It was very true. The girl of the slums had become gentle, and refined, and very happy, all because some one had taken her into a loving heart, and she had been dealt with tenderly and graciously by the Divine Friend and the human ones. She looked across at the western skies, with the beautiful evening glow upon them and hesitated. One more would make very little difference here, where there was enough and to spare of all good things. That she knew, but did not wish to remember it now. It vexed her exceedingly that this girl, whom she had never liked, but who would always remind her of the worst part of the old life, should have followed her there, and should still be so persistent. “You have not brought any clothes with you, I suppose?” “No, I had none to bring. There was but little work all the winter for me, and I have been only able to keep myself, poorly enough, too; there have been very few luxuries for me, I can tell you. Oh, Fan, I am so sick of the old life. Can’t you help me to a chance?” “You know, Drom, this place is a private estate. No one has any right here except by Mr. Knight’s permission.” “Oh, yes, I quite understand that. But you might speak for me, or get the Basket Woman to do it.” The colour flashed into Fanny’s face. “The Basket Woman?” she said. “The lady of whom you speak is Miss Wythburn.” “I can’t help it,” said Drom. “You know we always used to call her the Basket Woman. I suppose you are mighty fond of her; she would do anything you asked her, and Mr. Knight would do anything she asked him; so it all depends on you whether I am to be sent away from the place like a thief, or whether a home can be spared for me here. Anyway, as I have walked more than twenty miles to-day, I suppose I may take a seat on your doorstep for ten minutes.” Fanny began to feel ashamed of her inhospitable mood. “Come in, Drom,” she said; “we must put you up somewhere for the night. If you go back to London it must be by train, and there is no train from here till Monday. We will make the best of it. But I must report the case to Mr. Knight, of course; it is for him to decide it.” Fanny led the way into her own bedroom, which was plainly, but comfortably, furnished. The only thing in it that was not absolutely for use was a text, framed, and hung upon the wall. Mary Wythburn had given it to her, and Fanny wondered sometimes whether the words had been selected that they might preach a constant sermon. They were: “Freely ye have received, freely give,” and they seemed fairly to stare at her on this evening when she took her unwelcome guest into her room. “I cannot feel glad to see her,” her thought replied to the text; “but I will be good to her, because I have myself received so very much.” “This is too fine for me,” said Andromeda, as she looked at the white bed and the clean aspect of the little chamber. “I can sleep anywhere, Fan, for I am so dead beat.”