Polly took the bit of paper Mrs. Mills gave her, and read these words:—
"Dear Mrs. Finn:
"Please forgive me for the trouble I make you, but I don't see any other way. I can't get work that pays enough to keep me; the Dr. says I can't be well unless I rest. I hate to be a burden, so I'm going away not to trouble anybody any more. I've sold my things to pay what I owe you. Please let me be as I am, and don't let people come and look at me. I hope it isn't very wicked, but there don't seem any room for me in the world, and I'm not afraid to die now, though I should be if I stayed and got bad because I hadn't strength to keep right. Give my love to the baby, and so good-by, good-by.
Jane Bryant."
"O, Miss Mills, how dreadful!" cried Polly, with her eyes so full she could hardly read the little letter.
"Not so dreadful as it might have been, but a bitter, sad thing to see that child, only seventeen, lying there in her little clean, old night-gown, waiting for death to come and take her, because 'there didn't seem to be any room for her in the world.' Ah, well, we saved her, for it wasn't too late, thank heaven; and the first thing she said was, 'Oh, why did you bring me back?' I've been nursing her all day, hearing her story, and trying to show her that there is room and a welcome for her. Her mother died a year ago, and since then she has been struggling along alone. She is one of the timid, innocent, humble
