er over in her pocket. It was
the only American coin she had carried with her through Europe, and she
now took it out slowly, and said:

"You'll accept a little something for your kindness in saving my hat."

"I'm much obliged, miss, but I'd rather not I'd rather have your kind
words than any money. It's very lonesome I've been since I left
Drogheda."

She put the quarter back into her pocket with something like shame;
then she fumbled her rings in a strange embarrassment. She had made a
mess of it, she thought. At the same time she was glad the girl had so
much pride.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Margaret Byrne."

"You must let me help you in some way," said Miss Thorne at last.

"I wonder what kind of people they are in New York, now," said
Margaret, looking at Sylvia wistfully. "It seems dreadful to go so far
away and not know in whose house you'll be livin'."

Sylvia looked steadily at the girl, and then went away, promising to
see her again. She smiled at Walter Kirk, who had finished his game of
shuffleboard and was looking all up and down the deck for Miss Thorne.
She did not stop to talk with him, however, but pushed on to where her
mother and father were sitting not far from the taffrail.

"Mamma, I've been out in the steerage."

"You'll be in the maintop next, I don't doubt," said her father,
laughing.

"I've been talking to the Irish girl that caught my hat yesterday."

"You shouldn't talk to steerage people," said Mrs. Thorne. "They might
have the smallpox, or they might not be proper people."

"I suppose cabin passengers might have the smallpox too," said Mr.
Thorne, who liked to tease either wife or daughter.

"I offered the Irish girl a quarter, and she wouldn't have it."

"You're too free with your money," said her mother in a tone of
complaint that was habitual.

"The girl wouldn't impose on you, Sylvia," said Mr. Thorne. "She's
honest. She knew that your hat wasn't worth so much. Now, if you had
said fifteen cents----"

"O papa, be still," and she put her hand over his mouth. "I want to
propose something."

"Going to adopt the Irish----" But here Sylvia's hand again arrested Mr.
Thorne's speech.

"No, I'm not going to adopt her, but I want mamma to take her for
upstairs girl when we get home."

Mr. Thorne made another effort to push away Sylvia's hand so as to say
something, but the romping girl smothered his speech into a gurgle.

"I couldn't think of it. She's got no