Walter was the brother, the only "son and heir of our family." He had just returned from a lady-killing Niagara tour, and met Athalia for the first time at the tea table. It was the last time, the sisters said, that he should meet her there. She went home that evening; she had finished her job and received her poor pay. That was one of Mrs. Morgan's virtues; she paid the stipulated price to those who worked for her.
What daggers, scorpions' stings, and poisoned darts, poor Athalia and Walter would have felt, while he stood over her at the piano, if they could have felt the glances of scornful, angry eyes. How he was taken to task afterwards for paying attention to "a sewing girl," particularly for waiting upon her home.
How he justified himself. Just as though there was need of it. But aristocracy had stept down to the level of one who
"Plied her needle and thread,
In poverty, hunger, and toil;"
Who sang with a voice of saddening song,
Of the home on her own native soil.
Of the spring and the brook where it flow'd,
Of the plums and the pears where they grew,
Of the meadows and hay lately mow'd.
And the roses all dripping with dew.
And her heart it went journeying back,
While her fingers plied needle and thread,
Till the morning came in at a crack,
Where it found her still out of her bed.
Shall I ever work thus like a slave,
With the scorn of the rich and the proud?
For they think that a seamstress must crave
For the work that is making her shroud.
Walter justified, apologised, for he was bound in the iron fetters, "polite custom."
"I found," says he, "when I came home, a beautiful, well-dressed, well-behaved girl, to all appearance a young lady, at your tea table."
"Well, she shall never come there again. I always told mother that she might know better than to bring her to the table; and the pert minx, if she knew her place, would never try to stick herself into genteel company. So much for having a dress-maker in the house."