THE AMERICAN
consideration. "Oh sir, I have n't my cap. And with your leave, sir, I could n't keep house in my best gown."
"Never mind your best gown," said Newman cheerfully. "You shall have a better gown than that."
She stared solemnly and then stretched her hands over her lustreless satin skirt as if the perilous side of her situation might be flushing into view. "Oh sir, I'm fond of my own clothes."
"I hope you've left those wicked people, at any rate," Newman went on.
"Well, sir, here I am! That's all I can tell you. Here I sit, poor Catherine Bread. It's a strange place for me to be. I don't know myself; I never supposed I was so bold. But indeed, sir, I've gone as far as my own strength will bear me."
"Oh, come, Mrs. Bread!" he returned almost caressingly; "don't make yourself uncomfortable. Why, you're going to have now the time of your life."
She began to speak again with a trembling voice. "I think it would be more respectable if I could—if I could—!" But she quavered to a pause.
"If you could give up this sort of thing altogether?" said Newman kindly, trying to anticipate her meaning, which he supposed might be a wish to retire from service.
"If I could give up everything, sir! All I should ask is a decent Protestant burial."
"Burial!" he cried with a burst of laughter. "Why, to bury you now would be a sad piece of extravagance. It's only rascals who have to be buried
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