"Which might be a description of Fanny Brandeis herself,
barring the blouse," laughed Mrs. Knowles. Then, at the
startled look in Fanny's face, "Do forgive me. And don't
look so horrified. I think I know which one you mean. Her
name is Sarah Sapinsky--yes, isn't it a pity!--and it's
queer that you should ask me about her because I've been
having trouble with that particular girl."

"Trouble?"

"She knows she's pretty, and she knows she's different, and
she knows she's handicapped, and that accounts for the
discontented expression. That, and some other things. She
gets seven a week here, and they take just about all of it
at home. She says she's sick of it. She has left home
twice. I don't blame the child, but I've always managed to
bring her back. Some day there'll be a third time--and I'm
afraid of it. She's not bad. She's really rather splendid,
and she has a certain dreadful philosophy of her own. Her
theory is that there are only two kinds of people in the
world. Those that give, and those that take. And she's
tired of giving. Sarah didn't put it just that way; but you
know what she means, don't you?"

"I know what she means," said Fanny, grimly.

So it was Sarah she saw above all else in her trip through
the gigantic plant; Sarah's face shone out from among
the thousands; the thud-thud of Sarah's bundle-chute beat a