Miss Scrimp was quite disarmed by the turn that Hattie Butler had given to her proposition. She had been all ready to sneer out that “the richer some folks grew the meaner they got,” but our heroine killed the thought before it could be spoken.
And so Hattie got off to her work at her usual hour without a change of rooms or a quarrel on the subject, though Miss Scrimp had set her mind on having one or the other.
The letter she had written in reply to Mr. W——, his own inclosed in the same envelope to show him that she would never keep such a missive for others to see, even by chance, as she explained in a few well-chosen words on the back of it, was in her pocket, and she had made up her mind to give it to him, unseen in his office, when she could make some excuse for going there.
She arrived at the bindery at her usual hour, and went at once to her table, hardly daring to look around, lest he should cast his inquiring gaze upon her.
She had left work unfinished there the night before, and with a feeling of relief that she had not seen him when coming in—for Mr. W—— had, with manly delicacy, kept back—she went to work.
A step startled her soon after, and a flush was on her face as it came near her, but the good-natured voice of Mr. Jones, the foreman, reassured her, and she answered a question of his in regard to the title on some finished work promptly and pleasantly.
“The boss,” thus he always alluded to Mr. W——, “don’t look well this morning. He was here very early—stood at the door when I came to unlock it,” continued Mr. Jones. “I suppose, like most young single men nowadays, he keeps late hours, and they don’t agree with him. For my part, home is dear to me with what is in it, the blessed wife and baby; so my hours are regular, my sleep sound, and my appetite just what it ought to be.”
Having thus relieved his mind, Mr. Jones went on about his business, little thinking that Hattie Butler knew better than he why Mr. W—— did not look well that morning.
For anxiety and suspense are death to sleep.
And Hattie thought, sorrowfully, if suspense made him feel and look so ill, the keen arrow of hopeless disappointment might work even a greater change in his usually cheerful and happy face. Therefore she dreaded to hand to him the letter containing her decision, while she knew that the sooner it was in his hands the better it would be for both of them.