on her face as she unrolled it and
called sharply to her forewoman.

Every seamstress in the room bent forward with an exclamation of
pleasure as the piece of dress-goods was unrolled. It was a soft,
shimmering silk, whose creamy surface was covered with rosebuds, as
dainty and pink as if they had been blown across it from some June
garden. Cicely caught her breath with a little gasp of delight, and
thought again of the sweet face that had smiled on her. Miss Balfour
would look like a rose herself in such a dress.

The next day Cicely saw the cutter at work on it, and then the
forewoman distributed the various parts into different hands. Cicely
wished that she could have a part in making it. She would have enjoyed
putting her finest stitches into something to be worn by the beautiful
girl who had smiled on her. It would be almost like doing it for a
friend. But she was kept busy stitching monotonous bias folds.

Just as she was slipping on her jacket to go home that evening, the
forewoman came up to her with a bundle. "I am sorry, Cicely," she
said, "but I shall have to ask you to take some work home with you
to-night. We are so rushed with all these orders we never can get
through unless every one of you works over-hours. Miss Shelby's extra
order is just the last straw that'll break the camel's back, I'm
afraid. Try to get every bit of this hand work done some way or other
before morning."

It was no part of the rose-pink party dress that Cicely had to work
on; only more monotonous bias folds. But as she turned up the lamp in
her chilly little room and began the weary stitching again, she felt
that in a way it was for Miss Balfour, and she sewed on
uncomplainingly.

She had intended to write to Marcelle that evening in order that her
sister might have a letter on New Year's day, but there would be no
time now. She wrapped a shawl around her and spread a blanket over her
feet, but more than once she had to stop and warm her stiff fingers
over the lamp. It was long after midnight when she finished, and she
crept into bed, her head still throbbing with a dull ache.

"The last day of the old year!" she said to herself, as she waded
through a newly fallen snow to her work the next morning. "Oh,
Marcelle, how can I ever hold out ten months longer? Nobody in this
whole city cares that I caught cold sitting up in a room without a
fire, or that I feel so lonely and bad this minute that I can't keep
back the tears."