"Two cents, did you say? But that's no price!"
"So I thought."
"How many could a woman make in a day, Madge, of those silk scarfs?"
"I don't know—I suppose, a dozen."
"A dozen, I was told, is a fair day's work," Mr. Dillwyn said. "They do more, but it is by working on into the night."
"Good patience! Twenty-five cents for a hard day's work!" said Mrs. Wishart. "A dollar and a half a week! Where is bread to come from, to keep them alive to do it?"
"Better die at once, I should say," echoed Madge.
"Many a one would be glad of that alternative, I doubt not," Mr. Dillwyn went on. "But there is perhaps an old mother to be taken care of, or a child or two to feed and bring up."
"Don't talk about it!" said Mrs. Wishart. "It makes me feel blue."
"I must risk that. I want you to think about it. Where is help to come from? These are the people I was thinking of, when I asked you what was to be done with our poor."