“Excuse me, Miss, but do you know of any lady who wants a seamstress?” asked a timid, hesitating voice.
Lulu Raymond was the person addressed. She and Max had just alighted from the Woodburn family carriage—having been given permission to do a little shopping together—and she had paused upon the pavement for a moment to look after it as it rolled away down the street with her father, who had some business matters to attend to in the city that afternoon, and had appointed a time and place for picking the children up again to carry them home.
Tastefully attired, rosy, and bright with health and happiness, Lulu’s appearance was in strange contrast to that of the shabbily dressed girl, with pale, pinched features that wore an expression of patient suffering, who stood by her side.
“Were you speaking to me?” Lulu asked, turning quickly at the sound of the voice, and regarding the shrinking figure with pitying eyes.
“Yes, Miss, if you’ll excuse the liberty. I thought you looked kind, and that maybe your mother might want some one to do plain sewing.”
“I hardly think she does, but I’ll ask her when I go home,” replied Lulu. “Are you the person who wants the work?”
“Yes, Miss; and I’d try to give satisfaction. I’ve been brought up to the use of my needle, and the sewing machine too. And—and”—in a choking voice—“I need work badly; mother’s sick, and we’ve only what I can earn to depend on for food and clothes, and doctor, and medicine, and to pay the rent.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Lulu, hastily taking out her purse.
“You are very kind, Miss; but I’m not asking charity,” the girl said, shrinking back, blushing and shamefaced.
“Of course not, you don’t look like a beggar,” returned Lulu with warmth. “But I’d be glad to help you in some suitable way. Where do you live?”