“For one of my disposition,” was replied, “the life of a seamstress does not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve—­or, to speak more correctly sensitiveness.  I dislike to break in upon another’s household arrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself.  My rule is, to adapt myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anything by my presence.”

“Even though your life be in jeopardy?” said Mrs. Wykoff.

“Oh! it’s not so bad as that.”

“But it is, Mary!  Let me ask a few more questions.  I am growing interested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally.  How many families do you work for?”

After thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of ladies, she replied—­

“Not less than twenty.”

“And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?”

“Yes.”

“Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their various home arrangements?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Getting your dinner at one o’clock to-day, and at three or four to-morrow?”

Miss Carson nodded assent.

“Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the next occasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has dined.”

Another assenting inclination of the head.

“One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on the next cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which is little less than poison to your weak lungs.”

“These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff,” replied Miss Carson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice.  “How could it be otherwise?  No house-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the accommodation of a sewing-girl.  The seamstress must adapt herself to them, and do it as gracefully as possible.”

“Even at the risk of her life?”

“She will find it easier to decline working in families where the order of things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any change.  I have been obliged to do this in one or two instances.”

“There is something wrong here, Mary,” said Mrs. Wykoff, with increasing sobriety of manner.  “Something very wrong, and as I look it steadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for, after what you have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be remedied.  One thing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without remonstrance, the hurt you suffer, there will be no change.  People are indifferent and thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard for others—­especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them.”

“We cannot apply the remedy,” answered Miss Carson.

“I am not so sure of that.”