She sits now in her poorly furnished attic, stitching steadily through the hours. It is not contractor's work upon which her fingers are busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, and appears to take more than ordinary interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock at night before the last stitches are put in. She sets aside her needle and thread and spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes upon it in silence for many minutes, standing with her thin white fingers interlaced before her. Once or twice she pats it softly as though it contained a living form, and once she kneels by the bed, and buries her face in the soft folds of the dress, kissing it, and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress over her arm, steps softly downstairs. The house is still and quiet, not a soul but herself is stirring. She pauses at a door on the second landing, and listens, hearing no sound. "May I come in?" she whispers. There is no reply, and she turns the handle of the door. "Oh, who is there?" cries a frightened voice in the dark. "It is only I, Lizzie," replies Mrs. Lenoir; "I have finished your dress." The female leaps from the bed with an exclamation of delight, and quickly lights a candle. Then it is seen that the room is but slightly better furnished than that of Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female occupant is young and fair. "I left my door unlocked," says the girl, "because you said the dress would be finished some time to-night. I thought you would bring it in. How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir!" A graceful figure has Lizzie, and bright and full of joy are the eyes which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver-grey barege, soft and pretty, with ribbons and bits of lace and everything else about it that art and fancy can devise to render it attractive. Early to-morrow morning Lizzie starts for an excursion into the country--an excursion lasting from morning to night--and as Some One who is constantly in Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a very particular desire to appear to the best advantage. "How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir," she repeats; "may I try it on?" "Yes, Lizzie, if you are not too sleepy." Lizzie laughs blithely. Too sleepy for such a task! The idea! At her age, and with such love in her heart for Some One who is at this very moment thinking of her! Mrs. Lenoir assists her with the dress, and pulls it out here, and smoothes it there, while Lizzie, with innocent vanity, surveys herself in the glass. The delighted girl throws her arm round Mrs. Lenoir's neck, and kisses her rapturously. "No one in the world can make a dress like you, Mrs. Lenoir!" A singular contrast are these two females, who by their ages might be mother and daughter; but there is really no kinship between them. The girl so glowing, so full of happiness the woman so sombre, so fraught with sadness. The girl, all sparkle and animation; the woman with not a smile upon her face. "It fits you perfectly, Lizzie."