“There’s a dollar, if that will do you any good,” said Adelaide, thrusting a bill into Alice’s hand, and then hurrying away.
She had no intention of cheating Alice out of her pay, but she hated to part with her money, and on her way home she thought of so many things which she must have, that she began at last to wonder if Alice would not just as soon take something from the house, bread, or potatoes, or soap—she heard old Peggy boasting of having made a barrel full, and soap was a very useful article—she’d ask Alice when she brought the dress! and, feeling a good deal of confidence in her plan, she stopped at Mr. Howland’s store, where she spent a portion of her remaining six dollars for white kids, satin ribbon, blonde lace and so forth.
As she was leaving the store, she met Mr. Howland, who accompanied her to the door, casually asking if she knew how Mr. Warren was getting along.
“It is some time since I was there,” he said, “and I think of going round to-night. As he is sick, they may perhaps be suffering.”
“Oh, no, they are not,” Adelaide quickly rejoined, “I have just been to see them myself. Mr. Warren is no worse, and they are doing very well. I gave Alice some work, too, paying her in advance.”
“So, on the whole, you think I had better spend the evening with you,” said Mr. Howland, playfully interrupting her, as he saw that one of his clerks was desirous of speaking to him.
“Most certainly I do,” she answered laughingly, as she passed into the street.
And so that night, while her father slept, poor Alice Warren trimmed her little lamp, and with a heavy heart sat down to work upon the costly garment, every thread of which seemed interwoven with memories of the mother, who had bought it for her. Occasionally, too, she lifted up her head, and listened for the footsteps which now but seldom came that way, for only once had Mr. Howland been there since her father’s illness, and brushing away a tear, she sighed:
“He does not care for such as we.”
That afternoon she had heard the rumor that the proud Miss Huntington was to be his wife, and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren, could ever be aught to him, had never entered her mind, the news affected her painfully, and as she sat alone that night, the world seemed darker, drearier than it had ever been before, while the future home of Richard Howland’s bride looked very pleasant to her.