"Yes, Star."
"That is twenty-four dollars a month; that will keep me in clothing, and plenty for the children to eat."
"Yes, Star," said the mother, as she rose from her chair, with the suckling still hanging to her breast, and walked across the floor, for no purpose whatever, other than that perhaps the performance might dissolve her cold brooding into a semblance of interest in her material welfare. Then she sat down again and rocked to and fro with the rockerless chair, as a jolting dose of soothing syrup for the pain that had suddenly twisted the child's mouth into a howling breadth.
"And mother," continued Star, "the woman gave me the address of a rich family that wants a maid for a young lady, or a cook, or something else, I forget which."
"Yes, Star."
"And she said I could get the job if I go at once."
"Yes, Star," responded the mother between the infinitisimal intervals of the noise of the thumping chair and the yelling child.
"And mother, she said they live in a grand house as big as all our forty shanties here put together."
"Yes," said the mother.
"And she said it was lit up by electric lights, and had steam heat, and furniture as grand as any place, mother—as grand as any king's palace, mother. I am going tomorrow, mother."