Mrs. Lea’s dressing-room was gorgeous with crimson and gold; they were the prominent colors of its adornment, from the velvet carpet on the floor to the gayly-frescoed ceiling.

The lady herself, arrayed in a morning robe of dark blue silk, and wearing a great quantity of heavy jewelry, reclined upon a crimson-satin-covered couch. She evidently belonged to the shoddy aristocracy, and her sallow, slightly-wrinkled face expressed nothing but supercilious pride and fretful discontent.

She greeted Floy with an angry nod and the question: “What’s the reason Mrs. Sharp sends you instead of coming herself? You can tell her I don’t like such treatment, and I consider that my money is as good as any other body’s. She says in her note you can fit as well as she can; but I don’t believe it; it stands to reason that a ’prentice-girl couldn’t do as well as her mistress.”

Floy’s cheek flushed, but she stood with an air of dignity, silently waiting for the end of the tirade, then quietly asked:

“Am I to fit your dress, Mrs. Lea?”

“Can you? that’s the question.”

“You have Mrs. Sharp’s opinion in regard to my ability. I can only say that I am ready to do my best, or to return to her with your message, as you please.”

“Well, I guess you may cut and fit the lining, and I can judge by the looks of it whether to allow you to go on and do up the job. Eliza,” turning to her maid, “bring the things. You know where they are.”

Floy had not been invited to sit down, but feeling ill able to stand, quietly took possession of the nearest chair.

Mrs. Lea elevated her eyebrows and muttered something angrily about “impudence and upstarts, and some folks making themselves very much at home in other folks’ houses.”

Floy seemed not to hear, but kept her seat till the maid returned with the required articles, and Mrs. Lea was ready to stand up and be fitted.

This proved a tedious and trying process to both, by reason of Mrs. Lea’s impatience and captiousness; but at length Floy’s efforts resulted in so signal a success that she was graciously permitted, in Mrs. Lea’s phrase, “to go on and do up the job.”

“Why, it fits elegant!” she exclaimed at the final trying on. “I declare Mrs. Sharp couldn’t a done it better herself, and you may tell her I said as much.”

Floy was gratified, for the Leas were among Mrs. Sharp’s best customers. Her patience and forbearance had been sorely tried, but had not failed, and now she was rewarded for the restraint put upon herself.

Her pulses quickened as she passed the library door in going out, though she knew Espy was not there now, for she had heard the departure of the sleighing party, and they had not returned.

Another hour had slipped away before they came, and Espy was met at the door by a telegram to the effect that his mother was lying dangerously ill, and he must hasten home without delay if he would see her alive.

Espy read it at a glance; and turning a pale, agitated countenance upon the servant, who stood waiting,

“I must be gone at once,” he said.

“Yes, sir; I expected as much, and I’ve packed your valise, sir; here it is all right—everything in it that you’d left in your room.”

“Thank you; it was very thoughtful and kind. I will have to leave my adieus to the ladies and gentlemen with you. Tell them I have been suddenly summoned home. My mother is very ill, and I shall have barely time to catch the train. Good-by.”

And dropping a dollar into the man’s hand, Espy seized the valise and rushed away in hot pursuit of a passing street-car.

Even at that moment of grief, anxiety, and haste, he remembered with a sharp pang that this sudden departure robbed him of the opportunity to obtain another interview with Floy or to learn her address.

During the two hours’ drive his thoughts had been so full of her, their late interview, and plans for securing another, that he found no little difficulty in attending to the small talk of his companions, and was more than once rallied by them upon his absence of mind.

It was the more annoying since he was the only gentleman of the party, young Lea being confined to his room that day with a severe cold.

Great were the chagrin and disappointment of Carrie when she heard of Espy’s abrupt departure. The others cared less, as she had managed to monopolize almost all his attentions.

Floy’s heart meanwhile was in a tumult of mingled emotions—joy that she had heard from Espy’s own lips the assurance of his faithfulness to her, sorrow that duty seemed still to forbid their betrothment.

Well was it for her in those days that necessity compelled her to constant employment, and that much thought had to be given to her work.

The diversion of her mind from her cares and griefs was further assisted by the occurrences of the next day.

It was two hours since the early breakfast at Mrs. Sharp’s, and in the work-room all was life, activity, and bustle: the buzz of three sewing-machines, the busy hum of voices giving and asking instructions, the click of the scissors cutting out garments and their trimmings, making a confusion of sounds.

Floy, putting the finishing touches to the rich silk she had fitted yesterday for Mrs. Lea, was wondering if she should be commissioned to carry home this dress, her heart trembling with mingled pleasure and pain at thought of a possible meeting with Espy if sent upon that errand.

