Yet she wondered if the instinct were not dormant, needing but the
suggestion. It was a queer little notion, worthy of Flossy Shipley
herself, who, from being continually busy about little things, had come
to the conclusion that nothing anywhere was little; that the so-called
trifles, which make up many lives, had much to do with the happiness of
other lives. Was it worth her while to try to teach these street Arabs
to pick up fallen handkerchiefs? She differed from many Christian
workers, in that, in her simplicity, she really thought it was.

There was a lull just at that moment. A hymn had been announced, but
the organist's note-book had been mislaid, and was being sought after.
It could disturb no one if Mrs. Roberts tried her little experiment. She
looked longingly at Dirk Colson, but his brows were black and his eyes
fierce; this was no time to reach him. Nimble Dick looked much more
approachable. She determined to venture him:--

"Mr. Bolton," spoken in her sweetest voice, "I have dropped my
handkerchief."

"Anybody with half an eye could see that, mum; and a mighty dirty spot
you picked out for such a nice little rag to lie in."

This was her only response. Then the discomfited experimenter told
herself that she was a blunderer. How could the poor fellow be expected
to know what she meant? Why had she not _asked_ the service from
him? She would try again.

Would he be kind enough to pick it up for her? It was long afterwards
before Mrs. Roberts could think of his answer without a sinking heart.
Fixing bold, saucy eyes on her, he spoke in deliberate tones, loud