VI

It was half past eleven when she stepped into the first agency on her

list, and business was in full tide.

While she stood shrinking by the door the eyes of a dozen women fastened

upon her, each with keen scrutiny. The sensitive color stole into her

delicate cheeks. As the proprietress of the office began to question her,

she felt her courage failing.

"You wish a position?" The woman had a nose like a hawk, and eyes that

held no sympathy. "What do you want? General housework?"

"I should like a position as waitress." Her voice was low and sounded

frightened to herself.

The hawk nose went up contemptuously.

"Better take general housework. There are too many waitresses already."

"I understand the work of a waitress, but I never have done general

housework," she answered with the voice of a gentlewoman, which somehow

angered the hawk, who had trained herself to get the advantage over people

and keep it or else know the reason why.

"Very well, do as you please, of course, but you bite your own nose off.

Let me see your references."

The girl was ready for this.

"I am sorry, but I cannot give you any. I have lived only in one home,

where I had entire charge of the table and dining-room, and that home was

broken up when the people went abroad three years ago. I could show you

letters written by the mistress of that home if I had my trunk here, but

it is in another city, and I do not know when I shall be able to send for

it."

"No references!" screamed the hawk, then raising her voice, although it

was utterly unnecessary: "Ladies, here is a girl who has no references. Do

any of you want to venture?" The contemptuous laugh that followed had the

effect of a warning to every woman in the room. "And this girl scorns

general housework, and presumes to dictate for a place as waitress," went

on the hawk.

"I want a waitress badly," said a troubled woman in a subdued whisper,

"but I really wouldn't dare take a girl without references. She might be a

thief, you know, and then--really, she doesn't look as if she was used to

houses like mine. I must have a neat, stylish-looking girl. No

self-respecting waitress nowadays would go out in the street dressed like

that."

All the eyes in the room seemed boring through the poor girl as she stood

trembling, humiliated, her cheeks burning, while horrified tears demanded

to be let up into her eyes. She held her dainty head proudly, and turned

away with dignity.

"However, if you care to try," called out the hawk, "you can register at

the desk and leave two dollars, and if in the meantime you can think of

anybody who'll give us a reference, we'll look it up. But we never

guarantee girls without references."

The tears were too near the surface now for her even to acknowledge this

information flung at her in an unpleasant voice. She went out of the

office, and immediately,--surreptitiously,--two women hurried after her.

One was flabby, large, and overdressed, with a pasty complexion and eyes

like a fish, in which was a lack of all moral sense. She hurried after the

girl and took her by the shoulder just as she reached the top of the

stairs that led down into the street.

The other was a small, timid woman, with anxiety and indecision written

all over her, and a last year's street suit with the sleeves remodelled.

When she saw who had stopped the girl, she lingered behind in the hall and

pretended there was something wrong with the braid on her skirt. While she

lingered she listened.

"Wait a minute, Miss," said the flashy woman. "You needn't feel bad about

having references. Everybody isn't so particular. You come with me, and

I'll put you in the way of earning more than you can ever get as a

waitress. You weren't cut out for work, any way, with that face and voice.

I've been watching you. You were meant for a lady. You need to be dressed

up, and you'll be a real pretty girl----"

As she talked, she had come nearer, and now she leaned over and whispered

so that the timid woman, who was beginning dimly to perceive what manner

of creature this other woman was, could not hear.

But the girl stepped back with sudden energy and flashing eyes, shaking

off the be-ringed hand that had grasped her shoulder.

"Don't you dare to speak to me!" she said in a loud, clear voice. "Don't

you dare to touch me! You are a wicked woman! If you touch me again, I

will go in there and tell all those women how you have insulted me!"

"Oh, well, if you're a saint, starve!" hissed the woman.

"I should rather starve ten thousand times than take help from you," said

the girl, and her clear, horrified eyes seemed to burn into the woman's

evil face. She turned and slid away, like the wily old serpent that she

was.

Down the stairs like lightning sped the girl, her head up in pride and

horror, her eyes still flashing. And down the stairs after her sped the

little, anxious woman, panting and breathless, determined to keep her in

sight till she could decide whether it was safe to take a girl without a

character--yet who had just shown a bit of her character unaware.

Two blocks from the employment office the girl paused, to realize that she

was walking blindly, without any destination. She was trembling so with

terror that she was not sure whether she had the courage to enter another

office, and a long vista of undreamed-of fears arose in her imagination.

The little woman paused, too, eying the girl cautiously, then began in an

eager voice:

"I've been following you."

The girl started nervously, a cold chill of fear coming over her. Was this

a woman detective?

"I heard what that awful woman said to you, and I saw how you acted. You

must be a good girl, or you wouldn't have talked to her that way. I

suppose I'm doing a dangerous thing, but I can't help it. I believe you're

all right, and I'm going to try you, if you'll take general housework. I

need somebody right away, for I'm going to have a dinner party to-morrow

night, and my girl left me this morning."

The kind tone in the midst of her troubles brought tears to the girl's

eyes.

"Oh, thank you!" she said as she brushed the tears away. "I'm a stranger

here, and I have never before been among strangers this way. I'd like to

come and work for you, but I couldn't do general housework, I'm sure. I

never did it, and I wouldn't know how."

"Can't you cook a little? I could teach you my ways."

"I don't know the least thing about cooking. I never cooked a thing in my

life."

"What a pity! What was your mother thinking about? Every girl ought to be

brought up to know a little about cooking, even if she does have some

other employment."

