er and ever so long and what was to
become of them all, and what was to become of poor Billy?

The little wife, accustomed though she was to hardships and griefs, was
overcome by this crushing blow. With all his faults and weaknesses,
Billy was her husband and the stay and support of the family, and
besides, she had a dread of jail and its accompanying disgrace. By the
time the sad tale was finished, she was worn out with sobs, and sat
still, looking straight ahead of her into the fireless stove. But the
baby's cries roused her, and she took him in her arms, making a pitiful
attempt to chirrup to him. The idiot boy, feeling dimly that something
was wrong, came and rubbed his head against her like a faithful dog,
whining grievously. She stroked his hair lovingly. "Pore Eddie," she
said, "it'd be better if you an' me an' the biby, was with Minnie;" and
then with sudden compunction, "but wot would pore Bill do without us?"

Helen told the sad story at the supper table at Rosemount, that
evening, and asked for help. Miss Armstrong promised to send a basket
of food down the next day, though she did not approve of the Perkins
family. She had found that to help that sort of shiftless people only
made them worse. Why, last Christmas, there was one family on Willow
Lane who received five turkeys from the Presbyterians alone, and the
Dorcas society was always sending clothes to that poor unfortunate Mrs.
Perkins. Mrs. Captain Willoughby herself, who was the President, had
seen the little Perkins girl wearing a dress just in tatters, that had
been given to her in perfectly good condition only the week before.
Wasn't the girl old enough to go out working?

"The little girl died last fall of tuberculosis," said Helen, in a low
voice. "She was just ten."

Miss Annabel's big blue eyes suddenly filled. "Oh, the poor dear
little thing. Minnie used to be in my Sunday-school class, and I
wondered why she hadn't been there for so long. But we've been so
dreadfully busy this fall, I simply hadn't time to hunt her up.
Elinor, we must send a jar of jelly to the poor woman, and I think I
shall give her that last winter coat of mine. We'll ask Leslie for
some, she simply doesn't know what to do with all her old clothes."

"Oh, please don't," said Helen in distress. She could not explain that
which she had so lately learned herself, that what a woman like Mrs.
Perkins needed was not old clothes nor even food, but a friend, an