Whenever I find myself falling into my old habit, which I am sorry to say is too frequently the case, I turn my thoughts to this poor woman, who is still toiling on under heavy life-burdens, yet with meekness and patience, and bowing my head in shame, say—­

“If she is thankful for the good she has, how deep should be my gratitude!”

I DIDN’T THINK OF THAT!

Mr. Lawson, the tailor, was considered a very good member of society.  He was industrious, paid what he owed, was a kind husband and father and a pleasant and considerate neighbour.  He was, moreover, attached to the church, and, by his brethren in the faith, considered a pious and good man.  And, to say the truth, Mr. Lawson would compare favourably with most people.

One day as Mr. Lawson stood at his cutting board, shears in hand, a poorly dressed young woman entered his shop, and approaching him, asked, with some embarrassment and timidity, if he had any work to give out.

“What can you do?” asked the tailor, looking rather coldly upon his visitor.

“I can make pantaloons and vests,” replied the girl.

“Have you ever worked for the merchant tailors?”

“Yes, sir, I worked for Mr. Wright.”

“Hasn’t he any thing for you to do?”

“No, not just now.  He has regular hands who always get the preference.”

“Did your work suit him?”

“He never found fault with it.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Cherry street,” replied the young woman.

“At No.—.”

Mr. Lawson stood and mused for a short time.

“I have a vest here,” he at length said, taking a small bundle from a shelf, “which I want by tomorrow evening at the latest.  If you think you can make it very neatly, and have it done in time, you can take it.”

“It shall be done in time,” said the young woman, reaching out eagerly for the bundle.

“And remember, I shall expect it made well.  If I like your work, I will give you more.”

“I will try to please you,” returned the girl, in a low voice.

“To-morrow evening, recollect.”

“Yes, sir.  I will have it done.”

The girl turned and went quickly away.  As she walked along hurriedly, her slender form bent forward, and there was an unsteadiness in her steps, as if from weakness.  She did not linger a moment, nor heed any thing that was passing in the street.

A back room in the third story of an old house in Cherry street was the home of the poor sewing girl.  As she entered, she said, in a cheerful voice, to a person who was lying upon a bed which the room contained—­

“I have got work, sister.  It is a vest, and it must be done by to-morrow evening.”

“Can you finish it in time?” inquired the invalid in a faint voice.

“Oh, yes, easily;” and as she spoke, she laid off her bonnet and shawl hurriedly and sat down to unroll the work she had obtained.