"That pale, quiet girl, who made up dresses for the children?"
"The one I sent you."
"Oh yes; very well. I had forgotten her name. What has become of her? If I remember rightly, I engaged her for a week or two in the fall; but she did not keep her engagement."
"Poor thing!" said the first lady, whose name was Mrs. Bell, "she'll keep no more engagements of that kind."
"Why so? Is she dead?" The tone in which these brief questions were asked, evinced no lively interest in the fate of the poor sewing-girl.
"Not dead; but very near the end of life's weary pilgrimage."
"Ah, well! we must all die, I suppose—though it's no pleasant thing to think about. But I am glad you called in this morning"—the lady's voice rose into a more cheerful tone—"I was just about putting on my things to go down to Mrs. Bobinet's opening. You intend going, of course. I shall be so delighted to have you along, for I want to consult your taste about a bonnet."
"I came out for a different purpose altogether, Mrs. Ellis," said Mrs. Bell, "and have called to ask you to go with me."
"Where?"
"To see Anna May."