A loud peal from the door-bell made her start, and set all her nerves tingling, she scarce knew why.

“The postman,” said Mrs. Sharp; “more orders, I presume. Here, give it to me, Patsy,” as the little maid appeared with a note in her hand. “Yes, just as I thought. Run back to your work, Patsy. No, make yourself decent first; I won’t have customers driven away by such a fright answering the bell.”

With the open note in her hand, Mrs. Sharp hurried into the store to consult with Hetty.

“Here’s a note from the Madame—wanting a dress fitted to-day, and made this week; with all this holiday work on our hands, giving us hardly time to breathe! But it’s like her—always choosing my busiest time. Did you ever know it to fail?”

“Never! so we ought to be used to it by this time.”

“What do you advise?”

“Madame is too valuable a customer to lose.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I’d send Floy. No one else is competent except yourself.”

“That’s true; yes, she’ll have to go, though I don’t know how to spare her here.”

Hastening back to the work-room,

“Is that dress done, Miss Kemper?” she asked.

“I’m just setting the last stitches,” was the reply.

“Well, the minute you’re done put on your things and take it home; then go on from there to the address I shall give you. She’s a good customer—rich, middle-aged, queer, and must be humored in her notions. She thinks she must have a new dress immediately, though she has fifty already. You’ll probably have to stay two or three days, as she will have her gowns made in the house, and a great deal of work put on them.”

Floy obeyed, nothing loath, for she was weary enough of the monotony of her life and the disorder, hurry, and bustle of the work-room.

“Any change,” thought she, “must surely be for the better.”

As she passed though the hall at Mr. Lea’s, after attending to her errand, she overheard the inquiry of a gentleman at the door for Mr. Alden, and the servant’s reply,

“He’s left the city, sir; went off yesterday in a mighty big hurry. Had a telegram that somebody was sick at home.”

The words went through Floy like a shot. For an instant she was near falling, but recovering herself, she hastily drew down her veil and stepped past the servant into the street.

The gentleman was already gone, and she too went quietly on her way—seeming quiet outwardly, but in great tumult of feeling.

“Was it Espy’s father who was so ill? Would he now relent? Would he die?”

In either case the bar to her own and Espy’s happiness would be removed. She was horrified at the thrill of pleasure that thought brought with it: that she could be glad of the death of another! Silently asking forgiveness, cleansing, help, she hurried onward.

There was now neither hope nor fear of meeting Espy. Was she glad? was she sorry? Truly she did not know. Then she thought of him bereaved of a parent, and her tears fell fast. Who knew better than she the anguish of such a loss? Ah, if she could but save him this great sorrow!

Madame Le Conte lived in the suburbs of the city in a large, handsome dwelling on the shore of the lake, of which there was a fine view from the whole front of the house. The street-cars, however, carried Floy to within a square of the place, and it was still comparatively early when she reached it.

Her ring was promptly answered by a pretty, neatly-attired Irish girl, rosy and smiling.

“Is it the dressmaker from Mrs. Sharp’s that the Madame’s expecting?” she inquired without waiting for Floy to tell her errand. “Well, I’m glad to see you, miss, for you’ve a purty face, and are a nice-lookin’ lady intirely, besides that the Madame would a been awful vexed if you’d disappointed her. But just step this way, intil the dining-room; for the Madame’s not up yet—she don’t rise mostly afore nine o’clock—and me orders was to give you your breakfast the first thing.”

“I have breakfasted, thank you, and—”

“Yes, miss, but sure don’t we all know what onchristian hours they kape down there? giving ye yere breakfast afore six o’clock. An’ sure ye’ve been walkin’ and ridin’ in the cowld, keen air o’ the streets till folks would think ye’d be as hungry as a wolf.”

As she spoke, she led the way through the great wide hall with its broad staircase, past open doors that gave glimpses of spacious, elegantly-furnished apartments, to a cosey, sunshiny breakfast-parlor, where a glowing grate, with an easy chair beside it and a little round table daintily spread with snowy drapery, cut glass, silver, and Sevres china, and set in a large bay window where some rare plants were blooming, and whence could be caught a view of the rolling waters of the lake, were very suggestive of ease and enjoyment.

“There, miss, wad ye ax a swater place to eat in?” queried Kathleen, watching with delight Floy’s face brighten with pleased surprise as she glanced from side to side of the cheery room.

“No, indeed.”

“Well, it’s meself that wouldn’t. Now just sit ye down in that big chair by the fire and take off your things and warm yerself while I fetch in the breakfast.”

