loafer?"

"He is my employer," answered Belmont, smiling.

"And his profession?"

"He is a tailor."

"And you?"

"Am a journeyman tailor, at your service--a laborious and thankless
calling it ever was to me--but now, dearest, as I drive the hissing
goose across the smoking seam, I shall think of my own angel and my
dear cottage, and be happy."

That night Julia retired weeping to her room in the attic.

"That 'ere counterpin, darter," said the old woman, "I worked with
these here old hands. Ain't it putty? I hope you'll sleep well here.
There's a broken pane of glass, but I've put one of Frank's old hats
in it, and I don't think you'll feel the draught. There used to be a
good many rats here, but I don't think they'll trouble you now, for
Frank's been a pizinin' of 'em."

Left alone, Julia threw herself into a chair, and burst into a flood
of tears. Even Belmont had ceased to be attractive in her eyes--the
stern privations that surrounded her banished all thoughts of love.
The realities of life had cured her in one day of all her Quixotic
notions.