The shrill whistle of a locomotive coming from the direction of Clearfield sent the strolling passengers hurrying back to the train. Pouring into the cars, they settled themselves in their seats with relieved faces and exchange of congratulations that this tedious detention had at last come to an end.

Floy, who had borne it with resignation from the first, was now more deeply thankful for it than words can express. There came over her such a rush of glad hopes and expectations as to leave no room at the moment for the recollection that she had as yet not the slightest clue to her mother’s whereabouts. Even her sad bereavements and the cruel misunderstanding with Espy were for a short space half forgotten in the glad anticipation of again experiencing the blessedness of the possession of a mother’s love.

She was leaning her head back against the side of the car, her face concealed by her veil.

“Miss,” said Sammy’s mother, gently touching her on the shoulder, “excuse me for waking you, but we’re just ’most at my stoppin’-off place, and I didn’t like to go without sayin’ good-by to you.”

“No, that was right; I was not asleep,” said Floy, putting aside her veil and offering her hand, tears springing to her eyes, while a beautiful smile played about her lips. “I can never thank you enough for what you have told me to-day.”

“La sakes! ’tain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” returned the kind-hearted creature, grasping the soft little hand warmly in hers hardened by honest toil; “you’re as welcome as can be, and Sammy and me’s a thousand times obliged for the good dinner you give us. Well, I hope you’ll find your mother, miss, and when you do won’t you let me know? Just drop a line to Mrs. Sam Dobbs, Clearfield, and I’ll be sure to git it.”

“Wildbrier!” shouted the conductor at the door, and Mrs. Dobbs hurried from the car.

The morning’s detention, causing more than one failure in making connections, brought several vexatious delays—long hours of tedious waiting in depots in the loneliness of a crowd, and with few appliances for comfort.

But Floy felt no temptation to fret or murmur; all this was so infinitesimal a price to pay for what she had gained.

When the train reached Chicago it was five o’clock in the morning, and still dark.

No one to meet Floy, and she so utterly strange to the city that she knew not which way to turn to find the street and number given her as the address of Mrs. Sharp, whose apprentice she was to be.

No express agent had come on the train to attend to the delivery of baggage; not a hack nor an omnibus was in waiting.

She was looking this way and that in search of one, when a young man of rough exterior but kindly, honest face, as she could see by the light of a lamp near by, stepped up with the question:

“Any baggage, miss?”

“Yes; can you tell me where to find an omnibus or hack?”

“No, miss, there’s none here; they come to meet the regular trains, but this un’s out o’ time—about three hours behind.”

“Then what am I to do?” she asked in perplexity.

“Well, miss, I’ll take your trunk wherever it’s to go, and if you like you can just go along in the express wagon. ’Tain’t as suitable for you as a nice carriage, to be sure, but it’ll carry you safe and comfortable. Where’s the place?”

Floy gave him the number and street, and, accepting his offer with thanks as the best she could do under the circumstances, mounted to her elevated perch on the front seat, the young man giving her the assistance of his hand.

She saw her trunk placed behind her in the wagon, and presently found herself being driven rapidly through the almost deserted streets, for the city was but just beginning to rouse from its slumbers.

The morning air was chilly, blowing fresh and keen from the lake; the girl’s mood silent and sad, for, alas! no glad welcome, no loving caress, nor even a familiar face would greet her in the new abode (she could not call it home) to which she was hastening.

But her gallant charioteer, who had, perchance, never before had so sweet a face by his side, did his best to entertain and amuse her, pointing out the district swept by the great fire, relating incidents connected with it, and calling her attention to the fine buildings which had already sprung up in the places of those destroyed.

Arrived at her destination, he leaped nimbly from his perch, gave the door-bell a vigorous pull, and assisted her to alight.

There was a sound of quick pattering steps, the forcing back of a bolt, the turning of a key; the door was hastily jerked open, and Floy just caught a glimpse of a narrow hall with its oil-cloth-covered floor, an unkempt head and dirty face in the foreground, and all was darkness.

“There, the wind’s blowed the candle out! Miss Hetty, Miss Hetty, come right here! quick!” screamed the owner of the head. Then to Floy, “Who are you? and what d’ye want so awful early? We don’t never ’spect no customers this time in the morning.”

But before Floy could speak another person appeared upon the scene—a girl not many years older than herself, neat and trim in dress, and with a bright, intelligent, cheery, though homely face.

She came from the farther end of the hall, carrying a lighted lamp, and, holding it high over her head, peered into the darkness beyond.

“What are you making such a racket about, Patsy Devine? You’ll wake everybody in the house and our Sharp Thorne will give you a prick.” Then catching sight of Floy just stepping aside out of the way of the expressman, who was bringing in the trunk, “Oh! how d’ye do?” she said. “I suppose its—”

“Miss Kemper—”

“Ah, yes, the young lady Aunt Prue—Mrs. Sharp—was expecting. It’s all right.”

The expressman set down the trunk, received his pay, and departed.

Miss Hetty secured the door after him, and turning to Floy, said:

“Breakfast’s about ready to set on the table, so it won’t be worth while for you to climb the stairs till afterwards.”

