and dash in the machinery itself, as though there were a happy time,
where was usually only a monotonous whirl. I could scarcely contain
myself till noon.

When I left my room, I found, on inquiry, that Mr. Clarkson was not in
the building, and was to be away all day. I went out into the air for a
free breath, and looked up into the glowing sky, yet was glad to go back
again to my machines, which I fancied would greet me with an unwonted
joy. But, as I passed towards the stairway, I glanced into one of the
lower rooms, where some of the clerks were writing. I fancied Mr.
Clarkson might be there. There were women employed in this room, and
suddenly one who was writing at a desk attracted my attention. I did not
see her face; but the impression that her figure gave me haunted me as I
passed on. Some one passing me saw my disturbed look.

"What have you seen? a ghost?" he asked.

"Who is writing in that room? Can you tell me?" I said.

"You know them all," was his answer, "except the new-comer, Miss Stuart.
Have not you heard the talk of her history,--how the father has failed
and died and all that, and how the daughter is glad enough to get work
under Mr. Clarkson's patronage?"

The bell was ringing that called me, and I could not listen to more. My
brain was whirling uncertainly, and I doubted if I ought to believe my
ears. I went back to my work more dazed and bewildered than ever in my
youthful days. I forgot the wonder of the morning. It was quite
outshone by the wonder of the afternoon. I longed for my hour of
release. I longed for a time for thought,--to learn whether what had