The child sighed as she turned her wan face towards the wall, and the unhappy mother sighed responsive. "I wish you would try to take a little more. It's so long since you have eaten anything; and you'll grow worse if you don't take nourishment. Just two or three spoonfuls. Come, dear." Ella, thus urged, raised herself in bed, and made an effort to eat more of the gruel. At the third spoonful, her stomach heaved as the tasteless fluid touched her lips. "Indeed, mother, I can't swallow another mouthful," she said, again sinking back on her pillow. Slowly did Mrs. Gaston turn from the bed. She had not yet eaten of the food which her two well children were devouring with the eagerness of hungry animals. Only a small portion did she now take for herself, and that was eaten hurriedly, as if the time occupied in attending to her own wants were so much wasted. The meal over, Mrs. Gaston took the unfinished pair of trowsers, and, though feeling weary and disheartened, bent earnestly to the task before her. At this she toiled, unremittingly, until the falling twilight admonished her to stop. The children's supper was then prepared. She would have applied to Mrs. Grubb for a loaf of bread, but was so certain of meeting a refusal that she refrained from doing so. For supper, therefore, they had only the salt fish and potatoes. It was one o'clock that night before exhausted nature refused another draft upon its energies. The garment was not quite finished. But the nerveless hand and the weary head of the poor seamstress obeyed the requirements of her will no longer. The needle had to be laid aside, for the finger had no more strength to grasp, nor skill to direct its motions. CHAPTER II. It was about ten o'clock on the next morning, when Mrs. Gaston appeared at the shop of Berlaps, the tailor. "Here is the other pair," she said, as she came up to the counter, behind which stood Michael, the salesman. That person took the pair of trowsers, glanced at them a moment, and then, tossing them aside, asked Mrs. Gaston if she could make some cloth roundabouts. "At what price?" was inquired. "The usual price--thirty cents." "Thirty cents for cloth jackets! Indeed, Michael, that is too little. You used to give thirty-seven and a half." "Can't afford to do it now, then. Thirty cents is enough. There are plenty of women glad to get them even at that price." "But it will take me a full day and a half to make a cloth jacket, Michael." "You work slow, that's the reason; a good sewer can easily make one in a day; and that's doing pretty well, these times." "I don't know what you mean by pretty well, Michael," answered the seamstress. "How do you think you could manage to support yourself and three children on less than thirty cents a day?" "Haven't you put that oldest boy of yours out yet?" asked Michael, instead of replying to the question of Mrs. Gaston. "No, I have not."