Up such a
stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fell on
her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passed wearily one
January night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictly
speaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forth
the old bells of St. Saviour's. And yet, more than a dozen girls
still sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as
if for very life, not daring to gape, or show any outward
manifestation of sleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth
told Mrs. Mason the hour of the night, as the result of her
errand; for they knew that, stay up as late as they might, the
work-hours of the next day must begin at eight, and their young
limbs were very weary.
Mrs. Mason worked away as hard as any of them; but she was older
and tougher; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she
perceived that some rest was needed. "Young ladies! there will be
an interval allowed of half-an-hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton.
Martha shall bring you up some bread, and cheese, and beer. You
will be so good as to eat it standing--away from the dresses--and
to have your hands washed ready for work when I return. In
half-an-hour," said she once more, very distinctly; and then she
left the room.
It was curious to watch the young girls as they instantaneously
availed themselves of Mrs. Mason's absence. One fat, particularly
heavy-looking damsel laid her head on her folded arms and was
asleep in a moment; refusing to be wakened for her share in the
frugal supper, but springing up with a frightened look at the
sound of Mrs.
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