"It was a bitter cold night, the wind blew and shook the window, when a young girl of about eighteen sat by the tallow candle, which burned in a tin candlestick, at 12 o'clock at night, finishing a piece of work with the needle which she was to return next morning. Her name was Lettice Arnold. She was naturally of a cheerful, hopeful temper, and though work and disappointment had faded the bright colors of hope, still hope buoyed up her spirits.
"Her sister Myra was delicate, and lay on the mattress on that night, tossing about with suffering, unable to rest. At last Lettice says to her:—
"'Poor Myra, can't you get to sleep?'
"'It is so cold,' was the reply; 'and when will you have done and come to bed?'
"'One quarter of an hour more, Myra, and I shall have finished my work, and then I will throw my clothes over your feet, and I hope you will be a little warmer.'
"Myra sighed, and lifted up her head, and leaning upon her arm watched the progress of her sister as she plied the needle to her work.
"'How slowly,' said Myra, 'you do get along. It is one o'clock, and you have not finished yet.'
"'I cannot work fast, Myra, and neatly too; my hands are not so delicate and nimble as yours.' and smiling a little, she added: 'Such swelled clumsy things, I cannot get over the ground nimbly and well at the same time. You are a fine race horse, and I a drudging pony. But I shall soon be through.'
"Myra once more uttered a sigh and cried:
"'Oh, my feet are dreadful cold.'