don't have much to do here, they tell me," she began, smiling at
the little Frenchwoman in friendly fashion.

Marie now knew Miss Lavillotte as the resident on the knoll, who was
popularly supposed to be interested in schools, possibly with the
intention of teaching some day, and who had means enough to run a modest
establishment of her own. She answered eagerly,

"But, yes, by times I do. It is the young people that do use it most,
though. Dose old ones, they so mooch vork do all the day that they will
not yet take time to learn so that it seem not strange to them. It will
be otherwise in time."

"Do they tell their needs at all?" began Joyce, when Marie had to answer
a call, and sat smiling in that way which seems meaningless to a
looker-on while some one's voice holds the attention at the other end.
Presently she answered in quick tones. "Yes, it is so indeed. I will
make note, and see if it may have answer. Yes. Oh, but that is true!
Yes. All right, Good-by."

Joyce longed, yet hesitated, to ask what the communication had been,
when Marie turned to her.

"You but now did ask, 'Do they tell their needs?' and this was one."

"Really? What was it? Pray tell me! Could it be gratified? I'd so like
to know."

Marie smiled at the eagerness of her visitor.

"I tell you, then. It was Mr. Gus Peters, who want somebody to make him
one easel, with a drawing-board that will slide up and down easy, for
one nice sharp knife with three blade that he will give in exchange. He
laugh w'en he say it, as if he think it no use, though."

"But it ought to be of use. Let's think, Marie. Who can do such things?
Somebody that needs a nice knife. Some bright boy, say, with a head for
such work."

Marie thought a minute.

"There is a boy," she said slowly. "He is not good for mooch, but he
like that whittle kind of work, I know."

"Poor child! His mother, she is dead, and his father he have no time to
be kind to him, I think, so he wander about and pick up the job here and
there. It is he that might do this easel."

"Just the thing! Only he couldn't get the materials together, I
fear--wait! Where does he live?"

"