The shadow of a smile flitted over the face of the new-comer. “No,” laughed Hetty, divining her thought, “I would not be a slattern if all the men were at the bottom of the sea. Don’t judge of me by Patsy, I beg of you,” she added, with an odd grimace; “dirt and she have so strong an affinity for each other that there’s no keeping them apart.” And taking Floy’s hat and shawl, she hurried away. She was back again by the time our heroine had finished her hasty toilet. Floy’s story had not preceded her. She had not felt willing that it should, and even Mrs. Sharp knew little more than that she was a young girl of good family who wished to learn dress-making and millinery. But the deep mourning told of recent bereavement, and something in the patient sadness of the face went to Hetty’s warm heart. With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Floy and kissed her. “You poor thing, so far away from home and all you love!” she said, “it must seem terribly hard.” Floy’s lip trembled and her eyes filled. She could only return the embrace in silence; her heart was too full for speech. “Hetty!” said a voice from the dining-room, “Hetty, isn’t it time to ring the bell?” “In a minute, mother, as soon as I can dish up the meat and potatoes,” answered the girl, stepping out and drawing Floy with her. “Mother, this is Miss Kemper, the young lady that was expected to come from the West, you know.” Mrs. Goodenough, as Floy afterward learned to call her, was a heavy-featured, gray-haired, sallow woman, as dull, absent-minded, and slow as Hetty was bright and quick. “Ah, yes; how d’ye do? But I didn’t know there was a train came in so early,” she said, shaking hands with Floy. “Ring that bell quick, Patsy!” as a step was heard in the hall, slipshod but hasty and impatient. Mrs. Goodenough waddled into the kitchen (she was stout in figure and clumsy in gait). Patsy seized the bell, and Hetty came hurrying in with a dish of baked potatoes just as the door opened and another woman, alert in movement and sharp of feature, with a keen black eye, hair in crimping-pins, and a tall, wiry figure arrayed in a calico wrapper, clean and fresh but evidently thrown on in haste, came bustling in. “Sarah, it’s getting late, and you know how the work’s hurrying us--six or eight dresses to be made this week, and--ah?” in a tone of inquiry as her eye fell upon Floy standing silently there. Patsy’s bell was clanging in the hall. “Miss Kemper, Aunt Prue!” shouted Hetty. “Breakfast’s ready now, and it isn’t quite six yet.” Floy received a hasty nod, the black eyes scanning her from head to foot; then dashing into the hall, Mrs. Sharp seized Patsy with one hand, the bell with the other. “That’s enough! will you never learn when to stop? How do you suppose Mr. Sharp can sleep through all this din? Come, girls, make haste!” and she turned into the dining-room again, followed by four apprentices, to whom the last words were addressed as they came flying down the stairs.