However, Katharine, who was older and more mature than the others, had come to understand Bridget and to be friends with her, before any of the others. At first she could feel nothing but repugnance for this uncultivated, unwholesome-looking girl, a repugnance which she struggled hard to conceal; but, little by little, as she talked to her, she was won by her quiet endurance and courage. At length, one day, Katharine coaxed the girl's story from her, how she was left an orphan with younger children to care for; how she had fallen and hurt her back; how she had strained it with overwork, when it was still weak; how she had struggled to keep on, until the doctor had brought her where she was; and how she must hurry to get well, in order to earn money to pay the neighbors for caring for the little children. It was a homely tale and simply told; but when it was ended, Katharine was surprised to find her eyes full of tears, as she bent over and touched her lips to the girl's forehead. "I am glad you told me this, Bridget," she said. "Now we can talk about it together, and it will make us better friends." And Bridget answered gratefully, as she looked up into the clear eyes above her own,--"Thank you, miss. It's nice to have a body know all about it. Somehow it helps along." Three weeks later, as Katharine went into the room and dropped two or three scarlet carnations on the girl's idle hand, she was saluted with exciting news. "A letter from home, to-day, Miss, and somebody has sent money enough to pay the children's board for ever and ever so long; and they don't know at all who it is. Isn't it wonderful!" Not so wonderful, perhaps, as it appeared to the simple girl. No one but Katharine and her parents ever saw the letter that went hurrying westward to remind her father that Christmas was coming, and to tell him in what way she would prefer to take her present. The secret was kept, and no thanks were ever spoken; but Katharine cared for none. It was enough to watch the girl's happy content, now that her one anxiety was removed. Mrs. Hapgood, alone, had a suspicion, when Molly told her of the affair; but she wisely asked no questions, and in silence rejoiced over the broader sympathy her niece was daily gaining. "How queer it is, the way things are divided up!" Katharine said to Molly, one day when they were out driving. It was a clear, cold December day, and Cob trotted briskly over the frozen ground, as if he too, as well as the girls themselves, were enjoying the air and motion. "What is divided up?" asked Molly vaguely, rousing herself from a half-formed plan for Alan's Christmas present.