as I said, Mrs. Horton was by vocation an angel, not a charwoman.
After her departure from our laundry, and I might add hearts, unspeakable things happened. We went through a succession of Shacktown ladies, each of whom appeared to be in more desperate circumstances than the last, and less disposed to repair her fortune by the medium of the washboard.
They began work about 9 a.m. and the day for them drew to a close at 3 p.m., the ardors of their toil being mitigated by an average of four meals between. From varying tinges of blue and yellow, our clothes settled down to a permanent and melancholy gray, coming up decorated with lively memorials of the pegs, which gave assurance, at least, of their having had a bath of fresh air.
One pink and white young person with a really terrific burr in her speech, brought a six-weeks-old infant along to whose interests the clothes-basket was devoted, while the washing was conveyed to and fro in dishpans. This small accessory so captivated the somewhat impressionable heart of Janet, and so many hours were spent in nursing and exchanging confidences over it, that after the second trial
