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"Perhaps I will, about New Year's, and let him spend a few days with you."

"It is a good while to New Year's day, sir. He has never been from home in his life."

"Oh no, ma'am. It's only a few weeks off. And I don't believe he'll be homesick for a day."

"But I shall, Mr. Sharp."

"You?"

"Yes, sir. It is hard to let my child go, and not see him again before New Year's day."

"But you must act the woman's part, Mrs. Gaston. We cannot get through life without some sacrifice of feeling. My mother had to let me go before I was even as old as your boy."

As Mr. Sharp said this, he arose, adding as he did so—

"Come, my little man. I see you are all ready."

Holding back her feelings with a strong effort, Mrs. Gaston took hold of Henry's small, thin hand, bent over him, and kissed his fair young cheek, murmuring in an under tone—

"God be with you, and keep you, my boy!"

Then, speaking aloud, she said—

"Be a good and obedient child, and Mr. Sharp will be kind to you, and let you come home to see me at New Year's."

"Oh, yes. He shall come home then," said the man half indifferently, as he moved toward the door.

Henry paused only to kiss his sister, and then followed after, with his little bundle in his hand. As he was about descending the steps, he turned a last look upon his mother. She saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A moment more, and he was gone.

Little Emma had stood looking wonderingly on while this scene was passing. Turning to her mother with a serious face, as the door closed upon Henry, she said—

"Brother gone, mamma?

"Yes, dear! Brother is gone," sobbed the mother, taking the last child that remained to her, and hugging it passionately to her bosom. It was a long time before she could resume her work, and then so deep was her feeling of desolation, that she could not keep back from her eyelids the blinding tear-drops.

CHAPTER VI
PERKINS' NARRATIVE

THE efforts made by Perkins to find the residence of the stranger proved unavailing. Half suspecting that Michael had deceived him, he returned to the shop of Mr. Berlaps, and asked the direction anew. It was repeated precisely as at first given.

"But I have been there."

"Well, wasn't she at that number?"

"No."

"I don't know any thing about her, then. It often happens that these sewing girls deceive us as to their whereabouts?"

Perkins turned away disappointed, but with his interest in the stranger more than ever excited.

"Who and what can she be? and why do I feel so deep an interest in a perfect stranger, who cannot possibly be any thing to me?" were involuntary questions which the young man endeavored, but in vain, to answer.

That night, as he sat alone in his room, his friend Milford came in and found him with the miniature before alluded to in his hand.

"Whose sweet face is that? Bless me! But she is a lovely creature!" said Milford, as his eye caught a glimpse of the picture which Perkins made a movement to conceal. "Aha! Mr. Sober-sides! have I found you out at last?"

But seeing that his remarks had the effect to disturb, even agitate his friend, he said, in a changed tone—

"Forgive me if I have thoughtlessly jarred a string that vibrates painfully! I knew not that you carried in your heart an unhealed wound."

"And yet I do, my friend. A wound that, I fear, will never cicatrize. Five years have passed since I parted with the living original of this picture. The parting was to be only for a few months. We have never met since, and never will, in this world! The sea gives not up its dead!"

There was a solemn earnestness in the voice of Perkins, that showed how deeply the loss still affected him.

"To me," said his companion, after a pause, "it seems strange that you should never have alluded to this subject, even to your nearest friend."

"I could not, Milford. The effort to keep my feelings under control has been severe enough, without permitting myself to speak of the matter at all. But now that it has been alluded to, I feel inclined to talk upon the subject, if you have any desire to hear."

"I certainly have an anxious desire to hear," replied Milford.

Perkins shaded his face for a few moments with his hand, and sat silent and thoughtful. He then gave, in a calm voice, the following narration:—

"You are aware that, when I came to this city to reside, a few years since, I removed from Troy, New York. That is my native place—or, at least, I had lived there from boyhood up, when I removed to Boston. It is now about ten years since a man named Ballantine, who seemed to possess considerable wealth, made his appearance in the place, accompanied by his daughter, a young girl about thirteen years of age. He came from New Orleans, where his wife had died, and where he was still engaged in business. His object in coming North with his child was to secure for her the advantages of a good seminary. He seemed to prefer Troy, and after remaining there for some months concluded to place his child in the family of a newly-married man, whose wife, somewhat matronly in age and in habits, happened to please his fancy, as a maternal guardian for his child. After making every requisite arrangement in regard to her education, he returned to New Orleans, from which city money to defray her expenses was regularly transmitted. Once a year he came North to visit her, and remained in our town for a few weeks.

