“I sometimes think,” returned Gabriella deliberately, while she draped a lace bertha on a white silk frock she was making for Fanny, “that I will try to borrow the money.”

“It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“No, I don’t suppose it could hurt.”

Her eyes were on the lace, which she was adjusting over the shoulder, and Miss Polly followed her gaze with a look which was not entirely approving.

“There ain’t a bit of sense in your wearin’ yourself out over that child,” said the seamstress presently, with so sharp an accent that Gabriella glanced up quickly from her work.  “It was just the way Mrs. Spencer started Florrie, and it ain’t right.”

“Florrie!” exclaimed Gabriella, startled, and she added slowly, “I wonder what has become of her?  I haven’t thought of her for years.”

“It was a mean trick she played you, Gabriella.  I’d never have believed it of Florrie if I hadn’t been there to see it with my own eyes.”

“Yes, it was mean,” assented Gabriella, but there was no anger in her voice.  She had left the past so far behind her that its disappointments and its cruelties had become as dim and shadowy to her imagination as if they had been phantoms of the mind instead of actual events through which she had lived.

“Well, I’m glad she didn’t spoil your life for you, honey.”

“No, she didn’t spoil my life.  Don’t I look happy?  And Madame told me to-day that my figure was distinguished.  Now, when a woman’s life is spoiled her figure and her complexion are the first things to show it.”

“Of course you ain’t gettin’ slouchy, I don’t mean anything like that.  But I hate to see you workin’ your fingers to the bone and bringin’ lines around your eyes when you ought to be taken care of.  I don’t hold with women workin’ unless they’re obliged to.”

“But I’m obliged to.  How on earth could I take care of the children if I didn’t work?”

For a minute there was an austere silence while Miss Polly reflected grimly that Gabriella Mary—­she thought of her as “Gabriella Mary” in moments of disapprobation”—­was gettin’ almost as set as her ma.”

“You could marry,” she said flatly at last, stopping to press down the hem she had turned with the blunted nail of her thumb.  “Of course your ma would be dead against it, but there ain’t any reason in the world why you shouldn’t go back home and marry Arthur Peyton, as you ought to have done seventeen years ago.”

Though Gabriella laughed in reply, there was no merriment in the sound, and a look of sadness crept into the eyes she turned away from the sharp gaze of the little seamstress.

“You’ve forgotten that I haven’t seen him for seventeen years,” she answered.

“That don’t make any difference in his sort, and you know it.  He ain’t ever married anybody else, and he ain’t goin’ to.  The faithfulness that ought to be spread over the whole sex gets stored up in a few, and he’s one of ’em.”