"I don't feel it that way," said Agnes in a lofty tone. "But then, I am wery strong. I can heat like anything, whatever I'm a-doing of. There, Connie; don't waste the good food. Drink up yer corffee, and don't lose a scrap o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful waste. Well, now, let me speak. I know quite a different sort o' work that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening I can tell yer all about it."
"What sort of work?" asked Connie.
"Beautiful, refined—the sort as you love. But I am not going to tell yer ef yer give me away."
"What do you mean by that, Agnes?"
"I means wot I say—I'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me."
"Yer mean that I'm to spend all the evening with yer?" asked Connie.
"Yes—that's about it. You are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk. Why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all alone by yer lonesome? You give me a promise. And now I must pay hup, and we'll be off."
"I'll come, o' course," said Connie after brief reflection. "Why shouldn't I?" she added. "There's naught to keep me to home."
The girls left the A.B.C. shop and returned to their work.
Whir! whir! went the big machines. The young heads were bent over their accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which Connie so often looked at went on their way. Slowly—very slowly—the time sped. Would that long day ever come to an end?