"Sure that's not much now, miss. I'd like to do somethin' for you every day if I could. It isn't every lady that's _such_ a lady," said the girl, with genuine admiration of the delicate features and kindly manner of young Sylvia Thorne. "Does that baby belong to some friend of yours?" asked the young lady. "No, miss; I've not got any friends aboard. Its mother's seasick, and I'm givin' her a little rest an' holdin' the baby out here. The air of that steerage isn't fit for a baby, now, you may say." Should she give her any money? What was it about the girl that made her afraid to offer a customary trifle? "Where did you live in Ireland?" inquired Sylvia. "At Drogheda, miss, till I went to work in the linen mills." "Oh! you worked in the linen mills." "Yes, miss. My father died, and my mother was poor, and girls must work for their living. But my father wanted me to get a good bit of readin' and writin' so as I might do better; but he died, miss, and I couldn't leave my mother without help." "You were the only child?" "I've got a sister, but somehow she didn't care to go out to work, and so I had to go out to service; and I heard that more was paid in Ameriky, where I've got an aunt, an' I had enough to take me out, an' I thought maybe I'd get my mother out there some day, or I'd get money enough to make her comfortable, anyways." "What kind of work will you do in New York? I don't believe we've got any linen mills. I think we get Irish linen table-cloths, and so on." "Oh, I'm going out to service. I can't do heavy work, but I can do chambermaid's work." All this time Sylvia was turning a quarter over in her pocket. It was the only American coin she had carried with her through Europe, and she now took it out slowly, and said: "You'll accept a little something for your kindness in saving my hat." "I'm much obliged, miss, but I'd rather not I'd rather have your kind words than any money. It's very lonesome I've been since I left Drogheda." She put the quarter back into her pocket with something like shame; then she fumbled her rings in a strange embarrassment. She had made a mess of it, she thought. At the same time she was glad the girl had so much pride. "What is your name?" she asked. "Margaret Byrne." "You must let me help you in some way," said Miss Thorne at last. "I wonder what kind of people they are in New York, now," said Margaret, looking at Sylvia wistfully. "It seems dreadful to go so far away and not know in whose house you'll be livin'." Sylvia looked steadily at the girl, and then went away, promising to see her again. She smiled at Walter Kirk, who had finished his game of shuffleboard and was looking all up and down the deck for Miss Thorne. She did not stop to talk with him, however, but pushed on to where her mother and father were sitting not far from the taffrail. "Mamma, I've been out in the steerage." "You'll be in the maintop next, I don't doubt," said her father, laughing.