“Yes.  Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents.  You can have some of them, if you choose.”

“I will take half a dozen,” said Mrs. Gaston in a desponding tone.  “Any thing is better than nothing.”

“Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn,” said Michael, with repulsive familiarity, as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, “what can I do for you this morning?”

The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the counter and unrolled it.  It contained three fine shirts, with linen bosoms and collars, very neatly made.

“Very well done, Lizzy,” said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the garments that required to be sewed neatly.

“Have you any more ready?” she asked, shrinking back as she spoke, with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.

“Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?” called Michael, back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.

“I don’t know.  How has she made them?”

“First rate.”

“Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought in.”

“That’s your sorts!” responded Michael, as he took seventy-five cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter.  “Good work, good pay, and prompt at that.  Will you take three more?”

“I will,” was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to repulse the low-bred fellow’s offensive familiarity.

“Highty-tighty!” broke in Michael, in an undertone, meant only for the maiden’s ear.  “Tip-top airs don’t pass for much in these ’ere parts.  Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may be?  We’re all on the same level here.  Girls that make slop shirts and trowsers haven’t much cause to stand on their dignity.  Ha! ha!”

The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk where Berlaps stood writing.

“Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your fine shirts,” she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.

Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely fashion—­

“Why, in thunder, Michael, don’t you let the girls that come to the store, alone?  Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your confounded tom-fooleries!  The store is no place for them.”

The young woman remained quietly beside the desk of Berlaps until Michael came up and handed her the shirts.  She then walked quickly toward the door, but did not reach it before Michael, who had glided along behind one of the counters.

“You’re a fool!  And don’t know which side your bread’s buttered,” he said, with a half leer, half scowl.

She neither paused nor replied, but, stepping quickly out, walked hurriedly away.  Young Perkins, before alluded to, entered at the moment, and heard Michael’s grossly insulting language.