Perhaps no employment is more confining and more poorly compensated than that of sewing. The narrow choice allowed to women, who are compelled to labor for their livelihood, leads to an unhealthy and disastrous competition in this department of toil, and enables employers to establish a disgracefully low scale of prices.^[1] Fifteen hours out of the twenty-four are sometimes spent in unremitting labor, the results of which will scarcely keep soul and body together. The cook or house-maid enjoys a degree of comfort, and commands an income (including board) absolutely unattainable by the slave of the needle.

Hard work and an absence of nourishing food were beginning to tell on the delicate frame of Martha Grey. An expert needle-woman, she commanded, in good times, an abundant supply of work. But times had changed. The shops gave out less work, while the number who desired it seemed rather to have increased than diminished. The natural result followed,—a reduction in the compensation, already disgracefully low. Many could not obtain a chance to work at any price. Martha was allowed her usual supply, but at prices twenty per cent. lower than she had before received. The heart of the poor seamstress sank within her, as she walked home with a bundle of work, for which she was to be paid at the new rate. How was she to economize? It seemed before as if her wants were reduced to the minimum, and yet she had been able to lay by nothing. In addition to this, her health, never very firm, had shown some indications of failure. She was troubled with occasional dizziness and frequent nervous headaches, which rendered her enforced slavery to the needle a torture, but one from which she could not deliver herself.

But one alternative presented itself. She must contract her necessary expenditures, or increase her hours of work. She did not know how to compass the one, while the other would probably lead to sickness. She attempted a middle course. On a scantier diet she strove to work an hour more daily. The result was what might have been anticipated. Nature succumbed. One morning Helen, on returning from rehearsal, entered Martha’s room unceremoniously, as was her wont. Great was her dismay on discovering her friend lying insensible on the floor. Her work, on which she had been engaged up to the moment of her attack, had fallen from her hands, and lay beside her.

Helen was not unused to such cases. Though quite terrified, she had sufficient self-possession to apply the proper restoratives.

Martha soon opened her eyes, and, recognizing Helen, smiled faintly.

“How do you feel, Martha?” inquired Helen, anxiously.

“I am afraid I am going to be sick,” said Martha.

“When did you first feel it?”

“It has been coming on for several days. I have not been free from the headache for a week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” asked Helen, reproachfully.

“Because you could have done me no good, my dear child.”

“Let me help you to the bed. Now you must lie down, and try to rest. I suppose you have worked just as usual, too, you imprudent Martha.”

“I can’t afford to lie still, you know.”

“You can afford to lie still better than to ruin your health.”

By this time Martha was lying on the bed.

“If you will pass me my work, Helen, I think I can sew while I am lying down.”

“No, Martha,” said Helen, shaking her head; “I shall not allow it. You are wholly unfit for work. You must have a good long rest.”

“But, Helen——”

“I know what you would say,—that you can’t afford to lie still. Just as if you had no friends, you unreasonable child. For a week to come, you must not touch your needle. During that time I will bring in your meals to you.”

“But, Helen——”

“Now don’t be perverse, Martha. Papa says I am a tyrant, and I mean to be in this case. To make sure that you don’t touch your work, I shall carry it away with me, and finish it myself.”

“But, Helen, you have your father to care for. I cannot consent to become a burden upon you.”

“Are you aware, Martha, how rich I am? For some weeks past, I have spent scarcely more than half my income. You see, therefore, that I am abundantly able to do what little I propose. But I sha’n’t allow you to talk any more. Try to go to sleep, and I will come in pretty soon. Mind I find you better.”

Helen left the room with the work in her hand. Martha ceased her opposition. She felt that the time had come when labor was no longer possible. She must have rest. How grateful the thought that, for a week, she should be free from the drudgery of the needle,—that her busy fingers might be folded in idleness, without the troubled thought that her bread depended upon her exertions. She lay back, and a sense of delicious rest came to her. She did not try to look beyond the week of rest. That seemed a long and blissful eternity. She was almost too weary to think. The sharp pain became less poignant, and at last she fell asleep. She slept for three hours, and, when she woke, it was to see the kind face of Helen bending over her.

“How do you feel now, Martha?”

“Better, much better.”

“Have you slept well?”

“Yes, I have slept nearly all the time since you were in? How long is that?”

“I came in at eleven. It is now nearly three.”

“Is it so long?”

“I thought you must be hungry, Martha, so I have brought in some chicken-broth for you. I hope you will like it.”

“Some chicken-broth? O Helen, I am afraid you have made it on purpose for me.”

“Well, and if I have?”

“I can’t bear to think I am making you so much trouble.”

“Then I will relieve you by saying that I didn’t make it expressly for you. Papa and I had it for dinner, and papa seemed to relish it amazingly. I don’t know when he has eaten so hearty a dinner.”

“I am glad of that. I think I shall like it, too. The smell of it quite revives me. I will get up immediately.”

“No, you shall stay where you are. Wait a moment and I will bring back a pillow from our room. Then I can prop you up in bed, and you shall eat in bed as the French do. Really, Martha, you are getting to be quite a fashionable lady.”

Martha’s sickness had been the result in part of a lack of proper food. The chicken-broth was relished as much as Helen could desire.

“I knew you would like it, Martha. Why, you are beginning to look better already.”

“I think I shall be able to go to work to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow, nor this week. It will take you at least a week to recover.”

“But, Helen——”

“That is the third time you have said ‘But, Helen.’ Do you know, you unreasonable creature, that I allow no disobedience? I have undertaken to cure you, and I mustn’t have you interfering.”

“But it will not take a week for me to get well.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know the meaning of those pale cheeks. I ought to have noticed them before. In a few days, when you are strong enough, we will all take an excursion together, that is, papa and you and I, and perhaps Herbert—I mean Mr. Coleman—will go too. I want to see a little color in those cheeks.”

“How kind you are, Helen!” said Martha, gratefully.

“Wouldn’t you be as kind to me, if I were sick instead of you? tell me that, Martha?”

“Yes, I hope I should.”

“Then you see there is no reason for thanking me. I dare say I shall take a fancy to fall sick some day when you are quite well, and call you in to take care of me. I warn you beforehand that I shall make a dreadfully cross patient.”

Martha smiled. There was something contagious in Helen’s light heart and exuberance of cheerfulness. The world seemed a great deal brighter to her than it had done a few hours before.

“Now, Martha, as it must be dreadfully tiresome lying there staring at that white-washed wall, I will tell you what I am going to do. I was passing a circulating library just now, when I thought I would run in and get something to read to you. Shall you like it?”

“Very much. It is a long time since I have had a chance to read anything.”

“It will interest me, too. If you feel like it, I will sit down, and commence it now.”

“I wish you would.”

Helen drew a chair up to the bedside and began to read.

The book was a work of fiction, the heroine one who had to struggle with life very much as they had done. It was the work of a superior writer, and written with a charm of style that made it additionally attractive.

Helen read fifty pages, when the approach of evening made it necessary for her to pause.

“I will come in to-morrow morning, and read a little while,” she said. “Good night, Martha. I suppose I must be getting ready for the theatre.”

It was on this evening that Mr. Sharp had the memorable interview with Lewis Rand, which resulted in restoring to Helen and her father a magnificent fortune.