“No—­I have no friends;” Mona said, flushing and with starting tears.

“Indeed,” returned her companion, in a tone of sympathy, “I noticed that you were in mourning—­I am very sorry.”

Mona had heard so few words of sympathy of late that she came near losing her self-control at this, and she found herself unable to make any reply, lest her tears should fall.

“You look very delicate, too,” her companion continued, bending a curious glance upon her.  “I am sure you have not always lived as you are living now; it must be very hard to sit and sew all day.  I hope you find my aunt considerate, Miss Richards.”

Mona was astonished at this last remark which she thought was in very bad taste, and she turned a cold, questioning glance upon him.

“If at any time you should not,” he went on, flippantly, “just let me know, Miss Richards, and I will see what I can do for you, for I have considerable influence with Aunt Marg.”

Mona looked amazed, and wondered what he could mean by speaking in such a way of Mrs. Montague.

He had made a grand mistake in assuming that she should make a confidant of him—­an entire stranger—­in the event of her being overworked by his aunt.

“Mrs. Montague has been very good,” she said, icily, and drawing her slight, graceful figure haughtily erect, “but—­if at any time I should find my duties heavier than I could perform faithfully, I should tell her so and seek some other position.”

Mr. Hamblin flushed hotly—­not with embarrassment, although he had seldom had such a rebuff, but with anger and chagrin that a poor sewing-girl whom he had seen fit to patronize, should dare to give him such a set-back.

But he had no intentions of being beaten at his game, and so curbed his ire for the time.

“Pardon me,” he humbly responded, “I did not mean to offend you nor to interfere, ’pon my word I didn’t; only you seem so delicate and unfit for such a life; and fashionable ladies have such oceans of work to be done that they sometimes crowd their help—­I—­”

“Excuse me—­I must leave you here; my work is waiting for me,” Mona interposed, coldly, and cutting him short as they reached Mrs. Montague’s residence.

She ran lightly up the steps and rang the bell before he could offer to admit her with his latch-key as before.

A servant let her in immediately, and she went directly up stairs, without deigning her would-be escort another word or look, while she carried herself with so much hauteur that he knew she resented his presumptuous familiarity.

“Hoity toity!” he muttered, with a crimson face; “our pretty seamstress hath the manner of a princess!  One would almost suppose that she had been born and bred in a palace and was the mistress of millions, instead of being only a common working-girl and dependent upon the skill of her own dainty fingers for her living.  But she is wonderfully interesting, aside from her beauty, and I must change my tactics or I shall never get into her good graces.  Who would have dreamed that she would have the sense to resent my offer.  Most girls would have blushed, simpered, and thanked me, feeling flattered with my condescending interest.”