Very willingly Floy accepted the invitation.

“A very pleasant beginning,” she thought as she felt the genial warmth of the fire; “the Madame must be both kind and generous. But I must not expect to find roses without thorns anywhere in this world; ah, no! but I will try to take quietly and thankfully the sweet and bitter as they come.”

There was no bitter in the breakfast presently served by the smiling Kathleen: fragrant, delicious coffee, richly creamed and sugared; the sweetest of butter, elegant hot rolls, a tender beefsteak—all done to a turn.

Floy had not thought of hunger till food was offered her, but to her surprise found no lack of appetite for the tempting fare set before her.

She had hardly begun her meal when, at a whining sound, Kathleen opened the door leading into the hall and admitted a curly lap-dog as white as snow, a beautiful little creature.

“Why, Frisky, you’re late till yere breakfast the day!” said Kathleen, stroking it gently. “See, miss, isn’t he a purty crayther? his coat’s so fine and soft and glossy!”

“Like floss silk,” said Floy. “Is he the Madame’s pet?”

“Yes, miss, that he is, the darlint! an’ we all make much of him, an’ it’s spoilt he is intirely, the crayther. He’s come fur his breakfast, miss; he’s been used to ating in here with his misthress, an’ niver a bit will he ate in the kitchen, such a grand gintleman as he is; so will ye plaze to excuse us if I bring his mate in here and feed him afore ye?”

“Certainly,” returned Floy, with a smile. “I should like to see him eat.”

“Thank ye, miss,” said Kathleen, setting two more chairs up to the table, of one of which Frisky instantly took possession, then whisking into the kitchen and back again, bringing a plate of meat quite as carefully prepared as the one she had set before Floy.

“You see it’s kapin’ it hot for him I’ve been, miss,” she explained, seating herself in the other chair and beginning to cut the meat up into small bits. “It must be hot, and cut fine, or he won’t touch it; and, more nor that, he’ll not ate a mouthful if ye don’t sing to him all the time.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her listener in surprise.

“Yes, miss, it’s thrue as prachin’; just see now! we always have to feed him wid a silver fork too.” And taking up a bit in her fingers she offered it, saying coaxingly, “Ate it now, me jewel; it’s illegant, tender, and swate.”

He did not so much as sniff at it, but looked her steadily in the face, with a little growl, as much as to say, “Do you mean to insult me?”

She began to sing, still holding the bit of meat in her fingers and bringing it a little nearer to his nose.

He snapped at her with a short, sharp bark, and, laughing, she took up another piece with a silver fork, and silently offered it.

He only repeated his growl.

She began her song again, still holding out the piece on the fork, and he took it at once and devoured it greedily.

The door opened, and a comely woman, older and more staid in appearance than the merry, talkative Kathleen, came in, asking in a tone of irritation,

“What’s the matter here? what are you doing to Madame’s pet? she sent me down to see if he was getting abused.”

“Niver a bit at all, at all, Mary, me dear; sure an’ it’s mesilf that likes the little baste wid it’s cunnin’ thricks too well to abuse it, let alone that I’d niver hurt a livin’ crayther. Och, ye varmint! take it, will yees?” offering another choice morsel; “can’t yer see with half an eye that even the like o’ me can’t talk an’ sing both at onct? It’s worse than a babby yees are! Tra, la, la, la, la la!”

“Ten times worse!” observed the older woman testily, “but nothing to compare to his mistress, she’s more trouble than forty babies; never a wink o’ sleep do I git till long after midnight.”

“An’ do ye think, Mary, me dear, it’s much slape ye’d get wid forty babbies to the fore?” queried Kathleen, ceasing her song for a moment. “But I’m forgetting me manners. It’s the young lady that’s come to make the Madame’s dress, Mary,” she added, with a nod of her head in Floy’s direction.

“How do you do, miss?” said Mary civilly. “Don’t be discouraged at what I’ve been saying; the Madame has her good points as well as other folks; you’ll find her unreasonable and hard to please sometimes, but she’ll make it up to you; she’s very generous and free with her money.”

In reply Floy, having finished her meal, intimated that she would like to get to work at once.

“Then come with me; I’ll take you to the sewing-room and give you the skirts to work at till Madame is pleased to be fitted,” returned Mary, leading the way.

This, too, was a bright, cheery, prettily-furnished room, and Floy was not sorry to be left alone in it for the next hour. Quietness and solitude had become rare luxuries in the busy, crowded life of the homeless young orphan.

How quiet the house was! were there no children in it? No, surely only a childless woman could be so foolishly fond of an animal as this Madame evidently was.