Hannah had looked.  That night she had, in the secrecy of her own room, examined her own shoulders, and decided that although they might not be as white as Miss Farrel’s, they were presumably as well shaped.  She had resolved then and there to be married in a dress like that.  Along with her love-raptures came the fairy dream of the lace gown.  For once in her life she would be dressed like a princess.

When she told Miss Hart she was going to be married, her mistress sniffed.  “You can do just as you like, and you will do just as you like, whether or no,” she said; “but you are a poor fool.  Here you are getting good wages, and having it all to spend on yourself; and you ain’t overworked, and you’ll find out you’ll be overworked and have a whole raft of young ones, and not a cent of wages, except enough to keep soul and body together, and just enough to wear so you won’t be took up for going round indecent.  I’ve seen enough of such kind of work.”

“Amos will make a real good husband; everybody says he’s the best match anywhere around,” replied Hannah, crimson with blushes and half crying.

Miss Hart sniffed again.  “Jump into the fire if you want to,” said she.  “I hope you ain’t going before fall, and leave me in the lurch in hot weather, and preserves to be put up.”

Hannah said she would not think of getting married before November.  She did not say a word about the white lace gown, but that evening the desire to look at it again waxed so strong within her that she could not resist it.  She was sitting in her own room, after lighting the kerosene lamp in the corridor opposite Miss Farrel’s room, which was No. 20, and she was thinking hard about the lace gown, and wondering how much it cost, when she started suddenly.  As she sat beside her window, her own lamp not yet lit, she had seen a figure flit past in the misty moonlight, and she was sure it was Miss Farrel.  She reflected quickly that it was Thursday evening, when Miss Hart always went to prayer-meeting.  Hannah had a cold and had stayed at home, although it was her day off.  Miss Hart cherished the belief that her voice was necessary to sustain the singing at any church meeting.  She had, in her youth, possessed a fine contralto voice.  She possessed only the remnant of one now, but she still sang in the choir, because nobody had the strength of mind to request her to resign.  Sunday after Sunday she stood in her place and raised her voice, which was horribly hoarse and hollow, in the sacred tunes, and people shivered and endured.  Miss Hart never missed a Sunday service, a choir rehearsal, or a Thursday prayer-meeting, and she did not on that Thursday evening.