works so much,” said Polly, ready to be amused by anything that
made her forget herself.
“Ah, my dear, it ‘s a very common story, and that ‘s the saddest part
of it. I ‘ll tell you all about it, for I think you may be able to help
me. Last night I watched with poor Mary Floyd. She ‘s dying of
consumption, you know,” began Miss Mills, as her nimble fingers
flew, and her kind old face beamed over the work, as if she put a
blessing in with every stitch. “Mary was very low, but about
midnight fell asleep, and I was trying to keep things quiet, when
Mrs. Finn she ‘s the woman of the house came and beckoned me
out, with a scared face. ‘Little Jane has killed herself, and I don’t
know what to do,’ she said, leading me up to the attic.”
“Who was little Jane?” broke in Polly, dropping her work.
“I only knew her as a pale, shy young girl who went in and out, and
seldom spoke to any one. Mrs. Finn told me she was poor, but a
busy, honest, little thing, who did n’t mix with the other folks, but
lived and worked alone. ‘She has looked so down-hearted and pale
for a week, that I thought she was sick, and asked her about it,’ said
Mrs. Finn, ‘but she thanked me in her bashful way, and said she
was pretty well, so I let her alone. But to-night, as I went up late to
bed, I was kind of impressed to look in and see how the poor thing
did, for she had n’t left her room all day. I did look in, and here ‘s
what I found.’ As Mrs. Finn ended she opened the door of the back
attic, and I saw about as sad a sight as these old eyes ever looked
at.”
“O, what?” cried Polly, pale now with interest.
“A bare room, cold as a barn, and on the bed a little dead, white
face that almost broke my heart, it was so thin, so patient, and so
young. On the table was a bottle half full of laudanum, an old
pocket-book, and a letter. Read that, my dear and don’t think hard
of little Jane.”
Polly took the bit of paper Miss 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 anymore. 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 is n’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 had n’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
did n’t seem to be any room for her in the world.’ Ah, well, we
saved her, for it was n’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 creatures who can’t push their way, and so
get put aside and forgotten. She has tried all sorts of poorly paid
work, could n’t live on it decently, got discouraged, sick,