"I sincerely trust, ma'am, that you will never be called to pass through what I have," said Mrs. Partridge. "And yet there are those who have it still harder. There was a time when the thought of being as poor as I now am, and of having to work so hard, would have been terrible to me; and yet I do not know that I was so very much happier then than I am now, though I confess I ought to have been. I had full and plenty of every thing brought into the house by my husband, and had only to dispense in my family the blessings of God sent to us. But I let things annoy me then more than they do now." "But how can you help being worried, Mrs. Partridge? To be away from my children as you have been away from yours all day would set me wild. I would be sure some of them would be killed or dreadfully hurt." "Children are wonderfully protected," said Mrs. Partridge, in a confident voice. "So they are. But to think of four little children, the youngest eleven months and the oldest not ten years old, left all alone, for a whole day!" "It is bad when we think about it, I know," returned Mrs. Partridge. "It looks very bad! But I try and put that view of it out of my mind. When I leave them in the morning they say they will be good children. At dinner time I sometimes find them all fast asleep or playing about. I never find them crying, or at all unhappy. Jane loves the younger ones, and keeps them pleased all the time. In the evening, when I get back from my work, there is generally no one awake but Jane. She has given them the bread and milk I left for their suppers, and undressed and put them to bed." "Dear little girl! What a treasure she must be!" I could not help saying. "She is, indeed. I don't see how I could get along without her." "You could not get along at all." "Oh, yes, ma'am, I could. Some way would be provided for me," was the confident reply. I looked into the poor woman's face with wonder and admiration. So patient, so trustful, and yet so very poor. The expression of her countenance was beautiful in its calm religious hope, and it struck me more than ever as familiar. "Did I ever see you before, Mrs. Partridge?" I asked. "Indeed, ma'am, I don't know. I am sure I have seen you somewhere. No, now I recollect; it is your likeness to a young schoolmate that makes your face so familiar. How much you do favour her, now I look at you more closely." "What was her name?" I asked. "Her name was Flora S----." "Indeed! Why, that was my name!" "Your name! Did you go to Madame Martier's school?" "I did." "And can you indeed be my old schoolmate, Flora S----?" "My maiden name was Flora S----, and I went to Madame Martier's. Your face is also familiar, but how to place you I do not know." "Don't you remember Helen Sprague?"