But Zuleime, who managed to exist upon coarse food, could not endure gross food, and she would turn away from such, scarcely able to conceal the sickness the very odor so appetizing to a Dutch stomach, excited in hers. Still her refusal of the viands was couched in words so gentle and grateful, as never to offend her landlady. Some of my readers may wonder why Zuleime did not do her washing, water-drawing, etc., with her own hands, and take the money paid for having those things done, and buy better food? Because, for one reason, she had not the requisite physical strength or skill—and besides, perhaps, she shrank from the exposure necessarily incurred in these labors. She had not in these two years, forgotten the delicacy and refinement in which she had been nurtured. On the contrary, everything in her appearance and manners, betrayed the gentle-woman. She had but one dress in the world—all the others had been cut up to make clothes for her little girl. Her sole gown was black bombazine, which she had worn daily for nearly two years—yet so good was its original quality, and so well had it been preserved, that it was now neither rusty nor threadbare. It was shaken out and hung up every night, and well brushed and sponged every week. This dress, with the little inside ‘kerchief of linen, was always neat and lady-like. Zuleime’s fine needle-work gave out—as she knew it would—and she found herself without employment, or funds. It was then that Bertha and Wilhelmina Erhmientraut, the daughters of her landlord, told her of a German clothier on Main street, who had advertised for a number of needle-women to make vests. Zuleime confessed her total ignorance of that branch of needle-work. But the kind German girls promised that if she would procure the work, they would give her some instructions how it should be done. Zuleime gratefully accepted their offer, and prepared to set out on her long walk by donning the little black bonnet and shawl, as neat and as well preserved as her dress had been. She could not further tax the kindness of her landlord’s family by leaving her child in their care, she had been obliged to put the little one to sleep, and lock it up in her room, only leaving her key with her landlady—“in case anything should happen” while she was gone. It was a long, weary tramp to Main street, where the clothier’s store was situated. When she entered the show-shop and made her business known, she was directed into a back room, where a man, behind a long table, was engaged in cutting out garments—and many bundles of cut out but unmade clothes, tied around with skeins of thread, lay piled up at one end. Zuleime walked up to this table. The foreman, as he appeared to be, laid down his shears and looked up, saying deferentially— “What did you wish to look at, madam? Mr. Schneider, attend this lady.” “You are in error. I do not wish to look at your wares. You advertised work to give out; can I have some?”