“See here, Miss Mintstick,” he was saying, “I got this out of the library for my own enjoyment, so just give it up.” “You hateful fellow!” she cried, “you know I can’t bear to be called that, and I’ll just tell mother of you if you don’t stop it.” “Oh, it’s a baby, is it? and mustn’t be teased,” he said jeeringly; whereat Araminta burst into tears, and again threatened to “tell mother of him.” “Come, it’s quite too young to read novels,” he said, with another and successful effort to take it from her. “So are you too, Miss Lucy Ann! There! take that!” she retorted, giving him a resounding slap upon the cheek. Flushing crimson, he seized her by the wrist. “See here, young woman!” he hissed in a tone of concentrated fury. But becoming suddenly aware of Floy’s presence, and that she was standing gazing upon them in disgust and astonishment, he turned shamefacedly away, muttering, “A man can’t stand everything!” and would have beaten a hasty retreat, but encountered his mother in the doorway. “What is the meaning of all this?” she asked sharply. “What are you two quarrelling about? I’m ashamed of you! And the room full of tobacco-smoke, the gas turned on full head! you’ll ruin me!” She turned it lower as she spoke; then catching sight of Floy, now seated on the lounge taking off her gloves, “Don’t mind ’em, Miss Kemper,” she said; “they’re fond of each other for all.” “I’m not a bit fond of Lucian!” whimpered Araminta, “he’s so rude and bearish; so different from the nice young men one reads about in books. He snatched that book away from me, and nearly broke my finger off.” “You look pale, Miss Kemper. I hope you’re not going to be sick,” remarked Mrs. Sharp as Floy rose to leave the room. “We’ll have to be up and at work betimes to-morrow. There are a number of dresses to be finished, and only ourselves to do it, for the other girls won’t be back till Monday.” “It’s only a headache and the tobacco-smoke, I think,” Floy answered in a patient tone. “I’ll go up and lie down on my bed, and perhaps it will pass off.” And so the weary round of ceaseless toil was to begin to-morrow! Ah, well! she would struggle on in hope; perhaps better days would come. And to-morrow would be Saturday, the next the blessed day of rest, God’s own gift to the toil-worn and weary. Mrs. Sharp, Hetty, and Floy had need of it after the labors of the intervening day; the last-named more especially, as having feebler powers of endurance than the other two. Lucian and Araminta were pressed into the service, but, with their whimpering, dawdling ways, proved of small assistance. John was a far more efficient aid; ran the sewing-machine for hours, doing the work well, and lightening their labors with his cheery good-nature and innocent jests. As the clock told the hour of midnight Floy stuck the needle in her work and began to fold it up.