sorrow.

"I am the miserable mother of a baby lately received under your care. I
have a prayer to make to you."

Instinctively respecting the confidence which has drawn aside the veil,
Sally--whose ways are all ways of simplicity and spontaneity--replaces
it, and begins to cry.

"You will listen to my prayer?" the lady urges. "You will not be deaf to
the agonised entreaty of such a broken suppliant as I am?"

"O dear, dear, dear!" cries Sally. "What shall I say, or can say! Don't
talk of prayers. Prayers are to be put up to the Good Father of All, and
not to nurses and such. And there! I am only to hold my place for half
a year longer, till another young woman can be trained up to it. I am
going to be married. I shouldn't have been out last night, and I
shouldn't have been out to-night, but that my Dick (he is the young man I
am going to be married to) lies ill, and I help his mother and sister to
watch him. Don't take on so, don't take on so!"

"O good Sally, dear Sally," moans the lady, catching at her dress
entreatingly. "As you are hopeful, and I am hopeless; as a fair way in
life is before you, which can never, never, be before me; as you can
aspire to become a respected wife, and as you can aspire to become a
proud mother, as you are a living loving woman, and must die; for GOD'S
sake hear my distracted petition!"

"Deary, deary, deary ME!" cries Sally, her desperation culminating in the
pronoun, "what am I ever to do? And there! See how you turn my own