Mrs. Wheaton went with the girl to the grave, and then brought her to her own little nook in the old mansion, for Clara had said she had no relatives she knew anything about except a few on her father’s side, and she had rather go to a station-house than to them.  “Don’t talk habout station ’ouses till yer can see vat I kin do for yer,” the good woman had said in her hearty way, and she did play the good Samaritan so well, and poured the “oil and wine” of kindness into the poor creature’s wounds so effectually, that she began to change for the better daily.

Mildred redeemed Belle’s promise, and between them all they soon fitted Clara for her trip to the country.  By the time Mrs. Atwood’s reply reached Mildred, and Roger’s hearty answer came back in response to Belle’s characteristic note, she was ready to go.  “There’s a man’s hand for you,” cried Belle exultantly as she exhibited Roger’s bold chirography.  “It’s a hand that can be depended upon, strong and ready.”

Mildred smiled as she replied, “You’re welcome to it, Belle.”

“You needn’t smile so placidly,” she retorted, with an ominous nod.  “We are not through with Roger Atwood yet.”

Perhaps quotations from two letters written by Clara to Mildred and Belle, and received a week later, will form a satisfactory ending to this chapter.  Clara had been taught to read and write in the public schools of the city, and but little more.  In later years she had occasionally found opportunity to attend some of the night schools established for those whose only leisure came after the busy day was over, and so had learned to use her pen with tolerable correctness.  In waiting upon the educated people who frequented the shop she had caught, with the aptness of an American girl, a very fair power of expressing herself in speech.  Writing a letter, however, was a formidable affair, in which she had scarcely any experience.  Her missives, therefore, were very simple, and somewhat defective in outward form, but they suggested some interesting facts.

“Dear Millie (ran the first):  I’m very sad and hapy.  The Countrys like heven.  All are so kind.  Even the dog dosen’t grole at me, and Mr. Roger says that’s queer for he groles at everybody.  I feel so much better, I don’t know myself.  I feel like takin depe breths of air all the time and I never tasted such milk.  Every glass puts life in me.  If I can get work up here I’ll never go back to town and stand all day again.  The girls up here have a chance to live—­they haven’t any chance at all in a store.  The strongest will brake down and then they are good for nothing.  I wish Belle could do something else.  I wish thousands would go in the country and do work that would make us look like Susan.  Mrs. Atwood thinks she can find me a place with kind people, where I’ll be treted almost like one of the family.  Anyway I’ve had enough of standing and bad air and starving and I don’t see why working in a farmhouse ain’t just as ladylike as wating on folks with the floorwalker awatchin you like a slave driver.  Standing all day is deth to most girls and about the hardest deth they can die.  I feel as if I could live to be a hundred up here.