and I don’t have much appetite; it seems dragged out of me.  And then,—­I can’t say it before the others, for they’re in shops, some of ’em, and places may be different; but it’s such a window and counter parade, besides; and they do look out for it.  People stare in at the store as they go by; Margaret Shoey has the glove counter at that end, and she knows Mr. Matchett keeps her there on purpose to attract; she sets herself up and takes airs upon it; and Sarah Cilley does everything she sees her do, and comes in for the second-hand attention.  Mr. Matchett asked me the other day if I couldn’t wear a panier, and do up my hair a little more stylish!  I can’t stay there; it isn’t fit for girls!”

Dot’s cheeks flamed, and there were tears in her eyes.  Desire Ledwith stood with a thoughtful, troubled expression in her own.

“There ought to be other ways,” she said.  “There ought to be more sheltered work for girls!”

“There is,” said little Bel Bree from the doorway “in houses.  If I hadn’t Aunt Blin, I’d go right into a family as seamstress or anything.  I don’t believe in out-doors and shops.  I’ve only lived in the city a little while, but I’ve seen it.  And just think of the streets and streets of nice houses, where people live, and girls have to live with ’em, to do real woman’s home work!  And it’s all given up to foreign servants, and our girls go adrift, and live anyhow.  ’Tain’t right!”

“There is a good deal that isn’t right about it,” said Desire, gravely; knowing better than Bel the difficulties in the way of new domestic ideas.  “And a part of it is that the houses aren’t built, or the ways of living planned, for ‘our girls,’ exactly.  Our girls aren’t happy in underground kitchens and sky bedrooms.”

“I don’t know.  They might as well be underground as in some of those close, crowded shops.  And their bedrooms can’t be much to compare, certain.  I’m afraid they like the crowds best.  If they wanted to, and would work in, and try, they might contrive.  Things fix themselves accordingly, after a while.  Somebody’s got to begin.  I can’t help thinking about it.”

Desire smiled.

“Your thinking may be a first sign of good times, little Bel,” she said.  “Think on.  That is the way everything begins; with a restlessness in some one or two heads about it.  Perhaps that is just what you have come down from New Hampshire for.”

“I don’t know,” said Bel again.  She began a good many of her reflective, suggestive little speeches with that hesitating feeler into the fog of social perplexity she essayed.  “They’re just as bad up there, now.  They all get away to the towns, and the trades, and the stores They won’t go into the houses; and they might have such good places!”

“You came yourself, you see?”

“Yes.  I wasn’t contented.  And things were particular with me.  And I had Aunt Blin.  I don’t want to go back, either.  But I can see how it is.”