“You were a child then, my dear; you’re a woman now.  That girl is the daughter of the poor fellow—­”

“Sam Kimper?—­that you and father talk of so frequently?  Yes, I know; she was a horrid little thing in school, two classes below me.  But, mother, I don’t see why we ought to recognize her just because her father has been in the penitentiary and behaved himself since he came back.”

“Because she needs recognition, dear child; because she gets it from plenty of people of her own class, and if she has it from no others she never will be any better than she is; perhaps she will become worse.”

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Eleanor, with a toss of her handsome head, “such people never change.  There were plenty of such girls in the same class with me in the public school, and they’ve all gone off and married common low fellows.  Some of them were real pretty girls while they were young, too.”

“All the more reason why others of the same kind should have some encouragement to do better, my child.”

“But, mother,” persisted Eleanor, “what possible good will it do that Kimper girl for us merely to recognize her in the street?”

“You may do as much more for her as you choose, if you think mere courtesy is not enough.  Eleanor, you are a healthy, happy girl; you know—­and I remember—­all a girl’s natural fancies and longings.  Do you imagine that being badly born and reared can keep that girl from having the same feelings?  She probably wishes she could dress as well as the best, attract attention, be respected, have a real fine fellow fall in love with her—­”

“The idea!” exclaimed Eleanor, laughing merrily.  “But suppose it were all true; how can mere notice from us help her?  I’m sure the minute we passed her she made a face and envied me my better clothes.”

“You will think differently when you have more experience, my dear.  When I was as young as you, I thought—­”

“Oh, mother, there she is again,” said Eleanor, “crossing the street; she’s turning right towards us.  And,” murmured the young lady, after assuring herself that it was really the same combination of red hair and blue ribbon, “how different she looks!”

“Because two women of some standing and position chanced to notice her.  Let’s help the good work along, daughter.”  Then, before Miss Eleanor had time to object, and just as the cobbler’s daughter was in front of them, Mrs. Prency stopped, extended her neatly gloved hand, and said, with a pleasant smile,—­

“How these girls do grow!  You were little Jane only a year or two ago, Miss Kimper.”

Never before had Jane Kimper been addressed as “Miss.”  The appellation sent color flying into her face and brightness into her eyes as she stammered out something about growing being natural.

“You haven’t grown fast enough, though, to neglect good looks,” continued Mrs. Prency, while Eleanor, endeavoring to act according to her mother’s injunctions, drawled,—­