“Yes.  She has four of our finest shirts.”

“How long since she took them away?”

“It’s over a week—­nearly ten days.”

“Indeed!  Then she ought to be looked after.  It certainly hasn’t taken her all this time to make four shirts.”

“Well, I don’t know.  She gets along, somehow, poorly enough,” replied Michael.  “She’s often been a whole week making four of them.”

While this conversation was going on, the subject of it entered.  She came in with a slow, feeble step, and leaned against the counter as she laid down the bundle of work she bad brought with her.  Her half-withdrawn vail showed her face to be very pale, and her eyes much sunken.  A deep, jarring cough convulsed her frame for a moment or two, causing her to place her hand almost involuntarily upon her breast, as if she suffered pain there.

“It’s a good while since you took these shirts out, Lizzy,” said Berlaps, in a tone meant to reprove her for the slowness with which she worked.

“Yes, it is,” she replied, in a low, sad tone.  “I can’t get along very fast.  I have a constant pain in my side.  And there are other reasons.”

The last sentence was spoken only half aloud, but sufficiently distinct for Berlaps to hear it.

“I don’t expect my workwomen,” he said a little sharply, “to have any reasons for not finishing my work in good season, and bringing it in promptly.  Ten days to four shirts is unpardonable.  You can’t earn your salt at that.”

The young woman made no reply to this, but stood with her eyes drooping to the floor, and her hands leaning hard upon the counter to support herself.

Berlaps then commenced examining the shirts.  The result of this examination seemed to soften him a little.  No wonder; they were made fully equal to those for which regular shirt-makers receive from seventy-five cents to a dollar a piece.

“Don’t you think you can make five such as these in a week—­or even six?” he asked, in a somewhat changed tone.

“I’m afraid not,” was the reply.  “There’s a good day’s work on each one of them, and I cannot possibly sit longer than a few hours at a time.  And, besides, there are two or three hours of every day that I must attend to other duties.”

“Well, if you can’t I suppose you can’t,” said the tailor, in a disappointed, half-offended tone, and turned away from the counter and walked back to his desk, from which he called out to his salesman, after he had stood there for about a minute—­

“Pay her for them, Michael, and if you have any more ready give her another lot.”

Since the sharp rebuke given by Mr. Perkins, Michael had treated Lizzy with less vulgar assurance.  Sometimes he would endeavor to sport a light word with her, but she never replied, nor seemed to notice his freedom in the least.  This uniform, dignified reserve, so different from the demeanor of most of the girls who worked for them, coupled with the manner of Perkins’s interference for her, inspired in his mind a feeling of respect for the stranger, which became her protection from his impertinences.  On this occasion, he merely asked her how many she would have, and on receiving her answer, handed her the number of shirts she desired.