Luclarion still sold her good, cheap white loaves and brown, her muffins and her crumpets; and she had what she called her “big baking room,” where a dozen women could work at the troughs and the kneaders and the ovens; and in this bakery they learned an honest trade that would stand them in stead for self-support, whether to furnish a commodity for sale, or in homes where daily bread must be put together as well as prayed for.

“You can do something now that all the world wants done; that’s as good as a gold mine, and ever so much better,” said Luclarion Grapp.

Then she had a laundry.  From letting her lodgers wash and iron for themselves, to put their scanty wardrobes into the best condition and repair, she went on to showing them nice work and taking it in for them to do; until now there were some dozen families who sent her weakly washing, three to five dollars’ worth each; and for ten months in the year a hundred and eighty dollars were her average receipts.

Down at “The Neighbors,”—­as from the name of the street and the spirit and growth of the thing it had come to be called,—­they had “Evenings;” when friends of the place came in and made it pleasant; brought books and pictures, flowers and fruit, and made a little treat of it for mind and heart and body.  It was some plan for one of these that had taken Desire and Hazel to Miss Grapp’s to-day.

Miss Euphrasia’s first feeling was disappointment.  It seemed as if her morning were going a wee wrong after all.  But her second thought—­that it was surely all in the day’s work, and had happened so by no mistake—­took her in, with a cheery and really expectant face, to Rachel Froke’s gray parlor, to “sit her down a five minutes, and rest.”  She confidently looked for her business then to be declared to her, since the business she thought she had come upon was set aside.

“I have had a great mind to come to thee,” were the first words Rachel said, as her visitor seated herself in the low chair, twin to her own, which she kept for friends.  Rachel Froke liked her own; but she never felt any special comfort comfortably her own, until she could hold it thus duplicated.

“I have wanted for a little while past to talk to some one, and Hapsie Craydocke would not do.  Everything she knows shines so quickly out of those small kind eyes of hers.  Hapsie would have looked at me in an unspeakable way, and told it all out too soon.  I have a secret, Euphrasia, and it troubleth me; yet not very much for myself; and I know it need not trouble me for anything.  I have a reason that may make me leave this place,—­for a time at least; and I am sorry for Desire, for she will miss me.  Frendely can do all that I do, and she hath the same wish for everything at heart; but then who would help Frendely?  She could not get on alone for thee knows the house is large, and Desire is always very busy, with work that should not be hindered.  Can thee think of any way?  I cannot bear that any uncertain, trustless person should come in here.  There hath never been a common servant in this house.  Doesn’t thee think the Lord hath some one ready since He makes my place empty?  And how shall we go rightly to find out?”