It was now near midnight following one of the hardest days of the season, and all the weary toilers save these two had left the work-room to seek the rest so sorely needed.
“Floy,” said Hetty aloud.
They had long since taken up the habit of calling each other by these familiar names.
“Well, Hetty?” and the girl, who was busily engaged in looping up the folds of rich silk and lace on an over-skirt, with delicate blossoms wonderfully real in their loveliness, looked up from her work with a faint smile.
“Do give that up for to-night; you’ve done too much to-day by a great deal.”
“But it can’t be helped while so many are hurrying us so for their dresses, and this will be done now in a few minutes.”
“The heartless creatures!” ejaculated Hetty. “There’s nothing hardens the heart like love of dress, Floy; I’d rather be—what I am—worked half to death—than a butterfly of fashion. Well, if you’re determined to finish that, I must come and help you.”
“Thank you,” said Floy. “What makes you so good to me, Hetty?”
“It’s odd, isn’t it? but somehow I took a fancy to you the first minute I set eyes on you.”