"Nell," was the greeting returned by the caller.

The woman stepped aside, and Helen stepped into a hall, whose sole
furnishing consisted of a rag rug on the floor and a cheap hall-tree
with a cracked mirror. Evidently it was the chief wardrobe of the
house, for upon the twenty or more nails driven into the walls in
fairly regular order were articles of both men's and women's wear,
most of them bearing evidence of contact with hard labor. From the
hall, Helen was conducted into the "front room," the only name it was
ever known by, which communicated with the dining room through a cased
opening without portieres. These two rooms were about as barely
furnished as possible under a minimum of necessary articles and
quality. A threadbare ingrain carpet covered the floor of the front
room. A few rag rugs hid probably some of the worst gaps in the
matching of the yellow-pine floor of the dining room.

As for human life in this house of pinch and poverty, it was hardly
vigorous enough to attract attention ahead of the furnishings.
Clinging to the faded skirts of their mother were three hungry-eyed
anaemic children, a girl and two boys.

"How are you, Nell?" inquired Helen, giving the woman a kiss that
seemed almost to frighten her. "It's been two years since I've seen
you."

"I'm not very well, Helen," the other replied, wearily. "I've about
given up all hope of ever seeing any better days. But what brings you
here? I didn't expect ever to see you again."

"Now, Nell, don't talk that way," Helen protested. "You know--or maybe