“Thank you, my dear; yes, you can just hem the skirt while I put in the sleeves, and that will be a great lift.”
Polly put on her thimble in silence, but as Miss Mills spread the white flannel over her lap, she exclaimed, “Why, it looks like a shroud! Is it one?”
“No, dear, thank God, it is n't, but it might have been, if we had n't saved the poor little soul,” cried Miss Mills, with a sudden brightening of the face, which made it beautiful in spite of the stiff gray curl that bobbed on each temple, the want of teeth, and a crooked nose.
“Will you tell me about it? I like to hear your adventures and good works so much,” said Polly, ready to be amused by anything that made her forget herself.
“Ah, my dear, it's a very common story, and that's the saddest part of it. I'll tell you all about it, for I think you may be able to help me. Last night I watched with poor Mary Floyd. She's dying of consumption, you know,” began Miss Mills, as her nimble fingers flew, and her kind old face beamed over the work, as if she put a blessing in with every stitch. “Mary was very low, but about midnight fell asleep, and I was trying to keep things quiet, when Mrs. Finn she's the woman of the house came and beckoned me out, with a scared face. 'Little Jane has killed herself, and I don't know what to do,' she said, leading me up to the attic.”
“Who was little Jane?” broke in Polly, dropping her work.
“I only knew her as a pale, shy young girl who went in and out, and seldom spoke to any one. Mrs. Finn told me she was poor, but a busy, honest, little thing, who did n't mix with the other folks, but lived and worked alone. 'She has looked so down-hearted and pale for a week, that I thought she was sick, and asked her about it,' said Mrs. Finn, 'but she thanked me in her bashful way, and said she was pretty well, so I let her alone. But to-night, as I went up late to bed, I was kind of impressed to look in and see how the poor thing did, for she had n't left her room all day. I did look in, and here's what I found.' As Mrs. Finn ended she opened the door of the back attic, and I saw about as sad a sight as these old eyes ever looked at.”
“O, what?” cried Polly, pale now with interest.
“A bare room, cold as a barn, and on the bed a little dead, white face that almost broke my heart, it was so thin, so patient, and so young. On the table was a bottle half full of laudanum, an old pocket-book, and a letter. Read that, my dear and don't think hard of little Jane.”
Polly took the bit of paper Miss Mills gave her, and read these words: