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So Daisy, who was now nearly sixteen, went to sit with other young women in a row: some were older than she, one or two younger; but no one of the others was lovely to look at or had a joyous face.

II

After about an hour’s waiting in an atmosphere of sour garments disguised by cheap perfumery, employment came to Daisy in the stout form of a middle aged, showily dressed woman, decisive in speech, and rich, apparently, who desired a waitress.

“I want something cheap and green,” she explained to the manager. “I form ’em then to suit myself.” Her eyes, small, quick, and decided, flashed along the row of candidates, and selected Daisy without so much as one glance at the next girl beyond. “There’s my article, Mrs. Goldsmith,” she said.

Mrs. Goldsmith shook her head and whispered something.

The wealthy lady frowned. “Seventy-five?” she said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“My Gott!” exclaimed Mrs. Goldsmith. “Ain’t she fresh? Loog at her. Ain’t she a fresh, sweet liddle-thing?”

“Well, she looks fresh enough,” said the lady, “but I don’t go on looks. But I’ll soon find out if what you say is true. And then I’ll pay you seventy-five. Meanwhile”–as Mrs. Goldsmith began to protest–“there’s nothing in it–nothing in it.”

“But I haf your bromice–to pay up.”

The lady bowed grandly.

“You are sugh an old customer–” Thus Mrs. Goldsmith explained her weakness in yielding.

Daisy, carrying her few possessions in a newspaper bundle, walked lightly at the side of her new employer.

“My name is Mrs. Holt, Daisy,” said the lady. “And I think we’ll hit things off, if you always try to do just what I tell you.”

Daisy was in high spirits. It was wonderful to have found work so easily and so soon. She was to receive three dollars a week. She could not understand her good fortune. Again and again Mrs. Holt’s hard eyes flicked over the joyous, brightly colored young face. Less often an expression not altogether hard accompanied such surveys. For although Mrs. Holt knew that she had found a pearl among swine, her feelings of elation were not altogether free from a curious and most unaccustomed tinge of regret.

“But I must get you a better dress than that,” she said. “I want my help to look cared for and smart. I don’t mean you’re not neat and clean looking; but maybe you’ve something newer and nicer in your bundle?”

“Oh, yes,” said Daisy. “I have my Sunday dress. That is almost new.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Holt, “I’ll have a look at it. This is where I live.”

She opened the front door with a latch-key; and to Daisy it seemed as if paradise had been opened–from the carved walnut rack, upon which entering angels might hang their hats and coats, to the carpet upon the stair and the curtains of purple plush that, slightly parted, disclosed glimpses of an inner and more sumptuous paradise upon the right–a grand crayon of Mrs. Holt herself, life-size, upon an easel of bamboo; chairs and sofas with tremendously stuffed seats and backs and arms, a tapestry-work fire-screen–a purple puppy against a pink-and-yellow ground.

“I’ll take you up to your room right off,” said Mrs. Holt, “and you can show me your other dress, and I’ll tell you if it’s nice enough.”

So up they went three flights. But it was in no garret that Daisy was to sleep. Mrs. Holt conducted her into a large, high-ceilinged, old-fashioned room. To be sure, it was ill lighted and ill ventilated–giving on a court; but its furniture, from the marble-topped wash-stand to the great double bed, was very grand and overpowering. Daisy could only gape with wonder and delight. To call such a room her own, to earn three dollars a week–with a golden promise of more later on if she proved a good girl–it was all very much too wonderful to be true.

“Now, Daisy, let me see your Sunday dress–open the bundle on the bed there.”