“I know it, dear. You never find fault, and that makes me so much the more ready to better your fare when I can. And that reminds me—Miss Dolhear has got sick and gone home to the country; she that came here, poor thing, to learn dress-making; and her room, on the second floor, front, is empty now, and you shall have it for only one dollar more than you pay now, though I charged her two. Her folks were well off: they used to write and send her money, and I guess she got sick a-eatin’ too much cake and candy. Her room is all stuck up with it. But I’ll have Little Jess clean it out for you, if you’ll take it.”
“Thank you, Miss Scrimp, I do not wish to change. I feel very much at home in my little chamber, and the higher one gets in the city the purer is the air they breathe.”
“Dear, dear! I thought you’d like to change. But you know what you like best. Do let me call Biddy and have some toast made for you.”
“No, thank you, Miss Scrimp. There is plenty before me, I am sure.”
“Dear! dear! That’s just your own nice way always. I never heard a complaint from your lips, and there’s some that are never satisfied.”
And here Miss Scrimp sent a scornful, cross eyed glance down the table. But no one could tell exactly at whom she was looking, so the look didn’t hurt anybody.
As Hattie made no further remark, the usual clatter of knives and forks on slenderly-filled plates was alone heard for a time.
But when Hattie, as usual, arose earliest of all, and went to her room, quite an unusual rush of conversation, and all about her, commenced.
“Such luck! From four dollars a week to ten, and all because she can talk Dutch!” said one—a very plain and a very ignorant girl.
“Ten dollars? How she’ll shine out in silk on Sundays, I’ll bet, and look for a beau as fast as the best of us,” said another. “She couldn’t do it in ten-cent calico. Oh, no, the proud thing!”