s under her eyes, and a pathetic air of
humiliation.

"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, "you do not know me, nor the like
of me. I've got no right to speak to you, but I couldn't help it. Oh!
please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'm Sally Johnson,
daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My mother died when
I was little, and I _never_ had a show; and folks think because I live
with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I
must be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a
kind word to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild,
and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came
in, and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it
came in my heart that I'd speak to you if I died for it." She leaned
eagerly forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair. "I
suppose your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew
me; but I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he was here
before, there was a young man"--here a faint color came in the wan
cheeks--"who was fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my
father was down on him, and the men that father was in with wanted to
kill him; and Mr. Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've
waited and waited for him to come back--and perhaps I'll never see him
again. But oh! dear lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. He's
a good man, and he deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and
if I dared I'd pray for you both, night and day."

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale as before, and as
if frightened by her own emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with
sympathy and increasing interest.

"My poor girl," she said, speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft
voice) and with slightly heightened color, "I am delighted that you
came to see me, and that my husband was able to help you. Tell me, can
we not do more for you? I do not for one moment believe you can be
happy with your present surroundings. Can we not assist you to leave
them?"

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. "I thank you for your words,"
she said. "I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, God
bless you!"

She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to her lips, and was gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, and he
listened with much interest to her story.

"Poor girl!" said he; "Fo