snipping, slashing, doubling on itself, a very swashbuckler of a shears.

"There!" exclaimed Emma at last, and dropped the shears on the table
with a clatter. "Put that together and see whether it makes a skirt or
not. Now, ladies!"

The three drew a long breath. It was the sort of sound that comes up
from the crowd when a sky-rocket has gone off successfully, with a
final shower of stars.

"Do you do that often?" ventured Mrs. Orton-Wells.

"Often enough to keep my hand in," replied Emma, and led the way to her
office.

The three followed in silence. They were strangely silent, too, as
they seated themselves around Emma Buck's desk. Curiously enough, it
was the subdued Miss Orton-Wells who was the first to speak.

"I'll never rest," she said, "until I see that skirt finished and
actually ready to wear."

She smiled at Emma. When she did that, you saw that Miss Orton-Wells
had her charm. Emma smiled back, and patted the girl's hand just once.
At that there came a look into Miss Orton-Wells' eyes, and you saw that
most decidedly she had her charm.

Up spoke Mrs. Orton-Wells.

"Gladys is such an enthusiast! That's really her reason for being
here. Gladys is very much interested in working girls. In fact, we
are all, as you probably know, intensely interested in the working
woman."

"Thank you!" said Emma McChesney Buck.

"That's very kind. We working women are very grateful to you."

"We!" exclaimed Mrs. Orton-Wells and Miss Susan Croft blankly, and in
perfect time.

Emma smiled sweetly.

"Surely you'll admit that I'm a working woman."

Miss Susan H. Croft was not a person to be trifled with. She
elucidated acidly.

"We mean women who work with their hands."

"By what power do you think those shears were moved across the
cutting-table? We don't cut our patterns with an ouija-board."

Mrs. Orton-Wells rustled protestingly.

"But, my dear Mrs. Buck, you know, we mean women of the Laboring Class."

"I'm in this place of business from nine to five, Monday to Saturday,
inclusive. If that doesn't make me a member of the laboring class I
don't want to belong."

It was here that Mrs. Orton-Wells showed herself a woman not to be
trifled with. She moved forward to the edge of her chair, fixed Emma
Buck with determined eyes, and swept into midstream, sails spread.

"Don't be frivolous, Mrs. Buck. We are here on a serious errand. It
ought to interest you vitally because of the position