He watched the tremulous signing of the name, Louise Lenoir, and noted the whiteness of the hand that wrote it, with undisguised curiosity, and then Mrs. Lenoir, receiving her order for so many yards of material, took her departure. From that day it became in some way an understanding that whatever changes were made from time to time in the number of workpeople on the establishment, Mrs. Lenoir's services were always to be retained. For twelve years had she been employed by the firm, and had been found faithful and attentive to her duties, the performance of which provided her with the barest subsistence. The contractor, during those years, never omitted to address a few words to her if he happened to see her in Mr. Williams's dingy office. Once she was sick, and unable to work, and this coming to his ears, he sent her provisions and a small sum of money. What sympathetic chord in his nature Mrs. Lenoir had touched was a mystery which he did not, perhaps could not, reveal. It may have pleased him that she, a lady, as he was satisfied in his mind she was, should be dependent upon him for subsistence. He made use of her occasionally at his dinner-parties at Lancaster Gate--for this once common man entertained the magnates of the land--when some phase of social politics was being discussed, referring to the circumstance that among his workpeople was a lady who earned probably twelve shillings a week, and whose beauty and education would in her earlier days have fitted her for a duke's establishment.
She sits now in her poorly furnished attic, stitching steadily through the hours. It is not contractor's work upon which her fingers are busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, and appears to take more than ordinary interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock at night before the last stitches are put in. She sets aside her needle and thread and spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes upon it in silence for many minutes, standing with her thin white fingers interlaced before her. Once or twice she pats it softly as though it contained a living form, and once she kneels by the bed, and buries her face in the soft folds of the dress, kissing it, and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress over her arm, steps softly downstairs. The house is still and quiet, not a soul but herself is stirring. She pauses at a door on the second landing, and listens, hearing no sound.
"May I come in?" she whispers.
There is no reply, and she turns the handle of the door.
"Oh, who is there?" cries a frightened voice in the dark.
"It is only I, Lizzie," replies Mrs. Lenoir; "I have finished your dress."
The female leaps from the bed with an exclamation of delight, and quickly lights a candle. Then it is seen that the room is but slightly better furnished than that of Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female occupant is young and fair.
"I left my door unlocked," says the girl, "because you said the dress would be finished some time to-night. I thought you would bring it in. How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir!"
A graceful figure has Lizzie, and bright and full of joy are the eyes which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver-grey barege, soft and pretty, with ribbons and bits of lace and everything else about it that art and fancy can devise to render it attractive. Early to-morrow morning Lizzie starts for an excursion into the country--an excursion lasting from morning to night--and as Some One who is constantly in Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a very particular desire to appear to the best advantage.
"How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir," she repeats; "may I try it on?"