"My mother has been dead a good many years." The tears brimmed over now,

but the girl tried to smile. "I could help you with your dinner party,"

she went on. "That is, I know all about setting the tables and arranging

the flowers and favors. I could paint the place-cards, too--I've done it

many a time. And I could wait on the table. But I couldn't cook even an

oyster."

"Oh, place-cards!" said the little woman, her eyes brightening. She caught

at the word as though she had descried a new star in the firmament. "I

wish I could have them. They cost so much to buy. I might have my

washerwoman come and help with the cooking. She cooks pretty well, and I

could help her beforehand, but she couldn't wait on table, to save her

life. I wonder if you know much about menus. Could you help me fix out the

courses and say what you think I ought to have, or don't you know about

that? You see, I have this very particular company coming, and I want to

have things nice. I don't know them very well. My husband has business

relations with them and wants them invited, and of all times for Betty to

leave this was the worst!" She had unconsciously fallen into a tone of

equality with the strange girl.

"I should like to help you," said the girl, "but I must find somewhere to

stay before night, and if I find a place I must take it. I just came to

the city this morning, and have nowhere to stay overnight."

The troubled look flitted across the woman's face for a moment, but her

desire got the better of her.

"I suppose my husband would think I was crazy to do it," she said aloud,

"but I just can't help trusting you. Suppose you come and stay with me

to-day and to-morrow, and help me out with this dinner party, and you can

stay overnight at my house and sleep in the cook's room. If I like your

work, I'll give you a recommendation as waitress. You can't get a good

place anywhere without it, not from the offices, I'm sure. A

recommendation ought to be worth a couple of days' work to you. I'd pay

you something besides, but I really can't afford it, for the washerwoman

charges a dollar and a half a day when she goes out to cook; but if you

get your board and lodging and a reference, that ought to pay you."

"You are very kind," said the girl. "I shall be glad to do that."

"When will you come? Can you go with me now, or have you got to go after

your things?"

"I haven't any things but these," she said simply, "and perhaps you will

not think I am fine enough for your dinner party. I have a little money. I

could buy a white apron. My trunk is a good many miles away, and I was in

desperate straits and had to leave it."

"H'm! A stepmother, probably," thought the kindly little woman. "Poor

child! She doesn't look as if she was used to roughing it. If I could only

hold on to her and train her, she might be a treasure, but there's no

telling what John will say. I won't tell him anything about her, if I can

help it, till the dinner is over."

Aloud she said: "Oh, that won't be necessary. I've got a white apron I'll

lend you--perhaps I'll give it to you if you do your work well. Then we

can fix up some kind of a waitress's cap out of a lace-edged handkerchief,

and you'll look fine. I'd rather do that and have you come right along

home with me, for everything is at sixes at sevens. Betty went off without

washing the breakfast dishes. You can wash dishes, any way."

"Why, I can try," laughed the girl, the ridiculousness of her present

situation suddenly getting the better of other emotions.

And so they got into a car and were whirled away into a pretty suburb. The

woman, whose name was Mrs. Hart, lived in a common little house filled

with imitation oriental rugs and cheap furniture.

The two went to work at once, bringing order out of the confusion that

reigned in the tiny kitchen. In the afternoon the would-be waitress sat

down with a box of water-colors to paint dinner-cards, and as her skilful

brush brought into being dainty landscapes, lovely flowers, and little

brown birds, she pondered the strangeness of her lot.

The table the next night was laid with exquisite care, the scant supply of

flowers having been used to best advantage, and everything showing the

touch of a skilled hand. The long hours that Mrs. Hart had spent

puckering her brow over the household department of fashion magazines

helped her to recognize the fact that in her new maid she had what she was

pleased to call "the real thing."

She sighed regretfully when the guest of honor, Mrs. Rhinehart, spoke of

the deftness and pleasant appearance of her hostess's waitress.

"Yes," Mrs. Hart said, swelling with pride, "she is a treasure. I only

wish I could keep her."

"She's going to get married, I suppose. They all do when they're good,"

sympathized the guest.

"No, but she simply won't do cooking, and I really haven't work enough for

two servants in this little house."

The guest sat up and took notice.

"You don't mean to tell me that you are letting a girl like that slip

through your fingers? I wish I had known about her. I have spent three

days in intelligence offices. Is there any chance for me, do you think?"

Then did the little woman prove that she should have had an _e_ in her

name, for she burst into a most voluble account of the virtues of her new

maid, until the other woman was ready to hire her on the spot. The result

of it all was that "Mary" was summoned to an interview with Mrs. Rhinehart

in the dining-room, and engaged at four dollars a week, with every other

Sunday afternoon and every other Thursday out, and her uniforms furnished.

The next morning Mr. Hart gave her a dollar-bill and told her that he

appreciated the help she had given them, and wanted to pay her something

for it.

She thanked him graciously and took the money with a kind of awe. Her

first earnings! It seemed so strange to think that she had really earned

some money, she who had always had all she wanted without lifting a

finger.

She went to a store and bought a hair-brush and a few little things that

she felt were necessities, with a fifty-cent straw telescope in which to

put them. Thus, with her modest baggage, she entered the home of Mrs.

Rhinehart, and ascended to a tiny room on the fourth floor, in which were

a cot and a washstand, a cracked mirror, one chair, and one window. Mrs.

Rhinehart had planned that the waitress should room with the cook, but the

girl had insisted that she must have a room alone, no matter how small,

and they had compromised on this unused, ill-furnished spot.

As she took off the felt hat, she wondered what its owner would think if

he could see her now, and she brushed a fleck of dust gently from the

felt, as if in apology for its humble surroundings. Then she smoothed her

hair, put on the apron Mrs. Hart had given her, and descended to her new

duties as maid in a fashionable home.

[Illustration]