only had that little back room," said Susan, "we should want for nothing." The little back room was an apartment in a back building, with an entrance from the landing of the first flght of stairs. It was neatly finished, had a communication of its own with the yard, and a closet, large enough for a bed, attached to it. The Aikins had long wished to add it to their narrow accommodations, and more than ever recently, for it had been rented to a woman who, from her extreme shyness, her being visited only occasionally by a person who called himself her husband, and her having a little girl dressed in tawdry and shabby finery, they deemed a very undesirable neighbour. Uncle Phil, who was the kindest-hearted gossip in the world, but still a gossip, retained his country propensity to know all about his neighbours' affairs. He was much puzzled by the tenant of the back parlour, and day after day repeated to Charlotte and Susan, "Who can that woman be? I can't get sight of her face under that dum deep bonnet and veil; but her walk looks natural, and always puts me in mind of some of our Essex folks."
"That's odd, Lottie," said Susan; "don't you remember my telling you one day, when she was calling her little girl, that her voice sounded natural?"
"Yes; but she can't be any one we ever knew."
"I am sure I hope not."
"I hope not, too," said Uncle Phil, "but I do feel for the little girl; she looks so wishful after our children, and she's pretty spoken."
"I feel for her, too," said Susan, "but I must know something more about her before I should
