of her curls dropped the once haughty and now humbled head-gear in the
fire and watched it burn with joyous satisfaction.

"The first time she wore it we called her Coachman Cattie, it was so
stiff and high and hideous, and nobody but a person like her would
ever have bought it. I never thought it would some day come to me.
Some missioners are nice, some very nice, but some--"

With emphasis the lid of the stove was put back, and, going to the
table in the middle of the room, Carmencita picked up the contents of
the little work-basket, which had been knocked over in her rushing
round, and put them slowly in place. "Some missioners seem to think
because you're poor everything God put in other people's hearts and
minds and bodies and souls He left out of you. Of course, if you
haven't a hat you ought to be thankful for any kind." The words came
soberly, and the tiniest bit of a quiver twisted the lips of the
protesting mouth. "You oughtn't to know whether it is pretty or ugly
or becoming or--You ought just to be thankful and humble, and I'm not
either. I don't like thankful, humble people; I'm afraid of them."

Leaving the table where for a minute she had jumbled needles and
thread and scissors and buttons in the broken basket, she walked
slowly over to the tiny mirror hung above a chest of drawers, and on
tiptoes nodded at the reflection before her--nodded and spoke to it.

"You're a sinner, all right, Carmencita Bell, and there's no natural
goodness in you. You hate hideousness, and poorness, and other
people's cast-offs, and emptiness in your stomach, and living on the
top floor with crying babies and a drunken father underneath, and
counting every stick of wood before you use it. And you get furious
at times because your father is blind and people have forgotten about
his beautiful music, and you want chicken and cake when you haven't
even enough bacon and bread. You're a sinner, all right. If you were
in a class of them you would be at the head. It's the only thing you'd
ever be at the head of. You know you're poverty-poor, and still you're
always fighting inside, always making out that it is just for a little
while. Why don't you--"

The words died on her lips, and suddenly the clear blue eyes, made for
love and laughter and eager for all that is lovely in life, dimmed
with hot tears, and with a half-sob she turned and threw herself face
downward on the rug-covered cot on the opposite side of the room.

"O G