"There's a day a week at 440 Linton Avenue--Mrs. Alden's, perhaps you could go there. Have you references?" "I don't even know what they are," Miss By-the-Day replied. The brisk person laughed. "Well you must have an address, where do you live?" "In my own house," her chin lifted proudly, "Montrose Place." "But if you have a house," the interrogator's voice was kindly if her words were severe, "we can't possibly give you work. You see, our work is for persons who have no other means of support, no other ways of making their living." Felicia's lips quivered. "I haven't, that's why I came. You see it's all taxes and assessments and fines and--it's so fearfully dirty and I haven't any money"--she held out Louisa's reticule a bit ruefully. "You can see I haven't." "I see"--the brisk person stepped back to the telephone. She was thoughtful as she waited for her connection. She talked quietly, murmuring things about some one who looked thoroughly responsible. Presently she wrote down an address that she handed to Felicia. "You must be there at eight o'clock in the morning, can you do that, Miss By-the-Day?" "There's something else I'd like you to write--it's the place where Miss Pease lives--" "You can't go to see her except Sundays," Miss Sarah cautioned her. "They're strict." After Felicia had gone the brisk woman straightened things about a bit, humming under her breath. "Su-san"--she called through the doorway, "haven't we seen that woman somewheres? She looks awful familiar." Miss Susan grunted. "She tried to make out she knew me, but I dunno--she can't never sew to suit Mis' Freddie Alden and you know she can't--nobody can please young Miss' Alden--old Miss' Alden was bad enough but young Miss' Alden is worse--" Of her adventures "by-the-day" only Felicia could have "found the pattern." And as in the case of the garden of old, even she was a long time discovering any design in the confusing blur of their outlines. Perhaps it was because each day was like a bit of glass in a child's kaleidoscope, an episode in itself, ugly, irregular and meaningless, until Felicia's rage against life tumbled each piece into position and let them all reflect in quaint order against the clear sweet mirrors of her faith and hope and charity. Who but Felicia could have shaken beauty from that first unlovely "by- the-day"? Seamstress after seamstress had come and gone in that impossibly selfish household, the meek ones enduring it until they could endure no more, the proud ones hurrying angrily away; competent or incompetent, not one of them had ever been able to please her exacting employer, yet Felicia, mercifully unaware of the heart aches she would endure within, walked staunchly through the iron gates, with "440 Linton Avenue" boldly wrought in filagree upon their stern panels.