"'I--I have not a friend in this world,' she said; and then in a timid
voice, she asked: 'Are references indispensable?'

"'Of course,' I answered

"'Then the Lord help me! Nothing is left but the river. The river won't
require references;' and with that she buried her little golden-haired
head in the cushions of the sofa and burst into a perfect storm of sobs
and tears. Now, Cora, what in the deuce was a man to do? I had never
seen anything like that in all my life before. I had never seen a woman
in such a fit before. All this was strange and horrible to me.

"I am a middling strong old fellow, but that beautiful girl's despair
upset me, and I never could hear any one hint suicide, and she talked of
the river. The river would receive her without references. The river was
kinder than her own fellow creatures! The river would give her a home
and rest and peace! She only wanted to do honest work for her living,
but human beings would not even let her work for them without
references! And I declare to you, Cora, she was not acting, as you might
suspect. She was in deadly earnest. Her sobs shook her whole frame.

"At last I myself behaved like an ass. I went and knelt down beside her
so as to get quite close to her, and I began to comfort her. I told her
not to mind about the references; that she might have me for a reference
all the days of her life; that she should have the situation at
Rockhold, where I would convey her and introduce her on my own
responsibility.

"While I spoke to her I laid my hand on the little golden-haired head
and smoothed it all the time. Out of pity, Cora, I assure you on my
honor, out of pity. After a while her sobs seemed to subside slowly. I
told her that her face was to me a sufficient recommendation in her
favor, and all-sufficient testimonial of character; but that I must have
her confidence in exchange for my own.

"You see, Cora, I was very sorry for the poor, pretty creature, and was
really anxious to befriend her; but also my curiosity was keenly piqued.
I wished to know her private history, and so I assured her that she
should have the position she wanted on the condition of telling me her
antecedents.

"At last she yielded, and told me the story of her short, willful life.
This, then, was her poor, little, pathetic story.

"Her name was Ann White. She was the daughter of Amos White, an English
curate, living in a remote village in Northumberland, and of his first
wife, who