Without a moment's hesitation, Barbara said in response-- “What do you do all day in London?” “Sew, sew, sit and sew, from morning to night,” answered Alice. “No sooner one thing out of your hands, than another in them, so that you never feel, for all you do, that you've done anything! The world is just as greedy of your work as before. I sometimes wish,” she went on, with a laugh that had a touch of real merriment in it, “that ladies were made with hair like a cat, I am so tired of the everlasting bodice and skirt!--Only what would become of us then! It would only be more hunger for less weariness!--It's a downright dreary life, miss!” “Have a care!” said Barbara solemnly, and Alice laughed. “You see,” she said, and paused a moment as if trying to say _Barbara_, “I'm used to think of ladies as if they were a different creation from us, and it seems rude to call you--_Barbara_!” She spoke the name with such a lingering sweetness as made its owner thrill with a new pleasure. “It seems,” she went on, “like presuming to--to--to stroke an angel's feathers!” “And much I'd give for the angel,” cried Barbara, “that wouldn't like having his feathers stroked by a girl like you! He might fly for me, and go--where he'd have them singed!” “Then I _will_ call you Barbara; and I will answer _any_ question you like to put to me!” “And your mother, I daresay, is rather trying when you come home?” said Barbara, resuming her examination, and speaking from experience. “Mothers are--a good deal!” “Well, you see, miss--Barbara, my mother wasn't used to a hard life like us, and Artie--that's my brother--and I have to do our best to keep her from feeling it; but we don't succeed very well--not as we should like to, that is. Neither of us gets much for our day's work, and we can't do for her as we would. Poor mamma likes to have things nice; and now that the money she used to have is gone--I don't know how it went: she had it in some bank, and somebody speculated with it, I suppose!--anyhow, it's gone, and the thing can't be done. Artie grows thinner and thinner, and it's no use! Oh, miss, I know I shall lose him! and when I think of it, the whole world seems to die and leave me in a brick-field!” She wept a moment, very quietly, but very bitterly. “I know he does his very best,” she resumed, “but she won't see it! She thinks he might do more for her! and I'm sure he's dying!” “Send him to me,” said Barbara; “I'll make him well for you.” “I wish I could, miss--I mean _Barbara!_--Oh, ain't there a lot of nice things that can't ever be done!” “Does your mother do nothing to help?” “She don't know how; she 'ain't learned anything like us. She was brought up a lady. I remember her saying once she ought to 'a' been a real lady, a lady they say _my lady_ to!” “Indeed! How was it then that she is not?” “I don't know. There are things we don't dare ask mamma about. If she had been proud of them, she would have told us without asking.”