"You do not answer me," said the wretch. "Well, well; when you have no bread to eat—no work—no money to pay your rent—and nothing but the workhouse before you, you will think better of it and come to me."
Thus saying, the old hag turned abruptly into her own den, the door of which she banged violently.
With her heart fluttering like a little bird in its cage, poor Ellen hastened to her own miserable abode.
She placed the food upon the table, but would not touch it until her father should return. She longed for a spark of fire, for she was so cold and so wretched—and even in warm weather misery makes one shiver! But that room was as cold as an ice-house—and the unhappiness of that poor girl was a burden almost too heavy for her to bear.
She sate down, and thought. Oh! how poignant is meditation in such a condition as hers. Her prospects were utterly black and hopeless.
When she and her father had first taken those lodgings, she had obtained work from a "middle-woman." This middle-woman was one who contracted with great drapery and upholstery firms to do their needle-work at certain low rates. The middle-woman had to live, and was therefore compelled to make a decent profit upon the work. So she gave it out to poor creatures like Ellen Monroe, and got it done for next to nothing.
Thus for some weeks had Ellen made shirts—with the collars, wristbands, and fronts all well stitched—for four-pence the shirt.
And it took her twelve hours, without intermission, to make a shirt: and it cost her a penny for needles, and thread, and candle.
She therefore had three-pence for herself!