was gaining in the goodwill of her adopted
cousins; David certainly had spoken and looked civilly and pleasantly
again; and Matilda's heart to-day was without a cloud.

Norton declined to go with her to Sunday school, however, and she went
alone. No stranger now, she took her place in the class as one at home;
and all the business and talk of the hour was delightful to her. Sarah
was there of course; after the school services were ended Matilda
seized her opportunity.

"Whereabouts do you live, Sarah?"

Matilda had been turning over various vague thoughts in her mind,
compounded from experiences of Lilac lane and the snowy corner of
Fourteenth street; her question was not without a purpose. But Sarah
answered generally, that it was not very far off.

"Where is it?" said Matilda. "I should like, if I can, and maybe I can,
I should like to come and see you."

"It is a poor place," said Sarah. "I don't think you would like to come
into it."

"But you live there," said the other child.

"Yes"--said Sarah uneasily; "I live there when I ain't somewheres else;
and I'm that mostly."

"Where is that 'somewhere else'? I'll come to see you there, if I can."

"You _have_ seen me there," said the street-sweeper. "'Most days I'm
there."

"I have been past that corner a good many times, Sarah, when I couldn't
see you anywhere."

"'Cos the streets was clean. There warn't no use for my broom then.
Nobody'd ha' wanted it, or me. I'd ha' been took up, maybe."

"What do you do _then_, Sarah?"

"Some days I does nothing; some days I gets something to sell, and then
I does that."

"But I would like to know where you live."

"You wouldn't like it, I guess, if you saw it. Best not," said Sarah.
"They wouldn't let you come to such a place, and they hadn't ought to.
I'd like to see you at my crossing," she added with a smile as she
moved off. Matilda, quite lost in wonderment, stood looking after her
as she went slowly down the aisle. Her clothes were scarcely whole, yet
put on with an evident attempt at tidiness; her bonnet was not a
bonnet, but the unshapely and discoloured remains of what had once had
the distinction. Her dress was scarcely clean; yet as evidently there
was an effort to be as neat as circumstances permitted. What sort of a
home could it be, where so nice a girl as Matilda believed this one
was, could reach no more actual and outward nicety in her appearance?

"You have made Sarah Staples' acquaintance, I