He was a carpenter, Josephine told them.  She had known him ever since she was with the dressmaker who took her out of the asylum.  He lived in Utica, New York.  He had a good job, and they were to be married as soon as she could get ready.

So Josephine set to work with her nimble fingers to make her trousseau.  During the years she had worked for me, the Matron at the Friendly Society, and many of its patrons had come to know and love dear little Josephine, and in our house there was almost as much excitement over the news as there was at the Association at the South End.  All the girls set to work to make something for little Josephine.  Every one for whom she had worked gave her something.  One lady gave her black silk for a frock.  All the girls sewed a bit of underwear for her.  She had sheets and table linen, and all sorts of dainty things which her girl friends loved to count over, and admire in the evening without the least bit of envy.  By the time Spring came Josephine had to buy a new trunk to pack her things away in.

Then she told us all that she was going to Utica to be married.  What was the use of his spending his money to come east for her, and pay his expenses back?  That seemed reasonable, and the day was fixed for her departure.

Her trunks were packed.

She took a night train so that we could all go to the station to see her off, and I am sure that the crowd who saw us kissing her good-bye are not likely to forget the scene.

Then the girls went home chattering about “dear little Josephine.”

In due time came a letter from a place near Utica, where she was, she said, on her little “wedding trip,” and “very happy,” and “he” sent his love, and it was signed with her new name, and she would send us her address as soon as she was settled.

Time went by—­some months.  Then she did send an address, but she did not write often, and when she did, she said little but that she was happy.

As nearly as I can remember, it was a year and a half after she left that news came that Josephine had a son.  By that time a great many of the girls she had known were gone.  Changes come fast in such a place.  But there was great rejoicing, and those who had known her found time to make something for dear little Josephine’s baby, and the sending of the things kept up the interest in her for some months.

Then the letters ceased again.

I can’t be sure how long it was after that that I received a letter from her.  She told me that her husband was dead, that she never really had taken root in Utica, and now that she was alone, with her baby to support, she longed to come back to Boston, and asked my advice.  Did I think she could take up her old work?

I took the letter at once to the Matron of the Friendly Society—­I happened to be resting between two cases—­and we decided that it was safe.  At least between us we could help her make the trial.