On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed
herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of
light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she
had worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and
her necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and
much wearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl
with the exception of her features. These were slightly more even
than common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing
appearance.

It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is
used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at
home. She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life
when, half asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six
o'clock and saw him silently finishing his breakfast. By the
time she was dressed he was gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby
ate together, the latter being just old enough to sit in a high
chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her spirits were
greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and
untried duties confronted her. Only the ashes of all her fine
fancies were remaining--ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a
few red embers of hope. So subdued was she by her weakening
nerves, that she ate quite in silence going over imaginary
conceptions of the character of the shoe company, the nature of
the work, her employer's attitude. She was vaguely feeling that
she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work
would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on.

"Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They