And dropping a dollar into the man’s hand, Espy seized the valise and rushed away in hot pursuit of a passing street-car. Even at that moment of grief, anxiety, and haste, he remembered with a sharp pang that this sudden departure robbed him of the opportunity to obtain another interview with Floy or to learn her address. During the two hours’ drive his thoughts had been so full of her, their late interview, and plans for securing another, that he found no little difficulty in attending to the small talk of his companions, and was more than once rallied by them upon his absence of mind. It was the more annoying since he was the only gentleman of the party, young Lea being confined to his room that day with a severe cold. Great were the chagrin and disappointment of Carrie when she heard of Espy’s abrupt departure. The others cared less, as she had managed to monopolize almost all his attentions. Floy’s heart meanwhile was in a tumult of mingled emotions--joy that she had heard from Espy’s own lips the assurance of his faithfulness to her, sorrow that duty seemed still to forbid their betrothment. Well was it for her in those days that necessity compelled her to constant employment, and that much thought had to be given to her work. The diversion of her mind from her cares and griefs was further assisted by the occurrences of the next day. It was two hours since the early breakfast at Mrs. Sharp’s, and in the work-room all was life, activity, and bustle: the buzz of three sewing-machines, the busy hum of voices giving and asking instructions, the click of the scissors cutting out garments and their trimmings, making a confusion of sounds. Floy, putting the finishing touches to the rich silk she had fitted yesterday for Mrs. Lea, was wondering if she should be commissioned to carry home this dress, her heart trembling with mingled pleasure and pain at thought of a possible meeting with Espy if sent upon that errand. A loud peal from the door-bell made her start, and set all her nerves tingling, she scarce knew why. “The postman,” said Mrs. Sharp; “more orders, I presume. Here, give it to me, Patsy,” as the little maid appeared with a note in her hand. “Yes, just as I thought. Run back to your work, Patsy. No, make yourself decent first; I won’t have customers driven away by such a fright answering the bell.” With the open note in her hand, Mrs. Sharp hurried into the store to consult with Hetty. “Here’s a note from the Madame--wanting a dress fitted to-day, and made this week; with all this holiday work on our hands, giving us hardly time to breathe! But it’s like her--always choosing my busiest time. Did you ever know it to fail?” “Never! so we ought to be used to it by this time.” “What do you advise?” “Madame is too valuable a customer to lose.” “Yes, indeed.” “I’d send Floy. No one else is competent except yourself.” “That’s true; yes, she’ll have to go, though I don’t know how to spare her here.”