For one brief moment she felt as if she had gained the haven of rest, for she lay at peace with no troubles gnawing at her soul. But suddenly a pang shot through her heart and she knew that some harassing thought was at hand. Then suddenly she remembered! She had left love and misery behind to seek help, and she had not found it! She had but lost sight of those for whom she sought the help! She could not tell how long it was since she had seen her mother and Arthur. She lay covered with kindness by people she had never seen. How they were faring, she could only guess.

Alice had little education beyond what life had given her. But life is the truest of all teachers, however little the results of her teaching may be valued by school-enthusiasts. She did not know one creed from another, but she loved what she saw to be good, and knew how to send a selfish thought back to its place. She knew nothing of the Norman conquest, but she knew much of self-conquest. She wore shabby frocks, but she would not put bad work into the seams of a rich lady’s dress. She had suffered much at the hands of great ladies, yet she had but to see Barbara to love her.

As she lay with her heart warming, she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road. Her angel came to Alice not with flapping of great wings, but with the sounds of ringing iron shoes and snorting breath, to be followed by a girl’s feet on the stairs.

“Well, how are you today?” said Barbara, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Alice was older and taller than Barbara, but Barbara never thought about height or age—strong herself, she was instant mother to all weakness.

“Ever so much better, miss!” answered Alice.

“Now, none of that!” returned the little lady, “or I will leave the room. My name is Barbara, and we are friends—unless you don’t want me calling you Alice.”

Alice stretched out her thin arms to Barbara and burst into weeping.

“Will you let me tell you everything?” she cried.

“What am I here for?” returned Barbara, embracing her. “Tell me whatever you like—but nothing more.”

Alice lay silent for a moment, then said, “I wish you would ask me some question. I don’t know how to begin.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Barbara said, “What do you do all day in London?”

“Sew, sew, sit and sew, from morning till night,” answered Alice. “No sooner is one piece of cloth out of your hands till another is in them. So no matter how much you do, you never feel that you’ve done anything! It’s a downright dreary life, miss.”

“There you go again,” said Barbara seriously, and Alice laughed.