The tailor looked at her again. He saw, from her gentle manners and appearance, that she was a lady, guessed from her dress that she was a widow, and knew by her errand that she was self-dependent, unprotected; so there existed no earthly reason why a coarse-minded, craven-hearted man, who spent his whole days in smirking, cringing, deprecating and deferring to others, should not refresh his soul by a little impertinence and insolence to so safe a subject as a _poor lady_. “And you ever make vests?” he asked, in a short, curt, insolent manner. “No,” answered Zuleime, “but I sew very neatly—unusually neatly, my patrons say—and as you cut and baste the work, very little instruction would enable me to make them very nicely.” “I shan’t trust you! I have had quite enough in my time of giving out work to people who know nothing about the business.” It was not the words so much as the insulting manner of the man that shocked the gentle-hearted woman, and she turned and left the shop, ready to sink, not so much under disappointment, though she knew not where to turn for work or money or food—but under the deeply humiliating sense of the rudeness and vulgarity to which she was forced to expose herself in this bitter struggle through the world. She walked slowly, thoughtfully, sadly away from the shop, till the sudden thought of her child’s awakening, electrified her, and she hurried on until she reached home. She obtained her key from the landlady, in the basement, and entered the passage. It was then that she heard a very sweet, gentle voice, apparently near her room door, saying— “Don’t cry, baby! _poor_ baby, don’t cry! mother will come by-and-by! _Dear pretty_ baby, don’t cry! I’ll bring you all my playthings, and a little dog, when I can get in.” And then, in the pause of the child’s wails and broken talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once, and there, kneeling before her door, and talking through the key-hole, was a sweet little dark haired girl of about five years old, and dressed in deep mourning. Her hat of the finest Leghorn straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it—the fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cambric tucker, the delicate shoes and stockings—the gentle, refined manner, all bespoke a child of a different rank from those seen in that neighborhood, and especially in that house. The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had entered her room, and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child indeed, with fair skin and delicate features—jet black hair, eyebrows and eyelashes, and large, mournful, dark gray eyes. “You are a dear little girl. What is your name? asked Zuleime, pulling her around her waist caressingly. “Ida ——; see what a nice new black dress I’ve got. They gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too. You’ve got a black dress on, too! Is your father dead?”