“Yes, it is hard,” answered Eva; and the tears that had been gathering in her eyes flashed over the vivid red of her cheeks, and melted there like dew upon a peach. “I did not expect this—I thought that ladies alone would claim my services.” “You forget,” said her fellow clerk, “that money does not always fall to the wise or the refined.” “But a person like that, coarse, unfeeling, and insolent—what right has she to money, while I have nothing?” “Ah! there is the old story, restless rebellion against things as they are and must be. The law gives her a fortune which some one else has earned—it is the chance of her birth; but nature withheld from her many things far more precious than wealth, which she has lavished on—on others, perhaps.” Eva blushed, and a smile quivered over her lips. This half-suppressed compliment soothed her wounded pride a little, but she soon broke into impatience again. “Is there no way in which a poor girl can support herself without meeting these bitter insults?” she exclaimed. The man shook his head. “Do intelligence, refinement, noble aspirations, go for nothing when joined with honest labor?” “Yes, child, as they enchance the value of that labor.” “And labor is slavery,” murmured the girl, looking toward the broad window, against which the sunshine was breaking in bright waves of silver. “That girl is her own mistress—can go where she will—say what she pleases—wound others if she likes, without rebuke or compunction.” “Would you call _that_ a privilege?” questioned the man, who listened with a grave smile. “No, no! I could not do it. Knowing how keenly a poor girl can feel, no amount of prosperity could induce me to wound one as—as that girl has hurt me. If I were rich—” “Well, if you were rich? What then?” “I would think of others, use my wealth to make others prosperous. No girl with a soul should be shut up in a great room like this, to show off garments for happier woman to wear.” “Yet it is only a little time since you were so glad to come here.” Eva’s face changed and the cloud was swept from it as if by a flash of lightning. She reached forth her hand. “You think me impatient, and so I am; ungrateful—but that I am not. I was glad to come here—_so_ glad! The sweetest hour of my life will be that in which I carry home my first week’s wages, and see those poor, dear faces brighten with a sight of the money. How can I be so unreasonable? Forgive me!” CHAPTER III. A HUMBLE HOME.