"I am sorry, Cicely," she
said, "but I shall have to ask you to take some work home with you
to-night. We are so rushed with all these orders we never can get
through unless every one of you works over-hours. Miss Shelby's extra
order is just the last straw that'll break the camel's back, I'm
afraid. Try to get every bit of this hand work done some way or other
before morning."
It was no part of the rose-pink party dress that Cicely had to work
on; only more monotonous bias folds. But as she turned up the lamp in
her chilly little room and began the weary stitching again, she felt
that in a way it was for Miss Balfour, and she sewed on
uncomplainingly.
She had intended to write to Marcelle that evening in order that her
sister might have a letter on New Year's day, but there would be no
time now. She wrapped a shawl around her and spread a blanket over her
feet, but more than once she had to stop and warm her stiff fingers
over the lamp. It was long after midnight when she finished, and she
crept into bed, her head still throbbing with a dull ache.
"The last day of the old year!" she said to herself, as she waded
through a newly fallen snow to her work the next morning. "Oh,
Marcelle, how can I ever hold out ten months longer? Nobody in this
whole city cares that I caught cold sitting up in a room without a
fire, or that I feel so lonely and bad this minute that I can't keep
back the tears.
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