“I didn’t think of that,” was murmured in a low abstracted voice.

“Who could wonder,” continued the old man, “if that unhappy girl, deprived of the reward of honest labour, and driven angrily away as you drove her just now, should in despair step aside into ruin, thus sacrificing herself, body and soul, in order to save from want and deprivation those she could not sustain by virtuous toil?”

“I didn’t think of that,” fell quick and in an agitated voice from the tailor’s lips, as, dropping the garment he held in his hand, he hurried around his counter and left the shop.

Ellen was not tempted as the friend of Mr. Lawson had supposed; but there are hundreds who, under like circumstances, would have turned aside.  From the shop of the tailor she went slowly homeward; at her heart was a feeling of utter despondency.  She had struggled long, in weariness and pain, with her lot; but now she felt that the struggle was over.  The hope of the hour had failed, and it seemed to her the last hope.

When Ellen entered the room where her sister lay, the sight of her expectant face (for the desire for nourishing, refreshing food had been stronger than usual with Mary, and her fancy had been dwelling upon the pleasant repast that was soon to be spread before her) made the task of communicating the cruel repulse she had received tenfold more painful.  Without uttering a word, she threw herself upon the bed beside her sister, and, burying her face in a pillow, endeavoured to smother the sobs that came up convulsively from her bosom.  Mary asked no question.  She understood the meaning of Ellen’s agitation well; it told her that she had been disappointed in the expectation of receiving the money for her work.

Deep silence followed.  Mary clasped her hands together and raised her eyes upward, while Ellen lay motionless with her face hidden where she had first concealed it.  There was a knock at the door, but no voice bade the applicant for admission enter.  It was repeated; but, if heard, it met no response.  Then the latch was lifted, the door swung open, and the tailor stepped into the room.  The sound of his feet aroused the passive sisters.  The white face of Mary was to him, at first, a startling image of death; but her large bright eyes opened and turned upon him with an assurance that life still lingered in its earthly tenement.

“Ellen, Ellen,” said the sick girl, faintly.

Ellen, too, had heard the sound of footsteps on the floor, and she now raised up slowly, and presented to Lawson her sad, tearful countenance.

“I was wrong to speak to you as I did,” said the tailor without preface, advancing towards the bed and holding out to Ellen the money she had earned.  “There is the price of the vest; it is better made than I at first thought it was.  To-morrow I will send you more work.  Try and cheer up.  Are you so very poor?”

The last two sentences were uttered in a voice of encouragement and sympathy.  Ellen looked her thankfulness, but did not venture a reply.  Her heart was too full to trust her lips with utterance.