ble is.'

'Hev ye?' said the woman with another inquisitive look into the fair
face. 'Mebbe. There is folks that don't show what they goes through. I
guess I'm one o' that sort myself.'

'Are you?' said Esther, smiling. 'Certainly, to look at you, I never
should think your life had been very crooked or very rough. You always
seem bright and peaceful.'

It was true. Mrs. Blumenfeld had a quiet steady way with her, and both
face and voice partook of the same calm; though energy and activity
were at the same time as plainly manifested in every word and movement.
Esther looked at her now, as she went among her beds, stooping here and
there to remove a weed or pull off a decayed leaf, talking and using
her eyes at the same time. Her yellow hair was combed smooth and flat
at both sides of her head and knotted up firmly in a tight little
business knot behind. She wore a faded print dress and a shawl, also
faded, wrapped round her, and tied by the ends at the back; but both
shawl and gown were clean and whole, and gave her a thoroughly
respectable appearance. At Esther's last remark she raised herself up
and stood a moment silent.

'Wall,' she said, 'that's as fur as you kin see. It's ben both crooked
_and_ rough. I mayn't look it,--where's the use? And I don't talk of
it, for I've nobody to talk to; but, as I said, human natur' 'd like
to, ef it had a chance. I hain't a soul in the world to speak to; and
sometimes I feel as ef I'd give all I've got in the world to talk.
Then, mostly, I go into the garden and rout out the weeds. I tell you
they has to fly, those times!--But I believe folks was made to hev
company.'

'Have you no children?'

'Five of 'em, over there,' the woman said, pointing away, Esther could
only guess where, as it was not to the house. She was sorry she had
asked, and stood silent.

'Five of 'em,' Mrs. Blumenfeld repeated slowly. 'I had 'em,--and I
haven't 'em. And now, there is times when the world seems to me that
solitary that I'm a'most scared at myself.'

Esther stood still, with mute sympathy, afraid to speak.

'I s'pose, to you now, the world is all full o' friends?' the other
went on more lightly, turning from her own troubles, as it were.

'No,' said Esther gently; 'not at all. I am very much alone, and always
have been.'

'Mebbe you like it?'

'No, I do not like it. I sometimes wish very much for one or two
friends who are not here.'

There came a sigh from the bosom of the other