e you, but I
don't see any other way. I can't get work that pays enough to keep me;
the Dr. says I can't be well unless I rest. I hate to be a burden, so
I 'm going away not to trouble anybody anymore. I 've sold my things to
pay what I owe you. Please let me be as I am, and don't let people come
and look at me. I hope it is n't very wicked, but there don't seem
any room for me in the world, and I 'm not afraid to die now, though
I should be if I stayed and got bad because I had n't strength to keep
right. Give my love to the baby, and so good-by, good-by.

JANE BRYANT.

"O, Miss Mills, how dreadful!" cried Polly, with her eyes so full she
could hardly read the little letter.

"Not so dreadful as it might have been, but a bitter, sad thing to
see that child, only seventeen, lying there in her little clean, old
night-gown, waiting for death to come and take her, because 'there did
n't seem to be any room for her in the world.' Ah, well, we saved her,
for it was n't too late, thank heaven, and the first thing she said was,
'Oh, why did you bring me back?' I 've been nursing her all day, hearing
her story, and trying to show her that there is room and a welcome for
her. Her mother died a year ago, and since then she has been struggling
along alone. She is one of the timid, innocent, humble creatures who
can't push their way, and so get put aside and forgotten. She has
tried all sorts of poorly paid work, could n't live on it decently, got
discouraged, sick, frightened, and could see no refuge from the big, bad
world but to get out of it while she was n't afraid to die. A very old
story, my dear, new and dreadful as it seems to you, and I think it
won't do you any harm to see and help this little girl, who has gone
through dark places that you are never like to know."

"I will; indeed, I will do all I can! Where is she now?" asked Polly,
touched to the heart by the story, so simple yet so sad.

"There," and Miss Mills pointed to the door of her own little bedroom.
"She was well enough to be moved to-night, so I brought her home and
laid her safely in my bed. Poor little soul! she looked about her for
a minute, then the lost look went away, and she gave a great sigh, and
took my hand in both her thin bits of ones, and said, 'O, ma'am, I feel
as if I 'd been born into a new world. Help me to begin again, and I
'll do better.' So I told her she was my child now, and might rest here,
sure of a home as long as I had one."