“Remember, now, these are to be made extra nice.”

“You shall have no cause of complaint—­depend upon that, Michael.  But isn’t Mr. Berlaps in this morning?”

“No.  He’s gone out to Roxbury to see about some houses he is putting up there.”

“You can pay me for them pantys, I suppose?”

“No.  I never settle any bills in his absence.”

“But it’s a very small matter, Michael.  Only a dollar and five cents,” said Mrs. Gaston, earnestly, her heart sinking in her bosom.

“Can’t help it.  It’s just as I tell you.”

“When will Mr. Berlaps be home?”

“Some time this afternoon, I suppose.”

“Not till this afternoon,” murmured the mother, sadly, as she thought of her children, and how meagerly she had been able to provide for them during the past few days.  Turning away from the counter, she left the store and hurried homeward.  Henry met her at the door as she entered, and, seeing that she brought nothing with her but the small bundles of work, looked disappointed.  This touched her feeling a good deal.  But she felt much worse when Ella, the sick one, half raised herself from her pillow a said—­

“Did you get me that orange, as you promised, mother?”

“No, dear; I couldn’t get any money this morning,” the mother replied, bending over her sick child and kissing her cheek, that was flushed and hot with fever.  “But as soon as Mr. Berlaps pays me, you shall have an orange.”

“I wish he would pay you soon then, mother; for I want one so bad.  I dreamed last night that I had one, and just as I was going to eat it, I waked up.  And, since you have been gone, I’ve been asleep, and dreamed again that I had a large juicy orange.  But don’t cry mother.  I know you couldn’t get it for me.  I’ll be very patient.”

“I know you will, my dear child,” said the mother, putting an arm about the little sufferer, and drawing her to her bosom; “you have been good and patient, and mother is only sorry that she has not been able to get you the orange you want so badly.”

“But I don’t believe I want it so very, very bad, mother, as I seem to.  I think about it so much—­that’s the reason I want it, I’m sure.  I’ll try and not think about it any more.”

“Try, that’s a dear, good girl,” murmured Mrs. Gaston, as she kissed her child again, and then turned away to resume once more her wearying task.  Unrolling one of the coarse jackets she had brought home, she found that it was of heavy beaver cloth, and had to be sewed with strong thread.  For a moment or two, after she spread it out upon the table, she looked at the many pieces to be wrought up into a well-finished whole, and thought of the hours of hard labor it would require to accomplish the task.  A feeling of discouragement stole into her heart, and she leaned her head listlessly upon the table.  But only a moment or two elapsed before a thought of her children aroused her flagging energies.