In these days after the Great Fire, no wonder that the dozen or fifteen became twenty, or even thirty; the very pigeons and sparrows tell each other where the people are who love and feed them; no wonder that all the chairs had to be brought in, and that the room was full; that the room in heart and brain, for sympathy and plan and counsel, was crowded also, or would have been, if heart and brain were not made to grow as fast as they take in tendernesses and thoughts.  If, too, one need did not fit right in and help another; and if being “right in the midst of the work” did not continually give light and suggestion and opportunity.

Bel Bree came among them now, with her heart full.

“I know it better than ever,” she said to Miss Desire.  “I know that what ever so many of these girls want, most of all, is home.  A place to work in where they can rest between whiles, if it is only for snatches; not to be out, and on their feet, and just driving, with the minutes at their heels, all day long.  Girls want to work under cover; they can favor themselves then, and not slight the work either.  And especially, they want to belong somewhere.  They can’t fling themselves about, separate, anywhere, without a great many getting spoiled, or lost.  They want some signs of care over them; and I believe there are places where they could have it.  If they can put twenty tucks into a white petticoat for a cent a piece, and work half a day at it, and find their own fire and bread and tea, why can’t they do it for half a cent a tuck, even, in people’s houses, where they can have fire and lodging and meals, and a name, at any rate, of being seen to?”

“Say so to them, Bel.  Tell them yourself, what you mean to do, and find out who will do it with you.  If this movement could come from the girls themselves,—­if two or three would join together and begin,—­I believe the leaven would work.  I believe it is the next thing, and that somebody is to lead the way.  Why not you?”

That night, the Read-and-Talk left off the reading.  Miss Ledwith told them that there was so much to say,—­so much she wanted a word from them about,—­that they would give up the books for one evening.  They would think about home, instead of far-off places; about themselves,—­each other,—­and things that were laid out for them to do, instead of people who had taken their turn at the world’s work hundreds of years ago.  They would try and talk it out,—­this hard question of work, and place, and living; and see, if they could, what way was provided,—­as in the nature of things there must be some way,—­for everybody to be busy, and everybody to be better satisfied.  She thought Bel Bree had got a notion of one way, that was open, or might be, to a good many, a way that it remained, perhaps, for themselves to open rightly.

“Now, Bel, just tell us all how you feel about it.  There isn’t any of us whom you wouldn’t say it to alone; and every one of us is only listening separately.  When you have finished, somebody else may have a word to answer.”