"Confound the children!" muttered the tailor to himself, as he began
inspecting the woman's work. "They're always getting sick, or
something else."

After carefully examining three or four pairs of the coarse trowsers
which had been brought in, he pushed the whole from him with a quick
impatient gesture and an angry scowl, saying, as he did so--

"Botched to death! I can't give you work unless it's done better,
Mrs. Gaston. You grow worse and worse!"

"I know, sir," replied the woman, in a troubled voice, "that they
are not made quite so well as they might be. But consider how much I
have had against me. A sick child--and worn out by attendance on her
night and day."

"It's always a sick child, or some other excuse, with the whole of
you. But that don't answer me. I want my work done well, and mean to
have it so. If you don't choose to turn out good work, I can find a
plenty who will."

"You sha'n't complain of me hereafter, Mr. Berlaps," replied the
woman submissively.

"So you have said before; but we shall see."

Berlaps then turned moodily to his desk, and resumed the employment
he had broken off when the seamstress came in, whilst she stood with
her hands folded across each other, awaiting his pleasure in regard