"I happened to know the family in which Eugenia Ballantine was placed, and became acquainted with her immediately. I was then but a boy, though some four years her senior, yet old enough to feel for her, from the beginning, something more than a mere fraternal regard. And this sentiment was reciprocal. No place was so pleasant to me as that which was cheered by her presence—no smile warmed my heart like her smile; and I could always see her countenance brighten the moment I came where she was.

"Gradually, as year after year passed, and she still remained among us, our early preference for each other, or rather our early affection, assumed a more serious character. We loved each other; she was just seventeen, and I twenty-one, when I ventured to tell her how deeply, fervently, and purely I loved her. The formal announcement did not seem to create surprise, or agitate her in the least.

"'I never doubted it,' was her innocent reply, looking me tenderly in the face.

"'And do you love me as truly as I love you, Eugenia?' I asked.

"'Have you ever doubted it?' was her quiet response to this, also.

"From that moment I was bewilderingly happy. My family was one of wealth and standing; and I immediately wrote to Mr. Ballantine, who, after sufficient time to make inquiry in regard to the character and position of his daughter's lover, returned a cordial assent to my proposal for her hand. Thus far every thing had gone on as smoothly as a summer sea. We smiled sometimes together at the carping adage, 'The course of true love never did run smooth,' and referred to our own case as a signal instance of its falsity.

"During the summer succeeding our engagement, Mr. Ballantine did not come on to the North. In the ensuing spring, Eugenia's term of instruction closed at the seminary, after having been in Troy nearly live years. She was a tall, beautiful woman, with a mind highly cultivated, and externally accomplished in every respect. I was proud of her beauty and acquirements, at the same time that I loved her with fervent devotion. Spring passed away and summer came; with the advancing season her father arrived from the South. He had not seen his child for two years, during which time she had grown up into a mature and lovely woman. I could forgive the jealous pride with which he would look into her face, and the constant tenderness of his allusions to her when she was away from his side.

"'I do not think, Mr. Perkins,' he would say to me, sometimes, 'that I can let you have my Eugenia, unless you will go South. I am sure I cannot part with her again.'

"'Why not come North, Mr. Ballantine?' I would suggest.

"But he would shake his head as he made some disparaging remark in regard to the North, and playfully insist that I must go with him to the sunny South. It was about the first of September that I asked that our marriage might take place at an early day. But the father shook his head.

"'Be content that the flower is to be yours. Do not become too eager to pluck it from its parent stem, I must have my dear girl with me for at least one winter. In the spring she shall be yours.'

"'Oh, no! Mr. Ballantine,' I said in alarm. 'You are not going to rob me of her for so long a time?' I spoke with warmth.

"'Rob you of her!' ejaculated the father, in seeming half indignation. 'You are unreasonable and very selfish, my dear boy! Here you have had her for five years, and after a little while are to have her for life, and yet are unwilling to give me even the boon of a few short months with my own child. You are not generous!'

"I felt the rebuke, and confessed that I had been moved by too selfish feelings.

"'If you think the time long,' he added, 'all you have to do is to take a packet and come round—we shall welcome you with joy.'

"'That I shall no doubt be compelled to do, for I will not be able to exist for five or six long months away from Eugenia.'

"'So I should suppose. Well, come along; and after I get you there, I will see if I can't inoculate you with a love of southern people, southern habits, and southern manners. I am sanguine that you will like us.'

"'Well, perhaps so,' I said. 'But we will see.'

"The time for the departure of Mr. Ballantine and his daughter was set for the first of October. The few remaining days passed on fleet wings, and then, after completing the necessary arrangements, Eugenia left Troy with her father for New York, thence to go by sea to her native city. I accompanied them down the river, and spent two days with them in the city, previous to the sailing of the ship Empress, in which they were to embark. Our parting was tender, yet full of hope for a speedy meeting. I had already made up my mind to visit New Orleans about January, and remain there during the winter. Our marriage was then to be solemnized.

