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Daisy, obedient and swift (but blushing, for she knew that her dress would look very humble in such surroundings), untied the string and opened the parcel. But it was not the Sunday dress that caught Mrs. Holt’s eye. She spoke in the voice of one the most of whose breath has suddenly been snatched away.

“And what,” she exclaimed, “for mercy sake, is that?“

“That,” said Daisy, already in an anguish lest it be taken from her, “is my doll.”

Mrs. Holt took the doll in her hands and turned it over and back. She looked at it, her head bent, for quite a long time. Then, all of a sudden, she made a curious sound in the back of her throat that sounded like a cross between a choke and a sob. Then she spoke swiftly–and like one ashamed:

“You won’t suit me, girlie–I can see that. Wrap up those things again, and–No, you mustn’t go back to Goldsmith’s–she’s a bad woman–you wouldn’t understand. Can’t you go back home? No?… They need what you can earn…. Here, you go to Hauptman’s employment agency and tell him I sent you. No…. You’re too blazing innocent. I’ll go with you. I’ve got some influence. I’ll see to it that he gets a job for you from some one who–who’ll let you alone.”

“But,” said Daisy, gone quite white with disappointment, “I would have tried so hard to please you, Mrs. Holt. I—-“

“You don’t know what you’re saying, child,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt. “I–I don’t need you. I’ve got trouble here.” She touched what appeared to be an ample bosom. “One-half’s the real thing and one-half’s just padding. I’m not long for this world, and you’ve cost me a pretty penny, my dear; but it’s all right. I don’t need you!”

So Mrs. Holt took Daisy to Hauptman’s agency. And he, standing in fear of Mrs. Holt, found employment for her as waitress in a Polish restaurant. Here the work was cruel and hard, and the management thunderous and savage; but the dangers of the place were not machine made, and Daisy could sleep at home.

III

Daisy had not been at work in the restaurant many weeks before the proprietor perceived that business was increasing. The four tables to which Daisy attended were nearly always full, and the other waitresses were beginning to show symptoms of jealousy and nerves. More dishes were smashed; more orders went wrong; and Daisy, a smooth, quick, eager worker, was frequently delayed and thrown out of her stride, so to speak, by malicious stratagems and tricks. But Linnevitch, the proprietor, had a clear mind and an excellent knowledge of human nature. He got rid of his cash-girl, and put Daisy in her place; and this in face of the fact that Daisy had had the scantiest practice with figures and was at first dismally slow in the making of change. But Linnevitch bore with her, and encouraged her. If now and then she made too much change, he forgave her. He had only to look at the full tables to forget. For every nickel that she lost for him, she brought a new customer. And soon, too, she became at ease with money, and sure of her subtraction. Linnevitch advanced her sufficient funds to buy a neat black dress; he insisted that she wear a white turnover collar and white cuffs. The plain severity of this costume set off the bright coloring of her face and hair to wonderful advantage. In the dingy, ill-lighted restaurant she was like that serene, golden, glowing light that Rembrandt alone has known how to place among shadows. And her temper was so sweet, and her disposition so childlike and gentle, that one by one the waitresses who hated her for her popularity and her quick success forgave her and began to like her. They discussed her a great deal among themselves, and wondered what would become of her. Something good, they prophesied; for under all the guilelessness and simplicity she was able. And you had to look but once into those eyes to know that she was string-straight. Among the waitresses was no very potent or instructed imagination. They could not formulate the steps upon which Daisy should rise, nor name the happy height to which she should ascend. They knew that she was exceptional; no common pottery like themselves, but of that fine clay of which even porcelain is made. It was common talk among them that Linnevitch was in love with her; and, recalling what had been the event in the case of the Barnhelm girl, and of Lotta Gorski, they knew that Linnevitch sometimes put pleasure ahead of business. Yet it was their common belief that the more he pined after Daisy the less she had to fear from him.