“I suppose I could learn them in an hour or two; but I see you do not wish to employ me, even if I had them at my finger-ends.  Do you employ women in no way in your large establishment?”

“Yes, as authors; for we find that many books written by ladies sell quite as well as others.”

“But in no other way?”

“Only in this,” said the publisher, taking the cousins into a small room at the back of his large front shop, where eight or ten nice-looking girls were busily engaged in stitching together pamphlets and sheets to be ready for the bookbinder.  “It is light work; they have not such long hours or such bad air, nor do they need much taste or skill as dressmakers do.”

“So their wages are proportionally lower,” said Jane.

“Just so,” said the publisher; “and quite right they should be so.”

“Of course; but do they not rise from stitching to bookbinding?”

“Ah! that is man’s work.  I have bookbinders on the premises, to finish the work that the girls have begun.”

“And they spend their lives in this stitching—­no progress—­no improvement—­mere mechanical drudgery.”

“Yes; and in time they get very expert.  You would be amazed at the rapidity with which they turn the work out of their hands.  The division of labour reduces the price of binding materially.”

“No doubt—­for you have girls at low wages to do what is tedious, and men at higher to do what is artistic; that is a very fair division of labour,” said Jane, bitterly.

“Nay, nay; I believe our profession, or rather trade, is more liberal to the sex than any other.  Write a good book, and will give you a good price for it:  design a fine illustration, and that has a market value independent of sex.”

“I can neither write nor draw,” said Jane, “but I would fain have been a corrector of the press; from that I might have risen to criticism, and become a reader and a judge of manuscript; but I see the case is hopeless.  I suppose it is not you, but society who is to blame.  Perhaps I may be reduced to the book-stitching yet; if so, will you give me a trial?  In the meantime, I wish you good morning.”

The publisher smiled and nodded.  “A most eccentric young woman, and, I daresay, a deserving one; but she takes hold of the world at the wrong end,” said he, as she went out to pursue her inquiry elsewhere.

“Now,” said Jane, “I can release you, for I will make my next application myself.  If I fail here I really will be surprised, for I make it to one who knows me.”

Mrs. Dunn, the head of the dressmaking and millinery establishment where the Miss Melvilles had been initiated into these arts, had been very handsomely paid for instructing them, had always praised Jane’s industry and Elsie’s taste, and had held them up as patterns for all her young people.  Of course she knew, as all the world knew, that they had been disinherited by their uncle, but she fancied they had other influential friends or relatives; so when Miss Melville was announced, she thought more of an order for mourning then of a request for employment.  But the young lady, in her own plain way, went at once to the point.