Six weeks after the Seventh had marched out of New York, Francesca,
sitting in her aunt's room, was roused from evidently painful thought by
the entrance of a servant, who announced, "If you please, a young woman
to see you."
"Name?"
"She gave none, miss."
"Send her up."
Sallie came in. "Bird of Paradise" Francesca had called her more than
once, she was so dashing and handsome; but the title would scarcely fit
now, for she looked poor, and sad, and woefully dispirited.
"Ah, Miss Sallie, is it you? Good morning."
"Good morning, Miss Ercildoune." She stood, and looked as though she had
something important to say. Presently Francesca had drawn it from
her,--a little story of her own sorrows and troubles.
"The reason I have come to you, Miss Ercildoune, when you are so nearly
a stranger, is because you have always been so kind and pleasant to me
when I waited on you at the store, and I thought you'd anyway listen to
what I have to say."
"Speak on, Sallie."
"I've been at Hyacinth's now, over four years, ever since I left school.
It's a good place, and they paid me well, but I had to keep two people
out of it, my little brother Frank and myself; Frank and I are orphans.
And I'm very fond of dress; I may as well confess that at once. So the
consequence is, I haven't saved a cent against a rainy day. Well,"
blushing scarlet, "I had a lover,--the best heart that ever beat,--but I
liked to flirt, and plague him a little, and make him jealous; and at
last he got dreadfully so about a young gentleman,--a Mr.
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