"After the sailing of the Empress, I returned to Troy, to await the news of her safe arrival at New Orleans. I felt gloomy and desolate, and for my uncompanionable humor received sundry playful jibes or open-rebukes from my friends. In about a week I began to examine the shipping lists of the New York papers, in the hope of seeing some notice of the good ship that contained my heart's best treasure. But no record of her having been spoken at sea met my eyes as I scanned the newspapers day after day with an eager and increasing hope, until four, five, and six weeks had passed away. So much troubled had I now become, that I went down to New York to see the owners of the ship.

"'Has the Empress arrived out yet?' I asked, on entering the counting-room.

"'Not at the latest dates,' was the reply, made in a voice expressive of concern.

"'Is not her passage a very long one?'

"'We should have had news of her arrival ten days ago.'

"'Has she been spoken on the passage?'

"'Never but once, and that after she was three days out.'

"'Is she a good ship?' I next inquired.

"'None better out of this port,' was the prompt answer.

"For ten days I remained in New York, eagerly examining each morning the shipping lists, and referring to all the southern papers to which I could get access. I met during that time but one reference to the Empress, and that was contained in a paragraph alluding to her long passage, and expressing great fears for her safety. This thrilled my heart with a more palpable and terrible fear. On the next day but one, I met in a New Orleans paper a further allusion to her, coupled with the remark that a suspicious-looking vessel, clipper-built, with a black hull, had been seen several times during the past few weeks cruising in the Gulf, and expressing a fear lest she had come across the Empress. I thought this would have driven me beside myself. But why prolong this painful narration by attempting to describe my feelings, as day after day, week after week, and month after month passed, and no tidings came of the missing ship? From the day I parted with Eugenia, I have neither seen her nor heard from her. The noble vessel that bore her proudly away neither reached her destination, nor returned back with her precious freight. All—all found a grave in the dark depths of the ocean.

"It is a terrible thing, my friend, to be thus reft of all you hold dearest in life. If I had seen her touched by the hand of disease, and watched the rose fading from her cheek, leaf after leaf falling away, until death claimed at last his victim, I could have borne the severe affliction with some degree of fortitude. Even if she had been struck down suddenly at my side, there would have been something for the bruised heart to rest upon. But to be taken from me thus! Her fate shrouded in a most fearful mystery! Oh! it is terrible!"

And the young man set his teeth firmly, and clenched his hands, in a powerful struggle with his still o'ermastering feelings. At length he resumed, a calmer voice—

"No matter what terrors or violence attended her death—no matter how deep she lies in the unfathomable sea, her spirit is with the blessed angels, for she was pure and good. This ought to be enough for me. The agonies of a fearful departure are long since over. And why should I recall them, and break up afresh the tender wounds that bleed at the slightest touch? Henceforth I will strive to look away from the past, and onward, in pleasing hope, to that future time when we shall meet where there will be no more parting."

"She must have been a lovely creature indeed," said Milford, some minutes after his friend had ceased, holding, as he spoke, the miniature in his hand, and looking at it attentively.

"She was lovely as innocence itself," was the half abstracted reply.

"Although I never saw her, yet there is an expression in her face that is familiar"—Milford went on to say—"very familiar; but it awakens, I cannot tell why, a feeling of pain. This face is a happy face; and yet t seems every moment as if it would change into a look of sadness—yea, of deep sorrow and suffering."

"This may arise, and no doubt does, from the melancholy history connected with her, that I have just related."

"Perhaps that is the reason," Milford returned, thoughtfully. "And yet I know not how to account for the strangely familiar expression of her face."

"Did you ever see a picture in your life that had not in it some feature that was familiar?" asked Perkins.

"Perhaps not," the friend replied, and then sat in mental abstraction for some moments. He was not satisfied with this explanation, and was searching his memory for the original of that peculiar expression which had struck him so forcibly. He was sure that it did exist, and that he had looked upon it no very long time before. But he tried in vain to fix it. The impression floated still in his mind only as a vague idea.

"There! I have it!" he at length exclaimed, but with something of disappointment in his tones. "I remember that the young seamstress we were speaking of a few days ago, a single glimpse of whose face I obtained, had that very look which strikes me as familiar in this picture. I thought I had seen it somewhere else."

Perkins started, and looked surprised and agitated. But this was only momentary.

"Now you speak of her," he said, calmly, "I remember that I always thought of Eugenia when I saw her, which is no doubt the reason why I have felt strongly interested for the young stranger, who has doubtless seen better days. I related to you, I believe, the adventure I had near the bridge, in which she was concerned?"

