wear. Nancy was no exception, but she had no pretty things; her clothes
had, in fact, become deplorably shabby, though by dexterous "undoing"
and "doing-up" she did manage to make the very most of her dark blue
serge costume. The dress and rather coquettish little jacket were of the
same material; and she had a felt hat of the same colour, which in some
mysterious way altered its shape to suit the varying fashions. Last
winter the wide brim was straight; this winter it was turned up at the
back, with a bunch of dark blue ribbons on the crown. Altogether her
appearance was picturesque, though the odd mingling of the rustic with
the latest Paris fashion-plate might call up a smile to your lips. The
smile which the costume provoked was sure to die, however, when you
looked at the girl's face. You wondered at once why the lovely brown
eyes looked so sad and appealing, and why the little mouth was so
tremulous, and why the colour came and went so frequently on the
finely-moulded cheeks, which were just a little thin for perfect beauty.
And if you happened to be a student of human nature, you would read in
one of Nancy's glances a story of conflicting emotions--disappointment,
timid expectancy, hope, and a dawning despair: at least, this is what I
read there when I looked at Nancy from the Vicar's pew one Sunday
morning at Shenton church. I was on a visit at the Vicarage then.

Of course, it must not be supposed that Miss Michin read Nancy Forest's
face in this way; but the little dressmaker had a warm heart, though
worried by the making of garments, and more by making two ends meet
which nature had apparently not intended for such close proximity; but
she had certainly noticed that for the last few weeks Nancy had not
looked well.

It was growing dark one Thursday evening, and Sarah Ann had just brought
the lamp into her mistress's parlour. Miss Michin turned up the light