“I used to,” said she--“when I was younger.” It was so strange to Samuel to notice that this slip of a child always spoke of herself as old. “Why don't you do it now?” he asked. “I'm too tired, I think. But I've a lot of pictures up in my room--that I cut out of magazines that people gave me. Pictures of beautiful things--birds and flowers, and old castles, and fine ladies and gentlemen. And I used to make up stories about them, and imagine that I was there, and that all sorts of nice things were happening to me. Would you like to see my pictures?” “Very much,” said Samuel. “I think of things like that when I listen to Friedrich. I've a picture of Sir Galahad--he's very beautiful, and he stands at his horse's head with a sword in his hand. I used to dream that somebody like that might come and carry me off to a place where there aren't any mills. But I guess it's no use any more.” “Why not?” asked the other. “It's too late. There is something the matter with me. I never say anything, because it would make mother unhappy; but I'm always tired now, and every day I have a headache. And I'm so very sleepy, and yet when I lie down I can't sleep--I keep hearing the mill.” “Oh!” cried Samuel involuntarily. “I don't mind it so much,” said the child. “There's no help, so what's the use. It's only when I hear Friedrich play--then I get all stirred up.” They walked on for a while again. “He's very unhappy,” she said finally. “I suppose so,” replied Samuel. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly. “Isn't there some other work that you could do?” “What? I'm not strong enough for hard work. And where could I make three dollars a week?” “Is that what they pay you?” “Yes--that is--when we are on full time.” “Does it make all the girls sick?” he inquired. “There's that girl who came in this afternoon--she seems well and strong.” “Bessie, you mean? But it's just play for her, you see. She lives with her parents and stops whenever she feels like it. She just wants to buy dresses and go to the theater.” “But that girl we passed on the street to-day!” “Helen Davis. Ah, yes--but she's different again. She's bad.” “Bad?” echoed Samuel perplexed. There was a brief pause. It was not easy for him to adjust himself to a world in which the good were of necessity frail and ill, and the bad were rosy-cheeked and merry. “How do you mean?” he asked at last. And Sophie answered quite simply, “She lives with a fellow.” The blood leaped into Samuel's face. Such a blunder for him to have made. But then the flush passed, giving place to a feeling of horrified wonder. For Sophie was not in the least embarrassed--she spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone. And this from a child of thirteen, who did not look to be ten. “I see,” said he in a faint voice. “A good many of the girls do it,” she added. “You see, they move about so much--the mills close, and so a girl has no hope of marrying. But mothers says it's wrong, just the same.”