nearly the whole night previous to the morning upon which Ella died, awakened a fresh emotion of grief in her bosom. As this gradually subsided, she applied herself with patient assiduity to her task, which was not finished before twelve o’clock that night, when she laid herself down with little Emma in her arms, and soon lost all care and trouble in profound sleep.
Hasty pudding and molasses composed the morning meal for all. After breakfast, Mrs. Gaston took the two jackets, which had been out now five days to the shop.
“Why, bless me, Mrs. Gaston, I thought you had run off with them jackets!” was Michael’s coarse salutation as she came in. The poor, heart-oppressed seamstress could not trust herself to reply, but laid her work upon the counter in silence. Berlaps, seeing her, came forward.
“These kind of doings will never answer, madam!” he said angrily. “I could have sold both jackets ten times over, if they’d been here three days ago, as by rights they ought to have been. I can’t give you work, if you are not, more punctual. You needn’t think to get along at our tack, unless you plug it in a little faster than all this comes to.”
“I’ll try and do better after this,” said Mrs. Gaston, faintly.
“You’ll have to, let me tell you, or we’ll cry ‘quits.’ All my women must have nimble fingers.”
“These jackets are not much to brag of,” broke in Michael, as he tossed them aside. “I think we had better not trust her with any more cloth roundabouts. She has botched the button-holes awfully; and the jackets are not more than half pressed. Just look how she has held on the back seam of this one, and drawn the edges of the lappels until they set seven ways for Sunday! They’re murdered outright, and ought to be hung, with a basin under them to catch the blood.”
“What was she to have for them?” asked Berlaps.
“Thirty cents a-piece, I believe,” replied the salesman.
“Don’t give her but a quarter, then. I’m not going to pay full price to have my work botched up after that style!” And, so saying, Berlaps turned away and walked back to his desk.
Lizzy Glenn, as she had called herself, entered at the moments and heard the remark of the tailor. She glided noiselessly by Mrs. Gaston, and stood further down the store, with both her body and face turned partly from her, where she waited patiently for the interview between her and Michael to terminate.
The poor, heart-crushed creature did not offer the slightest remonstrance to this act of cruel oppression, but took the half dollar thrown her by Michael for the two jackets with an air of meek resignation. She half turned to go away after doing so, but a thought of her two remaining children caused her to hesitate.
“Have’n’t you some more trowsers to give out?” she asked, turning again toward Michael.
The sound of her voice reached the ear of the young female who had just entered, causing her to start, and look for an instant toward the speaker. But she slowly resumed her former position with a sigh, after satisfying herself by a single glance at the woman, whose voice had fallen upon her ear with a strange familiarity.
“We haven’t any more ready, ma’am, just now.”
“What have you to give out? Any thing?”
“Yes. Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents. You can have some of them, if you choose.”
“I will take half a dozen,” said Mrs. Gaston in a desponding tone. “Any thing is better than nothing.”
“Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn,” said Michael, with repulsive familiarity, as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, “what can I do for you this morning?”
The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the counter and unrolled it. It contained three fine shirts, with linen bosoms and collars, very neatly made.
“Very well done, Lizzy,” said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the garments that required to be sewed neatly.
“Have you any more ready?” she asked, shrinking back as she spoke, with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.
“Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?” called Michael, back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.
“I don’t know. How has she made them?”
“First rate.”
“Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought in.”
“That’s your sorts!” responded Michael, as he took seventy-five cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter. “Good work, good pay, and prompt at that. Will you take three more?”
“I will,” was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to repulse the low-bred fellow’s offensive familiarity.
“Highty-tighty!” broke in Michael, in an undertone, meant only for the maiden’s ear. “Tip-top airs don’t pass for much in these ‘ere parts. Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may be? We’re all on the same level here. Girls that make slop shirts and trowsers haven’t much cause to stand on their dignity. Ha! ha!”
The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk where Berlaps stood writing.
“Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your fine shirts,” she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.
Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely fashion—
“Why, in thunder, Michael, don’t you let the girls that come to the store, alone? Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your confounded tom-fooleries! The store is no place for them.”