“I am hardly fit to—”

“Oh, I’ll provide you with means for removing the coal-dust from face and hands,” interrupted Hetty briskly, leading the way into the dining-room and across it to a closet, where she turned the water into a stationary washstand, and taking a clean towel and piece of soap from a drawer, laid them down beside it.

“There, just take off your things and give them to me.”

“Thank you, but—my hair?” said Floy, “I never sat down to breakfast in my life without first using a comb and brush.”

“Oh, just smooth it a little on top, and it’ll do well enough for this once; we’re all women and girls together; not a man in the house except Mr. Sharp, and he never comes to our early breakfast.”

The shadow of a smile flitted over the face of the new-comer.

“No,” laughed Hetty, divining her thought, “I would not be a slattern if all the men were at the bottom of the sea. Don’t judge of me by Patsy, I beg of you,” she added, with an odd grimace; “dirt and she have so strong an affinity for each other that there’s no keeping them apart.” And taking Floy’s hat and shawl, she hurried away. She was back again by the time our heroine had finished her hasty toilet.

Floy’s story had not preceded her. She had not felt willing that it should, and even Mrs. Sharp knew little more than that she was a young girl of good family who wished to learn dress-making and millinery.

But the deep mourning told of recent bereavement, and something in the patient sadness of the face went to Hetty’s warm heart. With a sudden impulse she threw her arms about Floy and kissed her.

“You poor thing, so far away from home and all you love!” she said, “it must seem terribly hard.”

Floy’s lip trembled and her eyes filled. She could only return the embrace in silence; her heart was too full for speech.

“Hetty!” said a voice from the dining-room, “Hetty, isn’t it time to ring the bell?”

“In a minute, mother, as soon as I can dish up the meat and potatoes,” answered the girl, stepping out and drawing Floy with her. “Mother, this is Miss Kemper, the young lady that was expected to come from the West, you know.”

Mrs. Goodenough, as Floy afterward learned to call her, was a heavy-featured, gray-haired, sallow woman, as dull, absent-minded, and slow as Hetty was bright and quick.

“Ah, yes; how d’ye do? But I didn’t know there was a train came in so early,” she said, shaking hands with Floy. “Ring that bell quick, Patsy!” as a step was heard in the hall, slipshod but hasty and impatient.

Mrs. Goodenough waddled into the kitchen (she was stout in figure and clumsy in gait). Patsy seized the bell, and Hetty came hurrying in with a dish of baked potatoes just as the door opened and another woman, alert in movement and sharp of feature, with a keen black eye, hair in crimping-pins, and a tall, wiry figure arrayed in a calico wrapper, clean and fresh but evidently thrown on in haste, came bustling in.

“Sarah, it’s getting late, and you know how the work’s hurrying us—six or eight dresses to be made this week, and—ah?” in a tone of inquiry as her eye fell upon Floy standing silently there.

Patsy’s bell was clanging in the hall.

“Miss Kemper, Aunt Prue!” shouted Hetty. “Breakfast’s ready now, and it isn’t quite six yet.”

Floy received a hasty nod, the black eyes scanning her from head to foot; then dashing into the hall, Mrs. Sharp seized Patsy with one hand, the bell with the other.

“That’s enough! will you never learn when to stop? How do you suppose Mr. Sharp can sleep through all this din? Come, girls, make haste!” and she turned into the dining-room again, followed by four apprentices, to whom the last words were addressed as they came flying down the stairs.

In a trice all had gathered about the table, Mrs. Goodenough pouring out the coffee, Mrs. Sharp helping to the meat, and the others passing the bread, butter, and potatoes; then all fell to work as if their lives depended upon finishing the meal in the shortest possible space of time—all but the new-comer, who bent reverently over her plate for a moment ere she took up her knife and fork.

She had been assigned a place at Mrs. Goodenough’s right hand. Hetty, who sat opposite, looked approval, but Mrs. Sharp’s comment was an impatient gesture, which, however, Floy did not see.

“We expected you last night,” Mrs. Sharp said presently.

Floy explained about the detention.

“Ah! and you’re tired out most likely? won’t be fit to work to-day, I s’pose?”

“I am willing to try,” was the quiet answer.

“She ought to have a nap first,” said Hetty impulsively.

“Yes, she looks tired,” remarked Mrs. Goodenough slowly; “and what is it Shakespeare says?”

She dropped knife and fork, and with eyes fixed upon vacancy seemed to be vainly striving to recall some apt quotation which had half suggested itself, then slipped away before she could quite secure it.

“Pshaw, Sarah!” exclaimed her sister impatiently, pushing back plate and chair and jumping up in haste, “I’m the first done, as usual. Girls, don’t be all day over your breakfast. Wash your hands and come right into the work-room as soon as you’re done; there’s no time to waste. Miss Kemper, take a nap if you need it. I’m not hard on my employees, even though my customers do drive me almost to distraction.”

She left the room without waiting for a reply, and the four apprentices followed almost immediately in a body, Floy rose too.

“Patsy and I will take your trunk up, Miss Kemper,” said Hetty. “It’s small, and we can easily carry it.”

“But is there not some man I could hire?”

“No, none near that I know of. Just let me have my own way. I’m used to it, ain’t I, mother?” laughed Hetty.

“Of course you are, Hetty,” returned Mrs. Goodenough absently, sipping her tea. “What is it Shakespeare says?”