the work
back."

But the other began to cry. "Perhaps the stitches are large," she
said, sobbing. "I know my eyes are weak. No one will pay me, and I owe
the baker more than ten lire. Soon we shall have to beg our bread in
the streets."

"Don't," Olive said hurriedly. "Don't. I have been with you more than
a month and I have not found work yet, but I will not be a burden to
you much longer. I shall find something to do soon and then you need
not do so much and we shall manage better."

"Oh, child, I know you do your best."

"Don't cry then. I will get money somehow. Don't be afraid."

CHAPTER II

Olive sat idly on one of the benches near the great wall in the
Pincian gardens. She had been to an office in the Piazza di Spagna and
had there been assured for the seventh time that there was nothing on
the books. "If the signorina were a cook now, there are many people in
need of cooks," the young man behind the counter had said smilingly,
and she had thanked him and come away. What else could she do?

It was getting late, and a fading light filtered through the bare
interwoven branches of the planes. The shadows were lengthening in the
avenues and grass-bordered paths where the seminarists had been
walking in twos and threes among the playing children. They were gone
now, the grave-faced young men in their black soutanes and broad
beaver hats; all the people were gone.

"O Pasquina! _Birichina!_"

Olive, turning her head, saw a young woman and a child coming towards
her. The little thing was clinging to its mother's skirts, stumbling
at every step, whining to be taken up, and now she dropped the white
rabbit muff and the doll she was carrying into a puddle.

"O Pasquina!"

The child stared open-mouthed as Olive came forward and stooped to
pick up the fallen treasures, and though tears were running down her
little face she made no outcry.

"See, the beautiful lady helps you," the mother said hastily, and she
sat down on the bench at Olive's side and lifted the baby on to her
lap to comfort her.

"She is tired. We have been to the Campo Marzo to buy her a fine hat
with white feathers," she explained.

Olive looked at her with interest. She was not at all pretty; her
round snubby face was red and she had a bruise on her chin, and yet
she was somehow attractive. Her small, twinkling blue eyes were so
kind, and her hair was beautiful, smooth, shining, and yellow as
straw. She wore no hat.

Her name