“Do have some more cake, Miss Higgins,” said Fanny.  She was radiant.  The image of her daughter in her new gowns had gone far to recompense her for all her disappointments in life, and they had not been few.  “What, after all, did it matter?” she asked herself, “if a woman was growing old, if she had to work hard, if she did not know where the next dollar was coming from, if all the direct personal savor was fast passing out of existence, when one had a daughter who looked like that?” Ellen, in a new blue dress, was ravishing.  The mother looked at her when she was trying it on, with the possession of love, and the dressmaker as if she herself had created her.

After supper Ellen had to try on the dress again for her father, and turn about slowly that he might see all its fine points.

“There, what do you think of that, Andrew?” asked Fanny, triumphantly.

“Ain’t she a lady?” asked the dressmaker.

“It is very pretty,” said Andrew, smiling with gloomy eyes.  Then he heaved a great sigh, and went out of the south door to the steps.  “Your father is tired to-night,” Fanny said to Ellen with a meaning of excuse for the dressmaker.

The dressmaker reflected shrewdly on Andrew’s sigh when she was on her way home.  “Men don’t sigh that way unless there’s money to pay,” she thought.  “I don’t believe but he has been speculating.”  Then she wondered if there was any doubt about her getting her pay, and concluded that she would ask for it from day to day to make sure.

So the next night after tea she asked, with one of her smirks of amiability, if it would be convenient for Mrs. Brewster to pay her that night.  “I wouldn’t ask for it until the end of the week,” said she, “but I have a bill to pay.”  She said “bill” with a murmur which carried conviction of its deception.  Fanny flushed angrily.  “Of course,” said she, “Mr. Brewster can pay you just as well every night if you need it.”  Fanny emphasized the “need” maliciously.  Then she turned to Andrew.  “Andrew,” said she, “Miss Higgins needs the money, if you can pay her for yesterday and to-day.”

Andrew turned pale.  “Yes, of course,” he stammered.  “How much?”

“Six dollars,” said Fanny, and in her tone was unmistakable meaning of the dearness of the price.  The dressmaker was flushed, but her thin mouth was set hard.  It was as much as to say, “Well, I don’t care so long as I get my money.”  She was unmarried, and her lonely condition had worked up her spirit into a strong attitude of defiance against all masculine odds.  She had once considered men from a matrimonial point of view.  She had wondered if this one and that one wanted to marry her.  Now she was past that, and considered with equal sharpness if this one or that one wanted to cheat her.  She had missed men’s love through some failing either of theirs or hers.  She did not know which, but she was determined that she would not lose money.  So she bore Fanny’s insulting emphasis with rigidity, and waited for her pay.