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 child," but inferred, from his own experience, that she would "soon learn better!"

As Lucy went up Mrs. Broadson's steps she passed a girl about her own age, with a shabby bandbox under her arm, such as the improvident poor usually use to contain all their goods and chattels. Lucy perceived the girl had been weeping, and thought that she eyed her askance; but she soon forgot her in the novelty of her situation.

She was admitted by a Polish waiter, who spoke but few words, and those broken English. It was still early; but Mrs. Broadson, a stirring, notable woman, was in her breakfast-room, ready to receive the new-comer, to give her "a right start," as she said. Mrs. Broadson, it may be recollected, was the wife of a man who had, by speculating, suddenly gained a fortune, and, like too many who thus emerge into a new element in our country, she required (but had not) a new organization to fit her for it. "The sun and fortune" do not "make all insects shine." Mrs. Broadson had been accustomed to grubbing all her life — her domestic labours were now limited to getting the greatest possible service for the least possible compensation.

"Ah, here you are, child," was her greeting to Lucy; "I am glad you have kept your engagement — servants can't be too particular about that — run up to the attic — there you'll see Biddy's room — I told your mother you should sleep with Biddy. Leave your basket there, and come back to me."

Lucy went with that sad feeling so natural in exploring a strange house, and she sprang forward as if she had met a friend when she saw Bridget's