But we were saying that girls of Nancy’s age liked pretty things to wear.  Nancy was no exception, but she had no pretty things; her clothes had, in fact, become deplorably shabby, though by dexterous “undoing” and “doing-up” she did manage to make the very most of her dark blue serge costume.  The dress and rather coquettish little jacket were of the same material; and she had a felt hat of the same colour, which in some mysterious way altered its shape to suit the varying fashions.  Last winter the wide brim was straight; this winter it was turned up at the back, with a bunch of dark blue ribbons on the crown.  Altogether her appearance was picturesque, though the odd mingling of the rustic with the latest Paris fashion-plate might call up a smile to your lips.  The smile which the costume provoked was sure to die, however, when you looked at the girl’s face.  You wondered at once why the lovely brown eyes looked so sad and appealing, and why the little mouth was so tremulous, and why the colour came and went so frequently on the finely-moulded cheeks, which were just a little thin for perfect beauty.  And if you happened to be a student of human nature, you would read in one of Nancy’s glances a story of conflicting emotions—­disappointment, timid expectancy, hope, and a dawning despair:  at least, this is what I read there when I looked at Nancy from the Vicar’s pew one Sunday morning at Shenton church.  I was on a visit at the Vicarage then.

Of course, it must not be supposed that Miss Michin read Nancy Forest’s face in this way; but the little dressmaker had a warm heart, though worried by the making of garments, and more by making two ends meet which nature had apparently not intended for such close proximity; but she had certainly noticed that for the last few weeks Nancy had not looked well.

It was growing dark one Thursday evening, and Sarah Ann had just brought the lamp into her mistress’s parlour.  Miss Michin turned up the light slowly, remarking, as she did so, “I don’t want this glass to crack.  I might do nothing else but buy lamp-glasses if I left the turning-up of them to Sarah Ann.  This one has been boiled, which, Mrs. Dodd says, is a good thing to make them stand heat.”  Then she broke off suddenly, and stared at her apprentice, exclaiming, “Nancy, child, how pale you look!  You must leave off and go home.  You shall have a nice cup of tea first.  Where do you feel bad?”

The sympathetic tone brought the tears to Nancy’s eyes, perhaps more than the words, but she answered hastily:  “Oh, indeed, dear Miss Michin, I need not go home.  I have a headache, that is all, and I must not leave off before my time.  I ought to stop later, and you so busy.”

“That frock of Emma Dodd’s is just on finished, isn’t it?” said Miss Michin, in answer.

“All but the hooks,” replied Nancy.

“Then sew them on while I make some tea, and you can leave it at the post-office as you go.”