Marie still danced assiduously about her tasks, which were manifold, for not one of the Carroll women had the slightest idea of any accountability in the matter of household labor.  It never occurred to one of them to make her bed, or even hang up her dress, but, instead, to wonder why Marie did not do it.  However, if Marie really had an ill day, or, as sometimes happened, was up all night at a ball, they never rebelled or spoke an impatient word.  The beds simply remained unmade and the dresses where they had fallen.  The ladies always had a kindly, ever-caressing smile or word for little Marie.  They were actually, in a way, fond of her, as people are fond of a pretty little domestic beast of burden, and Marie herself adored them.  She loved them from afar, and one of her great reasons for wishing to stay for her wages was to buy some finery after the fashion of Charlotte’s and Ina’s.  Marie had not asked for her wages many times, and never of Captain Carroll, but to-night she took courage.  There was a ball that week, Thursday, and her poor, little, cheap muslin of last season was bedraggled and faded until it was no longer wearable.  Marie waylaid Captain Carroll as he was returning from the stable, whither he had been to see a lame foot of one of the horses.  Marie stood in her kitchen door, around which was growing lustily a wild cucumber-vine.  She put her two coarse hands on her hips, which were large with the full gathers of her cotton skirt.  Around her neck was one of the garish-colored kerchiefs which had come with her from her own country.  It was an ugly thing, but gave a picturesque bit of color to her otherwise dingy garb.

“Mr. Captain,” said Marie, in a very small, sweet, almost infantile voice.  It was frightened, yet with a certain coquetry in it.  This small Hungarian girl had met with very few looks and words in her whole life which were not admiring.  In spite of her poor estate she had the power of the eternal feminine, and she used it knowingly, but quite artlessly.  She knew exactly how to speak to her “Mr. Captain,” in such a way that a smile in response would be inevitable.

Carroll stopped.  “Well, Marie?” he said, and he smiled down into the little face precisely after the manner of her calculation.

“Mr. Captain,” said she again, and again came the feeler after a smile, the expression of droll sweetness and appeal which forced it.

“Well, Marie,” said Carroll, “what is it?  What do you want?”

Marie went straight to the point.  “Mine vages,” said she, and a bit of the coquetry faded, and her small smile waxed rather piteous.  She wanted that new dress for the ball sadly.

Carroll’s face changed; he compressed his mouth.  Marie shrank a little with frightened eyes on his face.

“How much is it, Marie?” asked Carroll.

“Tree mont vage, Mr. Captain,” answered Marie, eagerly, “I haf not had.”

Carroll took out his pocket-book and gave her a ten-dollar note.