It was the wish of her “patrons,” as well as of the kind lady teacher to whose care she was chiefly commended, that Lily should finish the course of studies apportioned to each scholar previous to graduating. But there was a growing willfulness, an increasing confidence in her own attainments, that tempted her to set at naught these desires. Her impulsive nature longed to be free from restraint; she would fain throw aside all bondage, together with the loathed idea of dependence, and labor for herself in the way she was best fitted to labor. She wished to begin _at once_ to reap the reward of her years of study, and thus to alleviate the wants of her home. Alas! the serpent had crept back into Lily’s breast! So, despite all the remonstrances and the pleadings of those who began to see their mistake in their dealings with the young girl, Lily left the school, and returned to her own home. I shall never forget her as she was at that time; the passions, hopes, desires and resolution of mature years seemed to have even then a full development in her. In feeling she had grown too old, in will too decisive, to submit patiently to the judgment of other minds. But soon enough the lesson was forced upon her that poetic efforts are rarely capable of being changed at once for food, and fuel, and raiment. “I have sent a poem of some length to —— ——,” she said to me one day, naming a distinguished writer and editor, “and you know I am superstitious—if he accepts it, and will pay me for it, I shall take it as a good omen for my future; but if he does not—” she hesitated. “Well, if he does not, Lily?” “Then those horrid doubts will come back to me with renewed force! Oh, they tormented me so once!” When I saw my friend again there was no need to ask her what her reception at the “editor’s table” had been. It was a freezing cold winter night, and feeling somewhat disconsolate on my own account, as well as rather curious in regard to Lily’s progress, I sought her in her own home. I found Lily there seated at the centre-table—yes, it was such, for it did occupy the central portion of the apartment—but it was not of polished mahogany, or marble-surfaced, gentle reader, but a miserable, old, broken affair, that had seen its best days long before it came into the possession of its then owners. Scattered about the room were the numerous boys and girls of the family; there was little temptation even for the boys without that night, it was so cold and stormy. The room in which they lived was the upper story of a small building, the first floor of which was occupied as a mechanic’s shop; it was partitioned by a curtain of cloth, which was all the separation between the sleeping apartments and the place where they cooked, and ate, and lived.