“Oh, certainly.  The sooner the better.  But first, we must arrange a reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and others down to it at once.  It will not do to hold any parley with them.  If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world.  These are matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing to do with our business.  No matter what prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door on that subject.”

“Yes, there is no doubt of that.  But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery to me how some of these women get along.  Very few make over two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar.  Many of them are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them.  Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine.”

“Oh, as to that,” returned Grasp, “it is, no doubt, managed well enough.  Provisions, and every thing that poor people stand in need of, are very cheap.  The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know.  How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us!  Think of that for a moment.”

“True-very true,” replied the partner.  “Well,” ha continued, “I think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once.  I am tired of plodding on at this rate.”

“So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it.”

And they were just as good as their word.  And it happened just as they said—­the poor workwomen had to submit.

But we must return from our digression.

The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil, early and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children—­that child passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother’s oppressor; and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling.  At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove home.

“Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp,” he said, on alighting from his vehicle.  “He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient.”

“What is his name?” asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice.  She had no children of her own—­those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.