That the Jocelyns did not belong to the ordinary ranks of the poor, and that Mildred was not a commonplace girl, was apparent to Miss Wetheridge from the first; and it was her design to persuade her friend to abandon the overcrowded and ill-paid divisions of labor for something more in accordance with her cultivation and ability.  Mildred soon proved that her education was too general and superficial to admit of teaching except in the primary departments, and as the schools were now in session it might be many months before any opening would occur.  With a mingled sigh and laugh she said, “The one thing I know how to do I shall probably never do—­I could make a home, and I could be perfectly happy in taking care of it.”

“Pardon me!” cried Miss Wetheridge roguishly, “that seems to me your inevitable fate, sooner or later.  We are only counselling together how best to fill up the interval.  My friend almost made me jealous by the way he talked about you the other evening.”

A faint color stole into Mildred’s face.  “All that’s past, I fear,” she said with low, sad emphasis, “and I would never marry merely for the sake of a home.  My future is that of a working-woman unless papa can regain his former means.  Even then I should not like to live an idle life.  So the question is, What kind of work shall I do?  How can I do the most for the family, for I am troubled about papa’s health, and mamma is not strong.”

Her warm-hearted friend’s eyes grew moist as she looked intently and understandingly into the clouded and beautiful face.  In one of her pretty impulses that often broke through her polite restraint she exclaimed, “Millie, you are a true woman.  Please pardon my familiarity, but I can’t tell you how much you interest me, how I respect you, and—­and—­how much I like you.”

“Nor can I tell you,” responded Mildred earnestly, “how much hope and comfort you have already brought me.”

“Come,” said Miss Wetheridge cheerily, “we will go down to the rooms of the Young Women’s Christian Association at once.  We may get light there.  The thing for you to do is to master thoroughly one or more of the higher forms of labor that are as yet uncrowded.  That is what I would do.”

While she was preparing for the street she observed Mildred’s eyes resting wistfully on an upright piano that formed part of the beautiful furniture of her private sanctum.  “You are recognizing an old friend and would like to renew your acquaintance,” she said smilingly.  “Won’t you play while I am changing my dress?”

“Perhaps I can best thank you in that way,” answered Mildred, availing herself of the permission with a pleasure she could not disguise.  “I admit that the loss of my piano has been one of my greatest deprivations.”

Miss Wetheridge’s sleeping-apartment opened into her sitting-room, and, with the door open, it was the same as if they were still together.  The promise of thanks was well kept as the exquisite notes of Mendelssohn’s “Hope” and “Consolation” filled the rooms with music that is as simple and enduring as the genuine feeling of a good heart.