CHAPTER IX.
"I DON'T think I've seen anything of Lizzy Glenn for a week," remarked Berlaps to his man Michael one day during the latter part of December. "Has she anything out?"
"Yes. She has four of our finest shirts."
"How long since she took them away?"
"It's over a week—nearly ten days."
"Indeed! Then she ought to be looked after. It certainly hasn't taken her all this time to make four shirts."
"Well, I don't know. She gets along, somehow, poorly enough," replied Michael. "She's often been a whole week making four of them."
While this conversation was going on, the subject of it entered. She came in with a slow, feeble step, and leaned against the counter as she laid down the bundle of work she had brought with her. Her half-withdrawn veil showed her face to be very pale, and her eyes much sunken. A deep, jarring cough convulsed her frame for a moment or two, causing her to place her hand almost involuntarily upon her breast, as if she suffered pain there.
"It's a good while since you took these shirts out, Lizzy," said Berlaps, in a tone meant to reprove her for the slowness with which she worked.