“Things are particular with each one, in some sort or another.  That is what settles it, I suppose, and ought to.  The only thing is to be sure that it is a right particular that does it; that we don’t let in any wrong particular, anywhere.  For you, Dorothy, I don’t believe shop-life is the thing.  You have found it out.  Why not change at once?  There is the machine at home, and Ray is going to be busy in Neighbor Street.  Won’t her work naturally come to you?”

“There isn’t much of it, and it is so uncertain.  The shops take up all the bulk of work nowadays; everything is wholesale; and I don’t want to go into the rooms, if I can help it.  I don’t like days’ work, either.  The fact is, I want a quiet place, and the same things.  I like my own machine.  I would go with it into a family, if I could have my own room, and be nice, and not have to eat with careless, common servants in a dirty kitchen.  Mother would spare me,—­to a real good situation; and I would come home Sundays.”

“I see.  What you want is somewhere, of course.  Wouldn’t you advertise?”

“Would you?”

“Yes, I think I would.  Say exactly what you want, wages and all.  And put it into some family Sunday paper,—­the ‘Christian Register,’ for instance.  Those things get read over and over; and the same paper lies about a week.  In the dailies, one thing crowds out another; a new list every night and morning.  See here, I’ll write one now.  Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late for this week.  Would you go out of town?”

“Wouldn’t I?  I think sometimes that’s just what ails me; wanting to see soft roads and green grass and door-yards and sun between the houses!  But I couldn’t go far, of course.”

Desire’s pencil was flying over the paper.

“’Wanted; a permanent situation in a pleasant family, as seamstress, by a young girl used to all kinds of sewing, who will bring her own machine.  Would like a room to herself, and to have her meals orderly and comfortable, whether with the family or otherwise.  Wages’—­What?”

“By the day, I could get a dollar and a quarter, at least; but for a real good home-place, I’d go for four dollars a week.”

“‘Wages, $4.00 per week.  A little way out of town preferred.’  There!  There are such places, and why shouldn’t one come to you?  Take that down to the ‘Register’ office to-morrow morning, and have it put in twice, unless stopped.”

“Thank you.  It’s all easy enough, Miss Ledwith.  Why didn’t I work it out myself?”

“It isn’t quite worked out, yet.  But things always look clearer, somehow, through two pairs of eyes.  Good-night.  Let me know what you hear about it.”

“She’ll surprise some family with such a seamstress as they read about,” said Bel Bree, on the door-step.  “I should like to astonish people, sometime, with a heavenly kind of general housework.”

“That was a good idea of yours about the Sunday paper,” said Sylvie, as she and Hazel and Desire went back into the library to put away the books.  “But what when the common sort pick up the dodge, and the weeklies get full of ‘Wanteds’?  Nothing holds out fresh, very long.”