can mention.”

“What do you give for shirts, sir?”

“Various prices; from six cents up to twenty-five, according to the quality of the article.”

Only twenty-five cents for fine shirts!” returned the young woman, in a surprised, disappointed, desponding tone.

Only twenty-five cents? Only? Yes, only twenty-five cents! Pray how much did you expect to get, Miss?” retorted the clothier, in a half-sneering, half-offended voice.

“I don’t know. But twenty-five cents is very little for a hard day’s work.”

“Is it, indeed? I know enough who are thankful even for that. Enough who are at it early and late, and do not even earn as much. Your ideas will have to come down a little, Miss, if you expect to work for this branch of business.”

“What do you give for vests and pantaloons?” asked the young woman, without seeming to notice the man’s rudeness.

“For common trowsers with pockets, twelve cents; and for finer ones, fifteen and twenty cents. Vests about the same rates.”

“Have you any shirts ready?”

“Yes, a plenty. Will you have em coarse or fine?”

“Fine, if you please.”

“How many will you take?”

“Let me have three to begin with.”

“Here, Michael,” cried the man to the attendant who had been first addressed by the stranger, “give this girl three fine shirts to make.” Then turning to her, he said: “They are cotton shirts, with linen collars, bosoms, and wristbands. There must be two rows of stitches down the bosoms, and one row upon the wristband. Collars plain. And remember, they must be made very nice.”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply, made in a sad voice, as the young creature turned from her employer and went up to the shop-attendant to receive the three shirts.

“You’ve never worked for the clothing stores, I should think?” remarked this individual, looking her in the face with a steady gaze.

“Never,” replied the applicant, in a low tone, half shrinking away, with an instinctive aversion for the man.

“Well, it’s pretty good when one can’t do any better. An industrious sewer can get along pretty well upon a pinch.”

No reply was made to this. The shirts were now ready; but, before they were handed to her, the man bent over the counter, and, putting his face close to hers, said—

“What might your name be, Miss?”

A quick flush suffused the neck and face of the girl, as she stepped back a pace or two, and answered—

“That is of no consequence, sir.”

“Yes, Miss, but it is of consequence. We never give out work to people who don’t tell their names. We would be a set of unconscionable fools to do that, I should think.”

The young woman stood, thoughtful for a little while, and then said, while her cheek still burned—

“Lizzy Glenn.”

“Very well. And now, Miss Lizzy, be kind enough to inform me where you live.”

“That is altogether unnecessary. I will bring the work home as soon as I have finished it.”

“But suppose you should happen to forget our street and number? What then?”

“Oh no, I shall not do that. I know the place very well,” was the innocent reply.

“No, but that won’t do, Lizzy. We must have the name and place of residence of every man, woman, and child who work for us. It is our rule, and we never depart from it.”

There was another brief period of irresolution, and then the place of abode was given. This was first entered, with her name, in a book, and then the three shirts were handed over. The seamstress turned away on receiving them, and walked quickly from the shop.

The appearance of this young applicant for work would have appealed instantly to the sympathies of any one but a regular slop-shop man, who looked only to his own profits, and cared not a fig whose heart-drops cemented the stones of his building. She was tall and slender, with light brown hair, clear soft complexion, and eyes of a mild hazel. But her cheeks were sunken, though slightly flushed, and her eyes lay far back in their sockets. Her forehead was high and very white. The tones of her voice, which was low, were soft and musical, and her words were spoken, few though they were, with a taste and appropriateness that showed her to be one who had moved in a circle of refinement and intelligence. As to her garments, they were old, and far too thin for the season. A light, faded shawl, of costly material, was drawn closely around her shoulders, but had not the power to keep from her attenuated frame the chill air, or to turn off the fine penetrating rain that came with the wind, searchingly from-the bleak north-east. Her dress, of summer calico, much worn, clung closely to her body. Above all was a close bonnet, and a thick vail, which she drew around her face as she stepped into the street and glided hurriedly away.

“She’s a touch above the vulgar, Michael,” broke in Berlaps, the owner of the shop, coming forward as he spoke.

“Yes, indeed! That craft has been taut rigged in her time.”

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