Sally Price possessed, without being at all conscious of it, a rare organizing faculty. Perhaps no other sewing-woman in Micklegard could have accomplished as much with four hands and only one machine as she had done; but the very impossibility of doing much with such slight materials, the consciousness of wasted power, and sense of the injustice which for such grinding work gave such ground-down wages, had helped to crush out from her heart everything but hopeless patience. That she had not grown hard and bitter was a strange and beautiful thing; perhaps, even before the advent of Polly, there were _three_ at work in that poor upper room, even as _four_ walked in the Holy Children’s burning, fiery furnace. But now, Sally had something to organize, and a purpose in the organization; she was quite resolved, as she said, that Mr. Metzerott “shouldn’t lose nothin’” by his kindness to her and hers. Whether his expenses were exactly the same as when he himself had constituted his whole domestic staff, with the exception of an old woman who came three times a week to do “chores” and washing, is doubtful; but they were certainly not materially increased; and, taking into account the shoemaker’s additional time for work, the arrangement might be considered one of great economy. First of all, there was the baker, who had swallowed all the Prices’ earnings in the past, in return for a very moderate portion of the staff of life, strongly flavored with alum. Miss Price made up her mind at once that the baker must go. At her suggestion, Karl bought a bag of flour, and Polly, who was said to be a “master hand” at the process, was appointed bread-maker in chief; while Sally and Susan took their turn of exercise at the wash-tub and ironing-board. Sally managed it all. They did fully as much work for Grind and Crushem; for, after all, only a certain amount can be done with one machine, and there was always one of them with her foot on the treadle; while the little house was nearly scrubbed into holes, and everything about it cleaned until it shone again. The old woman vanished; chores became a thing of the past; and Polly’s delicate cooking gave Karl, as he declared, a new pleasure in eating. Then began the old story of the loaves and fishes, inevitable multiplication. One day Louis brought home the tidings that Frau Anna had a bad headache, so bad that she could not lift her head from her pillow, and the children had no dinner but bread. “I guess I’ll go in and see to ‘em,” said Sally thoughtfully. “Now I’ve got to eatin’ reg’lar meals again, it seems pretty bad to have nothin’ but bread for dinner.” She went accordingly. There was in the cupboard a piece of cold, cooked beef about four inches square, an onion, and three raw Irish potatoes; for, as Frau Anna explained, she had not been able to go out to buy anything that day.