CHAPTER II.

HOW A NEEDLEWOMAN LIVES.

IT was about ten o'clock on the next morning, when Mrs. Gaston
appeared at the shop of Berlaps, the tailor.

"Here is the other pair," she said, as she came up to the counter,
behind which stood Michael, the salesman.

That person took the pair of trowsers, glanced at them a moment, and
then, tossing them aside, asked Mrs. Gaston if she could make some
cloth roundabouts.

"At what price?" was inquired.

"The usual price--thirty cents."

"Thirty cents for cloth jackets! Indeed, Michael, that is too
little. You used to give thirty-seven and a half."

"Can't afford to do it now, then. Thirty cents is enough. There are
plenty of women glad to get them even at that price."

"But it will take me a full day and a half to make a cloth jacket,
Michael."

"You work slow, that's the reason; a good sewer can easily make one
in a day; and that's doing pretty well these times."

"I don't know what you mean by pretty well, Michael," answered the
seamstress. "How do you think you could manage to support yourself
and three children on less than thirty cents a day?"

"Haven't you put that oldest boy of yours out yet?" asked Michael,
instead of replying to the question of Mrs. Gaston.

"No, I have not."

"Well, you do very wrong, let me tell you, to slave yourself and
pinch your other children for him, when he might be earning his
living just as well as not. He's plenty old enough to be put out."

"You may think so, but I don't. He is still but a child."

"A pretty big child, I should say. But, if you would like to get him
a good master, I know a man over in Cambridge who would take him off
of your hands."

"Who is he?"

"He keeps a store, and wants just such a boy to do odd trifles
about, and run of errands. It would be the very dandy for your
little follow. He'll be in here to-day; and if you say so, I will
speak to him about your son."

"I would rather try and keep him with me this winter. He is too
young to go so far away. I could not know whether he were well or
ill used."

"Oh, as to that, ma'am, the man I spoke of is a particular friend of
mine, and I know him to be as kind-hearted as a woman. His wife's
amiability and good temper are proverbial. Do let me speak a good
word for your son; I'm sure you will never repent it."

"I'll think about it, Michael; but don't believe I shall feel
satisfied to let Henry go anywhere out of Boston, even if I should
b