"You did. I wonder what in the world takes her over to Charlestown so often? She goes, I believe, almost every day, and usually late in the afternoon. Several persons have spoken of her to me; but none seemed to know her errand there, or to have any knowledge of her whatever."

"There is some mystery connected with her, certainly. This afternoon I went in to make some inquiries in regard to her of Berlaps. I was just in time to hear Michael, his salesman, give her some insulting language, for which I rebuked the fellow sharply."

"Indeed! How did she take it?" said Milford.

"She did not seem to notice him, but glided quickly past, as he bent over the counter toward her, and left the store."

"Did you see her face?"

"No. Her vail was closely drawn, as usual," answered Perkins.

"I don't know why it is, but there is something about this young female that interests me very much. Have you yet learned her name?"

"It is Lizzy Glenn—so I was told at the clothing store for which she works."

"Lizzy Glenn! An assumed name, in all probability."

"Very likely. It sounds as if it might be," said Perkins.

"If I were you," remarked the friend, "I would learn something certain about this stranger; if for no other reason, on account of the singular association of her, in your involuntary thought, with Miss Ballantine. She may be a relative; and, if so, it would afford a melancholy pleasure to relieve her from her present unhappy condition, for the sake of the one in heaven."

"I have already tried to find her; but she was not at the number where Michael said she resided."

"She may not have given him the right direction," said Milford.

"So he pretends to infer. But I would rather believe that Michael has purposely deceived me than that she would be guilty of falsehood."

"If I see her again," said Milford, "I will endeavor, by all means, to discover her place of residence."

"Do, if you would oblige me. It is my purpose not to lose sight of her at our next meeting, be it where it may. Our present conversation has awakened a deeper interest, and stimulated a more active curiosity. I am no blind believer in chance, Milford. I do not regard this meeting with the stranger as something only fortuitous. There is a Providence in all the events of life, and I am now firmly assured that these encounters with the seamstress are not merely accidental, as the world regards accidents, but events in a chain of circumstances that, when complete, will result in positive good. Of the nature of that good—as to who will be blessed or benefitted—I do not pretend to divine. I only feel ready to act my part in the drama of life. I must and will know more about this stranger."

CHAPTER VII
HENRY GASTON LEAVES HOME WITH SHARP

AS little Henry, after parting with his mother, hurried on by the side of Mr. Sharp, who took his way directly across the bridge leading over to Charlestown, where he had left the chaise in which he had ridden from Lexington, a handsome carriage, containing a mother and three happy children, about the age of himself, Emma, and the sister who had just died, drove rapidly by. The children were full of spirits, and, in their thoughtless glee, called out gayly, but with words of ridicule, to the poor, meanly-clan child, who was hurrying on at almost a run beside the man who had become his master. Their words, however, were heeded not by the full-hearted boy. His thoughts were going back to his home, and to his much-loved mother.

This incident is mentioned here, as a striking illustration of the practical working of that system of grinding the poor, especially poor females, by which many men make fortunes, or at least acquire far more than a simple competence for life. That carriage belonged to Berlaps, and those happy children were his. But how could he buy a carriage and horses, and build fine houses, and yet not be able to pay more than the meagre pittance for his work that the reader has seen doled out to his half-starving workwomen? How could his children be fed and clothed sumptuously every day, and the widow, who worked for him from early dawn until the silent watches of midnight, not be able to get wholesome bread and warm garments for her little ones, unless he took more than his just share of the profits upon his goods? If he could only afford to pay seven cents for coarse shirts, and so on, in proportion, up through the entire list of articles made, how came it that the profits on these very articles enabled him to live in elegance, build houses, and keep his own carriage and horses?

