“Come in,” called a pleasant voice, and there was a sound as of some piece of furniture being moved rapidly along the floor. Before Molly could quite make up her mind to turn the handle, the door was opened from the inside, and a little lady in a wheel-chair suddenly confronted her. She was such a tiny lady that for the first moment Molly thought she must be a child, but when the pleasant voice spoke again, it sounded oddly familiar. “Won’t you come in?” she said, and the face that looked at Molly from the wheel-chair was so very sweet and winning, that half her embarrassment melted away at once. “I hope you’ll excuse me for coming,” she faltered, “but--but, you see, we live next door, and my little sister is sick. We can hear you sing through the wall, and we all love it. My sister wants me to ask if you won’t please sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’ because it’s her favorite hymn.” “Come right in,” said the lady, hospitably, “and would you mind closing the door? The halls are rather chilly.” Molly complied, and found herself in a room exactly like their own nursery on the other side of the wall. Indeed, the two houses had been built at the same time, and were alike in every particular. It was evidently used as both bed and sitting-room, for a piano stood between the windows, and by the empty fireplace stood a small mahogany bookcase well filled with rather shabby-looking books. The room might have been more tidy, for the bed was still unmade, and on the table was a tray containing the remains of a breakfast, but the lady herself was as neat as possible, although her blue wrapper was somewhat faded, and the slippers on the little feet that hung helplessly over the edge of the wheel-chair had long ago lost their first freshness. “You must excuse things being a little upset,” the lady said, apologetically. “It’s Sunday morning, you know, and the chambermaid has gone to church. She’s a nice girl, and very kind and obliging, but I am afraid I give her a good deal of trouble. Take those bedclothes off that comfortable chair, and sit down. It’s a great pleasure to have a little girl come to see me. And so your sister likes my singing. I am very glad. I had no idea any one cared about it.” “We all like it,” said Molly, who had obeyed her hostess’ instructions, and seated herself. “You see, our room is just on the other side of the wall, and we can hear very well indeed. Maud is in bed to-day, with a sore throat, and she loved the music.” “Bless her heart!” cried the little lady, fairly beaming with pleasure, “she shall have all the music I can give her. I love to sing, though I know I haven’t much of a voice. Would you mind telling me your name?” “My name is Molly Winslow,” said Molly, “and my sisters’ names are Dulcie, Daisy and Maud. It’s Maud who is sick. She’s only seven. I’m nine, and Dulcie and Daisy are eleven and ten. Our mamma is dead, and our papa has gone to China. We live next door with Grandma Winslow.”