“Can’t you cook a little?  I could teach you my ways.”

“I don’t know the least thing about cooking.  I never cooked a thing in my life.”

“What a pity!  What was your mother thinking about?  Every girl ought to be brought up to know a little about cooking, even if she does have some other employment.”

“My mother has been dead a good many years.”  The tears brimmed over now, but the girl tried to smile.  “I could help you with your dinner party,” she went on.  “That is, I know all about setting the tables and arranging the flowers and favors.  I could paint the place-cards, too—­I’ve done it many a time.  And I could wait on the table.  But I couldn’t cook even an oyster.”

“Oh, place-cards!” said the little woman, her eyes brightening.  She caught at the word as though she had descried a new star in the firmament.  “I wish I could have them.  They cost so much to buy.  I might have my washerwoman come and help with the cooking.  She cooks pretty well, and I could help her beforehand, but she couldn’t wait on table, to save her life.  I wonder if you know much about menus.  Could you help me fix out the courses and say what you think I ought to have, or don’t you know about that?  You see, I have this very particular company coming, and I want to have things nice.  I don’t know them very well.  My husband has business relations with them and wants them invited, and of all times for Betty to leave this was the worst!” She had unconsciously fallen into a tone of equality with the strange girl.

“I should like to help you,” said the girl, “but I must find somewhere to stay before night, and if I find a place I must take it.  I just came to the city this morning, and have nowhere to stay overnight.”

The troubled look flitted across the woman’s face for a moment, but her desire got the better of her.

“I suppose my husband would think I was crazy to do it,” she said aloud, “but I just can’t help trusting you.  Suppose you come and stay with me to-day and to-morrow, and help me out with this dinner party, and you can stay overnight at my house and sleep in the cook’s room.  If I like your work, I’ll give you a recommendation as waitress.  You can’t get a good place anywhere without it, not from the offices, I’m sure.  A recommendation ought to be worth a couple of days’ work to you.  I’d pay you something besides, but I really can’t afford it, for the washerwoman charges a dollar and a half a day when she goes out to cook; but if you get your board and lodging and a reference, that ought to pay you.”

“You are very kind,” said the girl.  “I shall be glad to do that.”

“When will you come?  Can you go with me now, or have you got to go after your things?”

“I haven’t any things but these,” she said simply, “and perhaps you will not think I am fine enough for your dinner party.  I have a little money.  I could buy a white apron.  My trunk is a good many miles away, and I was in desperate straits and had to leave it.”