d
me.

I leaned out and looked at the stars and tried to think of something
sweet and wholesome and strengthening.

"Ah, Nance," I cried to myself with a sob--I had pretended to take it
lightly enough when he was here, but now--"if you had heard of a girl
who, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she had
known, and the good man ignored her and the bad one followed her--oh,
Nancy--what sort of girl would you think she was at heart? What sort
of hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? And what
sort of significance would you attach to--"

And just then the bell rang again.

This time I was sure it was you. And, O Maggie, I ran to the door
eager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. I was
afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. I was afraid of the
conclusion to which they were leading me. Maggie, if ever a girl
needed comfort and encouragement and heartening, I did then.

And I got it, dear.

For there was a man at the door, with a great basket of azaleas--pale,
pink earth-stars they are, the sweet, innocent things--and a letter for
me. Here it is. Let me read it to you.

"My dear Miss Omar:

Once on a time there was a Luckless Pot, marred in the making, that had
the luck to be of service to a Pipkin.

It was a saucy Pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the
health and strength the poor Pot lacked--physically. Morally--morally,
that young Pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already its
fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of the
treasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that good
intact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of
baser metal.

What the Luckless Pot did was little--being ignorant of the art by
which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly--but it gave the
little Pipkin a chance.

What the Pipkin did with that chance the Pot learned to-night, with
such pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not to
share it with her. So while he sent Burnett out to the conservatory to
cut azaleas, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he felt
when, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respecting
Vessel on exhibition in Mrs. Gates' red room, he recognized the poor
little Pipkin of other days.

The Pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never
filled the use for which pots are created. He had lit