“I did not tell you any width for the slips,” was the dry, yet haughty rejoinder, for madame could not fail to understand that she had been politely admonished that her curiosity was becoming annoying to her fair seamstress, “but you may make them to match those upon the sheets—­three inches.”

She arose, immediately after giving this order, and swept proudly from the room, and Mona did not see her again that day.  It seemed to the poor girl, with her unaccustomed work, the longest one she had ever known, and she grew heavy-hearted, and very weary before it was over.

She had all her life been in the habit of taking plenty of exercise in the open air.  While she was studying, Mr. Dinsmore had made her walk to and from school, then after lunch they would either go for a drive or for a canter in the park or the suburbs of the city.

She had never been subjected to any irksome restraint, and so it seemed very hard to be obliged to sit still for so many hours at a time and do nothing but “stitch! stitch! stitch!” like the woman in the “Song of the Shirt.”

But six o’clock came at last, to release her from those endless seams and hems, and after she had eaten her dinner she was so completely wearied out that she crept up to her bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

But the next morning she was pale and heavy-eyed, and Mrs. Montague evidently realized that it was unwise to make her apply herself so steadily, for she made out a memorandum of several little things which she wanted and sent Mona down town to purchase them.

The girl came back looking so bright and fresh, and went at her work with so much vigor, the woman smiled wisely to herself.

“She hasn’t been used to such close application, it is plain to be seen,” she mused, “and I must take care or she will give out.  She sews beautifully, though, and rapidly, and I want to keep her, for I believe she can be made very useful.”

So every day after that she sent her out for a while on some pretext or other, and Mona felt grateful for these moments of respite.

One day she was sent to Macy’s with a longer list than usual, and while there she came face to face with a couple of acquaintances—­young ladies who, like herself, had only that winter been introduced to society.

They had been only too eager, whenever they had met her in company, to claim the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore’s niece as their friend.

Mona bowed and smiled to-day, as she met them, but was astonished and dismayed beyond measure when they both gave her a rude stare of surprise, and then passed on without betraying the slightest sign of recognition.

For a moment Mona’s face was like a scarlet flame, then all her color as quickly fled, leaving her ghastly white as she realized that she had received the cut direct.

Her heart beat so heavily that she was oppressed by a feeling almost of suffocation, and was obliged to stop and lean against a pillar for a moment for support.