and maid. Then there’s another thing we can do,” added Polly, warming up. “Most of us find money enough for our little vanities and pleasures, but feel dreadfully poor when we come to pay for work, sewing especially. Couldn’t we give up a few of the vanities, and pay the seamstresses better?”

“I declare I will!” cried Belle, whose conscience suddenly woke, and smote her for beating down the woman who did her plain sewing, in order that she might have an extra flounce on a new dress.

“Belle has got a virtuous fit; pity it won’t last a week,” said Trix.

“Wait and see,” retorted Belle, resolving that it should last, just to disappoint “that spiteful minx”, as she sweetly called her old school-mate.

“Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace, on her new hobby. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear of her preaching in the jail, adopting a nice dirty little orphan, or passing round tracts at a Woman’s Rights meeting,” said Carrie, who never could forgive Belle for having a lovely complexion, and so much hair of her own that she never patronized either rats, mice, waterfalls, switches, or puff-combs.

“Well, I might do worse; and I think, of the two, I’d rather amuse myself so than as some young ladies do, who get into the papers for their pranks,” returned Belle, with a moral air.

“Suppose we have a little recess, and rest while Polly plays to us. Will you, Polly? It will do us good; they all want to hear you, and begged I’d ask.”

“Then I will, with pleasure;” and Polly went to the piano with such obliging readiness, that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix, who didn’t need her glass to see them.

Polly was never too sad, perturbed, or lazy to sing, for it was almost as easy to her as breathing, and seemed the most natural outlet for her emotions. For a minute her hands wandered over the keys, as if uncertain what to play; then, falling into a sad, sweet strain, she sang “The Bridge of Sighs”. Polly didn’t know why she chose it, but the instinct seemed to have been a true one, for, old as the song was, it went straight to the hearts of the hearers, and Polly sung it better than she ever had before, for now the memory of little Jane lent it a tender pathos which no art could give. It did them all good, for music is a beautiful magician, and few can resist its power. The girls were touched by the appeal; Polly was lifted out of herself, and when she turned round, the softened look on all the faces told her that for the moment foolish differences and frivolous beliefs were forgotten in the one womanly sentiment of pity for the wrongs and woes of which the listeners’ happy lives were ignorant.

“That song always makes me cry, and feel as if I had no right to be so comfortable,” said Belle, openly wiping her eyes on a crash towel.

“Fortunately such cases are very rare,” said another young lady, who seldom read the newspapers.

“I wish they were, but I’m afraid they are not; for only three weeks ago, I saw a girl younger than any of us, and no worse, who tried to destroy herself, simply because she was so discouraged, sick, and poor,” said Polly.

“Do tell about her,” cried Belle, eagerly.

Feeling that the song had paved the way for the story, and given her courage to tell it, Polly did tell it, and must have done it well, for the girls stopped work to listen, and when she ended, other eyes besides warm-hearted Belle’s were wet. Trix looked quite subdued; Miss Perkins thawed to such a degree that something glittered on her hand as she bent over the pink pinafore again better and brighter than her biggest diamond; Emma got up and went to Polly with a face full of affectionate respect, while Fanny, moved by a sudden impulse, caught up a costly Sèvres plate that stood on the étagère, and laying a five- dollar bill in it, passed it round, quoting Polly’s word,—