Such questions apply not alone to, the single instance of Berlaps, here introduced. They are pertinent in their application to all who add to their profits for the purpose of a grand aggregate, at the expense of reducing the pay, even a few cents, upon the hard-toiling workwoman, whose slender income, at best, is barely sufficient to procure the absolute necessaries of life. This cutting down of women's wages, until they are reduced to an incompetent pittance, is a system of oppression too extensive, alas! in this, as well as many other countries. It is one of the quiet and safe means by which the strong oppress the weak—by which the selfish build themselves up, cruelly indifferent to the sufferings of those who are robbed of a just compensation for their labor. The record of a conversation overheard between two of the class alluded to will illustrate this matter. They were tailors—or, rather, what are sometimes called slop-shop, or clothing men. Let it not be supposed that tailors alone are the oppressors of workwomen. In most of the employments at which females engage, especially such as admit of a competition in labor, advantage is taken of the eager demand for work, and prices reduced to the lowest possible standard. In the eager scramble for monopolizing more than a just share of custom, or to increase the amount of sales by the temptation of extremely moderate rates, the prices of goods are put down to the lowest scale they will bear. If, in doing this, the dealer was content with a profit reduced in some proportion to the increase of his sales, no one would have a right to complain. He would be free to sell his goods at cost, or even below cost, if that suited his fancy. Instead of this, however, the profits on his articles are often the same that they were when prices were ten or fifteen per cent. higher, and he reaps the advantage of a greatly increased sale, consequent upon the more moderate rates at which he can sell. The evil lies in his cutting down his operatives' wages; in taking off of them, while they make no party to his voluntary reduction of prices, the precise amount that he throws in to his customer as a temptation to buy more freely. But to the promised dialogue—

"Money don't come in hand-over-fist, as it ought to come," remarked Grasp, of the flourishing firm of Grasp & Co., Merchant Tailors, of Boston, to the junior partner of the establishment. "The nimble sixpence is better than the slow shilling, you know. We must make our shears eat up cloth a little faster, or we sha'n't clear ten thousand dollars this year by one-third of the sum."

"Although that would be a pretty decent business these times."

"I don't call any business a decent one that can be bettered," replied Grasp, contemptuously.

"But can ours be bettered?"

"Certainly!"

"How?"

"By selling more goods."

"How are we to do that?"

"By putting down the prices, and then making a confounded noise about it. Do you understand?"

"I do. But our prices are very low now."

"True. But we may reduce them still further, and, by so doing, increase our sales to an extent that will make our business net us beyond the present income quite handsomely. But, to do this, we must cut down the prices now paid for making up our clothes. In this way, we shall be able to greatly increase our sales, with but a slight reduction upon our present rates of profit."

"But will our workmen stand it? Our needlewomen, particularly, work very low now."

"They'll have to stand it!" replied Grasp; "most of them are glad to get work at any price. Women, with half a dozen hungry mouths around them, don't stand long to higgle about a few cents in a garment, when there are so many willing to step in and take their places. Besides, what are three or four cents to them on a vest, or pair of pants, or jacket? The difference in a week is small and will not be missed—or, at the worst, will only require them to economize with a little steadier hand; while upon the thousands of garments we dispose of here, and send away to other markets, it will make a most important aggregate on the right side of profit and loss."

"There is no doubt of that," replied the partner, the idea of the aggregate of three or four cents on each garment occupying his mind, and obscuring completely, for a time, every other idea. "Well, I'm with you," he said, after a little while, "in any scheme for increasing profits. Getting along at the rate of only some two or three thousand a year is rather slow work. Why, there's Tights, Screw, & Co., see how they're cutting into the trade, and carrying every thing before them. Tights told me that they cleared twenty thousand dollars last year."

"No doubt of it. And I'll make our house do the same before three years roll over, or I'm no prophet."

"If we are going to play this cutting-down game, we had better begin at once."

"Oh, certainly. The sooner the better. But first, we must arrange a reduced scale of prices, and then bring our whole tribe of workwomen and others down to it at once. It will not do to hold any parley with them. If we do, our ears will be dinned to death with trumped-up tales of poverty and distress, and all that sort of thing, with which we have no kind of concern in the world. These are matters personal to these individuals themselves, and have nothing to do with our business. No matter what prices we paid, we would have nothing but grumbling and complaint, if we allowed an open door on that subject."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that. But, to tell the truth, it is a mystery to me how some of these women get along. Very few make over two dollars a week, and some never go beyond a dollar. Many of them are mothers, and most of them have some one or more dependent upon them. Food, rent, clothes, and fuel, all have to come out of these small earnings By what hocus-pocus it is done, I must confess, puzzles me to determine."

"Oh, as to that," returned Grasp, "it is, no doubt, managed well enough. Provisions, and every thing that poor people stand in need of, are very cheap. The actual necessaries of life cost but little, you know. How far above the condition of the starving Irish, or the poor operatives in the manufacturing portions of England, is that of the people who work for us! Think of that for a moment."

