She bit her lip, her whole nature in revolt, but she made no reply. Too much was at stake for her to show anger at such coarseness. She had no rights that he was bound to respect. She was only one of his work-girls, and her short experience had shown her that but few of her associates received better treatment from him. “Thank you,” was all she said as, with downcast eyes, she picked her way through the crowded workroom, down the long, steep staircase reserved for employees and so on to the street. There she caught a Third Avenue car and sank into a seat near the door, encroaching upon her small reserve of pennies to reach home the sooner. She saw but too clearly that not only did her present position depend on her returning the mantilla at the earliest possible moment, but that, exhausted as she was, she must utilize the few remaining minutes of daylight as well as the earlier hours of the morning to keep her promise. To work long at night she knew was impossible. She had not the eyes to follow the intricacies of the meshes with no other light than that afforded by Martha's kerosene lamp. She had tried it before, and had been forced to stop. When she reached the cross street leading to Martha's door, she hurried from the car, caught her skirts in her hand, a habit of hers when nervously hurried, and, summoning up all her strength, sped on, mounting the narrow, rickety steps with but a pause for breath on the last landing. Once there, she took her latch-key from her pocket and unlocked the door, leaving it on the jar, as she knew Martha might come in at any moment. As she entered the humble apartment, its restful seclusion, after her experience with Mangan, sent a thrill of thankfulness through her. One after another the several objects passed in review--the kettle singing on the stove, its ample bed of coals warming the room; her own tiny chamber, leading out of the one large room, with its small iron bedstead and white cotton quilt; the table with its lamp; the pine shelves with the few pieces of china, and even the big paper box in which her work was delivered and later returned to the shop, either by wagon or special messenger, and which Martha, before she had gone out, had placed on a chair near the door to keep it out of the dust. All told her of peace and warmth and comfort. She lighted the lamp, picked up the box containing the mantilla, and half raised the lid, intending to place the contents on her sewing-table, but, catching sight of the kettle again, she let the box lid drop from her hands. She was chilled from the ride in the car, the water was boiling, and it would take but a minute to make herself a cup of tea. This would give her renewed strength for her task. Hardly had she drained her cup when she became conscious of a step on the stairs--a steady, firm step. Not Martha's nor that of the boy. Nor that of the expressman who often sought Martha's apartment. As it approached the landing, a sickening faintness assailed her.