Lizzy Glenn | Page 3

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."
"Who can she be, Michael? None of your common ones, of course?"
"Oh no, of course not; she's 'seen better days,' as the slang phrase is."
"No doubt of that. What name did she give."
"Lizzy Glenn. But that may or may not be correct. People likely her are
sometimes apt to forget even their own names."
"Where does she live?"
"In the lower part of the town somewhere. I have it in the book here."
"You think she'll bring them shirts back?"
"Oh, yes. Folks that have come down in the world as she has, rarely
play grab-game after that fashion."
"She seemed all struck aback at the price."
"I suppose so. Ha! ha!"

"But she's the right kind," resumed Berlaps. "I only wish we had a
dozen like her."
"I wish we had. Her work will never rip."
Further conversation was prevented by the entrance of a customer.
Before he had been fully served, a middle-aged woman came in with a
large bundle, and went back to Berlaps's desk, where he stood engaged
over his account-books.
"Good-day, Mrs. Gaston," said he, looking up, while not a feature
relaxed on his cold, rigid countenance.
"I've brought you in six pairs of pants," said the woman, untying the
bundle she had laid upon the counter.
"You had seven pair, ma'am."
"I know that, Mr. Berlaps. But only six are finished; and, as I