“Young woman,” said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair several feet back, elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest down over his aldermanic proportions--“young woman, do you observe that crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not aware that we turn away scores of them every day; perhaps you don’t know that the farmers’ daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less than we pay you? But you feminine operatives don’t seem to have the least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see,” said Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. “Tut--tut--young woman! don’t quarrel with your bread and butter; however, it is a thing that don’t concern me at all; if you _won’t_ work, there are plenty who _will_,”--and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, and glanced at the door. A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl’s face, as she turned slowly away in the direction of home. _Home_ did I say? The word was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a mother’s loving breast was her pillow, and a father’s good-night blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. It was past now. They were all gone--father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little church-yard, where her infant footsteps strayed. Rank grass had o’ergrown the cottage gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary’s household gods had not been shivered. Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced from the windows! How like fairies glided the young girls over the softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, with their gay visitors? Life was such a rosy dream to _them_--such a brooding nightmare to _her_! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. Must she _always_ drink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her heart-strings? She could not weep--nay, worse--she could not pray. Dark shadows came between her soul and heaven. * * * * *