Heaven knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor. Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and industrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little or no employment—at most of the houses where she applied she was told that—“We never give out needle-work,” or that, “The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy habit, when it does not compromise justice and mercy—when it does not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be different in our several callings; but for Heaven’s sake, if we can possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to those who need, or who ask it of us. They may be suffering for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader, this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was Zuleime’s case _then_ a solitary one. Nor would it be such _now_. There are many poor women, in every city, who have not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And this is one of the causes:—There are hundreds of ladies, of the middle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for themselves and children, more genteel than needful; or in furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them suffering for a part of this very work with which _they_ are killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of innutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from month to month, or from year to year, according to their relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I think it is rather _non_-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter, and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her personal appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, bright, hungry looking eyes—her hands wasted to semi-transparency. Her only gown, her black bombazine, was rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon even this account. The present was wretched—the future hopeless.