come to the mill, was intimate with no one, and, so far, had not heard the story, whatever it was, about Katie Robertson. Her name was Tessa. Her father, who had been a traveling organ-grinder, was taken sick and died very suddenly at Squantown. His little dark-eyed girl, who accompanied him, was left perfectly destitute and in a most desolate condition. She was at first taken care of in the poor-house, but as she grew older, and it was thought best that she should do something for her own support, Mr. Mountjoy had been appealed to, and had given her a place in the mill. Not in the rag-room, however, for she had such a delicate constitution that it was supposed she never could stand the dust. Her work consisted in pasting the fancy paper over the edges of little "pads," intended for doctors' use in writing their prescriptions, and when she was tired she was allowed to have a seat. She could not make much, but what she did receive sufficed to pay for her room in the factory boarding-house, and Tessa was as happy as she could be without her father. The Italian girl had conceived a strong admiration for our bright little Katie, and by degrees the two girls became great friends. Tessa's love was the silver lining to the cloud under whose shadow her companion lived. But the heaviest part of the cloud was that the story reached Miss Etta. She had noticed the general avoidance of Katie by the other girls in her class, and was very much at a loss to account for it, for to her this scholar had always seemed the best and brightest of them all, and she could see no change in her reverent, attentive behavior, her carefully prepared lessons, and her evident understanding and enjoyment of the spiritual truths which they contained. This latter point she could appreciate better than before, and she often shrank in humility from attempting to teach Katie anything, feeling herself better fitted to be the pupil. But the girls evidently did not feel so. What could be the matter? One day, when all had left the Sunday-school, except Bertie, she stopped her and asked her directly why neither she nor the other girls were willing to sit next to Katie Robertson, and why they all looked at her so significantly when she came in or went out. Bertie flushed, whether with joy or shame it would have been hard to say, and at first would not answer; but on her teacher's insisting, said that she didn't want to tell tales, etc. The young lady saw that nevertheless her scholar was running over with her secret and longing for an opportunity to divulge it, and, had she been a little older and more experienced, she would not have given her the opportunity. But Etta was very curious, and, moreover, thought she had a right to know all that concerned her Sunday scholars, so she waited until her patience was rewarded by the whole story--that is, the version of it that Bertie's vindictive fancy chose to give.