"True-very true," replied the partner. "Well," ha continued, "I think we had better put the screws on to our workwomen and journeymen at once. I am tired of plodding on at this rate."

"So am I. To-night, then, after we close the store, we will arrange our new bill of prices, and next week bring all hands down to it."

And they were just as good as their word. And it happened just as they said—the poor workwomen had to submit.

But we must return from our digression.

The child who, under the practical operation of a system of which the above dialogue gives some faint idea, had to go out from his home at the tender age of ten years, because his mother, with all her hard toil, early and late, at the prices she obtained for her labor, could not earn enough to provide a sufficiency of food and clothes for her children—that child passed on, unheeding, and, indeed, unhearing the jibes of the happier children of his mother's oppressor; and endeavored, sad and sorrowful as he felt, to nerve himself with something of a manly feeling. At Charlestown, Mr. Sharp got into his chaise, and, with the lad he had taken to raise, drove home.

"Well, here is the youngster, Mrs. Sharp," he said, on alighting from his vehicle. "He is rather smaller and punier than I like, but I have no doubt that he will prove willing and obedient."

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. S., who had a sharp chin, sharp nose, and sharp features throughout; and, with all, rather a sharp voice. She had no children of her own—those tender pledges being denied her, perhaps on account of the peculiar sharpness of her temper.

"His name is Henry," replied her husband.

"Henry what?"

"Henry Gaston, I believe. Isn't that it, my boy?"

Henry replied in the affirmative. Mr. Sharp then said—

"You can go in with Mrs. Sharp, Henry. She will tell you what she wants you to do."

"Yes, come along." And Mrs. Sharp turned away as she spoke, and retired into the more interior portion of the house, followed by the boy.

"Mrs. Sharp will tell you what she wants you to do?" Yes, that' tells the story. From this hour the child is to become the drudge—the hewer of wood and drawer of water—for an unfeeling woman, whose cupidity and that of her husband have prompted them to get a little boy as a matter of saving—one who could do the errands for the shop and the drudgery for the house. There was no thought for, and regard toward the child to be exercised. He was to be to them only an economical little machine, very useful, though somewhat troublesome at times.

"I don't see that your mother has killed you with clothes," said Mrs. Sharp to him, after taking his bundle and examining it, and then surveying him from head to foot. "But I suppose she thinks they will do well enough; and I suppose they will. There, do you see that wooden pail there? Well, I want you to take it and go to the pump across the street, down in the next square, and bring it full of water."

Henry took the pail, as directed, and went and got the water. This was the beginning of his service, and was all well enough, as far as it went. But from that time he had few moments of relaxation, except what the night gave him, or the quiet Sabbath. All through the first day he was kept busy either in the house or shop, and, before night, had received two or three reprimands from Mrs. Sharp, administered in no very affectionate tones.

When night came, at last—it had seemed a very long day to him—and he was sent to bed alone, in the dark, he put off his clothes and laid himself down, unable, as he did so, to restrain the tears and sobs. Poor child! How sadly and yearningly did his heart go back to the narrow apartment, every nook and corner of which were dear to him, because his mother's presence made all sunshine there! And bow earnestly did he long to be with her again! But he soon sank away to sleep, from which he did not awaken until the half angry voice of Mrs. Sharp chided him loudly for "lazying it away" in bed until after sunrise. Quickly getting up and dressing himself, he went down and commenced upon a new day of toil. First he had to bring in wood, then to grind the coffee, afterward to bring water from the pump, and then to scour the knives for breakfast. When these were done, he was sent into the shop to see if Mr. Sharp didn't want him, where he found plenty to occupy his attention. The shop was to be sprinkled and swept out, the counter to be dusted, and various other little matters to be attended to, which occupied him until breakfast time. After he had finished this meal, Mrs. Sharp managed to find him plenty to do for some hours, and then her husband laid out work for him, at which he devoted himself all the rest of the day, except when he was wanted in the kitchen for some purpose or other. And so it continued, day after day, from morning until night. Not an hour's relaxation was allowed the child; and if, from weariness or disheartened feeling, he sometimes lingered over a piece of work, a severe scolding or some punishment from Mrs. Sharp was sure to follow.