“But she don’t sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help, from soap and soup to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor.”

“How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can’t be cured?”

“But it isn’t all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls.”

“My good Polly!” and Fanny gave her friend’s arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the change in Polly.

“You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I’ll show you two more,” said Polly, presently, as they reached a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. “Rebecca Jeffrey is a regular splendid girl, full of talent; she won’t let us call it genius; she will be famous some day, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home,—they work, eat, sleep, and live there, going halves in everything. They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part.”

“Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won’t last long,” said Fanny.

“I think it will. Take a look at them, and you’ll change your mind,” answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest cards were tacked.

“Come in!” said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly-furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short, curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table, where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair,—a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skilfully wielding her tools.

“Becky and Bess, how do you do? This is my friend Fanny Shaw. We are out on a rampage; so go on with your work, and let us lazy ones look on and admire.”

As Polly spoke, both girls looked up and nodded smilingly. Bess gave Fan the one easy-chair; Becky took an artistic survey of the newcomer, with eyes that seemed to see everything; then each went on with her work, and all began to talk.

“You are just what I want, Polly. Pull up your sleeve, and give me an arm while you sit; the muscles here aren’t right, and you’ve got just what I want,” said Becky, slapping the round arm of the statue, at which Fan was gazing with awe.

“How do you get on?” asked Polly, throwing off her cloak, and rolling up her sleeves, as if going to washing.

“Slowly. The idea is working itself clear, and I follow as fast as my hands can. Is the face better, do you think?” said Becky, taking off a wet cloth, and showing the head of the statue.

“How beautiful it is!” cried Fanny, staring at it with increased respect.

“What does it mean to you?” asked Rebecca, turning to her with a sudden shine in her keen eyes.