slid between its leaves. She
gave Joyce an inquiring glance, and waited for her to speak. The latter
flushed a little, scarcely knowing how to introduce herself, but a
second look towards the magazines touched up her memory, and she began
graciously,

"I see you are a reader. I wonder if you would care for the paper I have
here," and she handed it over for inspection.

"Ah, I cannot tell if 'tis so; pray be seated ma'amselle. Yes, I like
mooch those peectures and those patterns. They do help in my work." Her
accent was distinctly foreign, yet every word was so plainly enunciated
that it was easy to understand her. "You do sell this?" she asked.

Joyce was nonplussed, but caught at her waning wits enough to answer,

"Not this copy. It is only for you to look at."

"Ah yes,"--quickly, with a merry smile, "It ees a sahmple, eh?"

"Yes, a sample copy, but if you think you could use it in your work I
will see that you have it every month."

"And the expense of it?" She looked up apprehensively. "That, too, must
be considered."

"Surely. You see it says ten cents a number, or one dollar a year. But I
think I might furnish you a sample copy free, if you would speak a good
word for it among your neighbors. Not to trouble yourself any, of
course."

"That is most kind, and I could do it. The girls do coom in and listen
as I read, by times. It is a great deal that books do for one like me,
ma'amselle. They are my friends, my coomfort. They, and my vork."

"I can well believe it. And what beautiful work you do! Doesn't it tire
you while in that reclining position? You look so delicate."

"But I am so mooch bettare--quite near to well once more. I do this,
while my sister, she work in the glass-house. She is all well and
strong--my sister."

"That is good! And you live here alone together?"

"Yes, we do. We come across from Havre together--we, the two--and we
think we will make a fortune, now we have lost our parents, and have no
big strong brother. And then it is I that must get sick, and when the
fevaer do go after the long weeks, it takes with it all my strength, and
so I cannot yet walk."

"Poor little woman! But you have such a pretty room--how kind your
sister must be."

"My Babette? Ah, she is so bright, so gay. She will not let me say that
we have been onlooky--oh no! She say, 'You here, I here, nevare mind any
other thing.' So she coomfort me."

"And do you send this beautiful embroidery into the city?"