to her place, and smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I

remember it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine

intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments, her

thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a reflection from the aspect of

an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm 'the untidy

badge;' scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss

Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow because she had

blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect nature of