ys of Anne Boleyn," said
Winthrop.

"Of Anne Boleyn! -- What of them then?"

"Only that a statute was passed in that time, entitled, 'An
act for the true making of pins;' so I suppose they were then
articles of some importance. But the box may be trusted, Miss
Haye, for strength, if not for agreeableness. A quarter of
agreeableness with a remainder of strength, is a fair
proportion, as things go."

"Do you mean to compare life with this dirty box?" said
Elizabeth.

"They say an image should always elevate the subject," said
Winthrop smiling.

"What was the matter with the making of pins," said Elizabeth,
"that an act had to be made about it?"

"Why in those days," said Winthrop, "mechanics and
tradespeople were in the habit occasionally of playing false,
and it was necessary to look after them."

Elizabeth sat silently looking out again, wondering -- what she
had often wondered before -- where ever her companion had got
his cool self-possession; marvelling, with a little impatient
wonder, how it was that he would just as lief talk to her in a
blacksmith's shop in a thunder-storm, as in anybody's drawing-
room with a band playing and fifty people about. She was no
match for him, for she felt a little awkward. She, Miss Haye,
the heiress in her own right, who had lived in good company
ever since she had lived in company at all. Yet there he
stood, more easily, she felt, than she sat. She sat looking
straight out at the rain and thinking of it.

The open doorway and her vision were crossed a moment after by
a figure which put these thoughts out of her head. It was the
figure of a little black girl, going by through the rain, with
an old basket at her back which probably held food or firing
that she had been picking up along the streets of the city.
She wore a wretched old garment which only half covered her,
and that was already half wet; her feet and ancles were naked;
and the rain came down on her thick curly head. No doubt she
was accustomed to it; the road-worn feet must have cared
little for wet or dry, and the round shock of wool perhaps
never had a covering; yet it was bowed to the rain, and the
little blackey went by with lagging step and a sort of slow
crying. It touched Elizabeth with a disagreeable feeling of
pain. The thought had hardly crossed her mind, that she was
sorry for her, when to her great surprise she saw her
companion go to the door and ask the little object of her pity
to come in un