supper, and brush up about the shoemaker's bench, and be too weak to
eat; to sit with aching shoulders and make the button-holes of her best
dress, or darn her father's stockings, till nine o'clock; to hear no
bounding step or cheery whistle about the house; to creep into bed and
lie there trying not to think, and wishing that so she might creep into
her grave,--this not for one winter, but for all the winters,--how
should _you_ like it, you young girls, with whom time runs like a story?

The very fact that her employers dealt honorably by her; that she was
fairly paid, and promptly, for her wearing toil; that the limit of
endurance was consulted in the temperature of the room, and her need of
rest in an occasional holiday,--perhaps, after all, in the mood she was
in, did not make this factory life more easy. She would have found it
rather a relief to have somebody to complain of,--wherein she was like
the rest of us, I fancy.

But at last there came a day--it chanced to be the ninth of
January--when Asenath went away alone at noon, and sat where Merrimack
sung his songs to her. She hid her face upon her knees, and listened and
thought her own thoughts, till they and the slow torment of the winter
seemed greater than she could bear. So, passing her hands confusedly
over her forehead, she said at last aloud, "That's what God means,
Asenath Martyn!" and went back to work with a purpose in her eyes.

She "asked out" a little earlier than usual, and went slowly home. Dick
was there before her; he had been taking a half-holiday. He had made the
tea and toasted the bread for a little surprise. He came up and said,
"Why, Sene, your hands are cold!" and warmed them for her in his own.

After tea she asked him, would he walk out with her for a little while?