Lucy Olcott had been a frequent visitor of late.  Through Mrs. Wiggs she had gotten interested in Mrs. Schultz, and often stopped in to read to the bedridden old lady.  Here, of course, she heard a great deal about the Eichorns, the elite of the Cabbage Patch, whose domestic infelicities furnished the chief interest in Mrs. Schultz’s life.  Lucy had even stood on a chair, at the invalid’s earnest request, to count the jars of preserves in the Eichorn pantry.  Later she had become acquainted with Miss Hazy, the patient little woman in monochrome, whose whole pitiful existence was an apology when it might have been a protest.

In fact, Lucy became an important personage in the neighborhood.  She was sought for advice, called upon for comfort, and asked to share many joys.  Her approach was usually heralded by a shout, “That’s her a-comin’!” and she was invariably escorted across the commons by a guard of ragged but devoted youngsters.  And the friendship of these simple people opened her eyes to the great problems of humanity, and as she worked among them and knew life as it was, the hard little bud of her girlhood blossomed into the great soft rose of womanhood.

“Didn’t you meet Mr. Bob up the street?” asked Mrs. Wiggs, as she led the way into the kitchen.  “Him an’ Billy have jes’ left, goin’ out to the fair grounds.  Mr. Bob’s jes’ naturally the best man I ever set eyes on, Miss Lucy!  Got the biggest heart, an’ always doin’ something kind fer folks.  Jes’ now talkin’ ‘bout gittin’ Asia a place at the tile fact’ry.  I don’t see how you missed ’em!  If he’d a sawn you with them vi’lets in yer belt, an’ them roses in yer cheeks, I bet he wouldn’t ‘a’ went.”

“Oh, yes, he would!” said Lucy, emphatically.  “My roses don’t appeal to Mr. Bob.”

“Well, he likes yer eyes, anyway,” said Mrs. Wiggs, determined to carry her point.

“Who said so?” demanded Lucy.

“He did.  I ast him.  I said they was regular star-eyes, jes’ shining blue with them black eyelashes rayin’ out all ‘round, an’ he said yes, that was the right name fer ’em—­star-eyes.”

There was a mist over the star-eyes as Lucy turned away.

“That’s right; set right down there by the winder.  It’s so pretty out today it makes you feel good clean down yer back.”

“I believe you always feel that way,” said Lucy, pulling off her gloves.  “Don’t you ever worry over things?”

Mrs. Wiggs grew serious.  “I’m lonesome fer Jimmy all the time,” she said simply.  “Some folks goes right under when trouble comes, but I carry mine fur an’ easy.”

“I don’t mean grieving,” said Lucy; “I mean worrying and fretting.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Mrs. Wiggs, taking a hot iron from the stove, “I ’ve done that, too.  I remember onct last winter I was tooken sick, an’ I got to pesterin’ ’bout what the childern ’ud do if I died.  They wasn’t no money in the house, an’ they didn’t know where to git none.  All one night I laid there with my head ’most bustin’, jes’ worryin’ ‘bout it.  By an’ by I was so miserable I ast the Lord what I mus’ do, an’ he tole me.”  There was absolute conviction in her tone and manner.  “Nex’ mornin’,” she went on, “soon’s I could I went over to the ‘spensary an’ ast fer the chief doctor.