p, so you won't lose no time."

She bit her lip, her whole nature in revolt, but she made no reply. Too
much was at stake for her to show anger at such coarseness. She had no
rights that he was bound to respect. She was only one of his work-girls,
and her short experience had shown her that but few of her associates
received better treatment from him.

"Thank you," was all she said as, with downcast eyes, she picked her way
through the crowded workroom, down the long, steep staircase reserved
for employees and so on to the street. There she caught a Third Avenue
car and sank into a seat near the door, encroaching upon her small
reserve of pennies to reach home the sooner. She saw but too clearly
that not only did her present position depend on her returning the
mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she
was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as
the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise. To work long
at night she knew was impossible. She had not the eyes to follow the
intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by
Martha's kerosene lamp. She had tried it before, and had been forced to
stop.

When she reached the cross street leading to Martha's door, she hurried
from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when
nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting
the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last
landing. Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked
the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any
moment.

As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her
experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her. One
after another the several objects passed in review--the kettle singing
on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny
chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead
and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with
the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work
was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special
messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a
chair near the door to keep it out of the dust. All told her of peace
and warmth and comfort.

She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla,
and half raised the lid, intendin