The man she hated

“Fair Fielding, I heard something about you last night,” said one of the sewing girls in an uptown factory in New York to her nearest neighbor, a very young girl, whose red-brown head was bent over a sewing machine as she deftly guided her work, a heap of fine white muslin, beneath the shining needle.

“What?” asked Fairfax Fielding, lifting her sparkling brown eyes--they were the brightest, softest, loveliest brown eyes, although their owner was only a little sewing girl--a garment maker. You would not find in a day’s journey a prettier face than hers, with its complexion as smooth and clear as the petals of a creamy tea rose, its piquant dimples whenever she smiled, its well-shaped features, and broad, intelligent, white brow, shaded by babyish, curling locks of hair that the girls teasingly called red, but which in reality was beautiful, dusky, red gold, with such warm glints of light in its dark waves that it made other colors appear tame and common by contrast. With that shining hair, those liquid brown eyes, and that expression of gentleness and purity marking the fair brow and rosebud lips, Fair was more than pretty.

Sadie Allen smiled roguishly, and said:

“I heard you were going to get married, that’s what!”

There was a little feminine titter from every girl in the range of hearing, and Fair’s dainty wild-rose bloom deepened to angry scarlet.

“It’s not true, and I don’t believe you ever heard it, Sadie Allen. You’re only trying to tease me, for you know I have no beaus; and, what’s more, don’t want any,” she retorted spiritedly.

“You forget Waverley Osborne,” said a teasing voice on the other side of Fair’s machine.

There was a double row of sewing machines in the large room, all fastened to two long, narrow tables, with small round niches cut on the sides, in which the operators sat at their machines.

In this factory a large number of women and girls were employed, and Fairfax Fielding, who had come here at twelve years old, as an errand girl, at three dollars per week, was in her apprenticeship to the business now, and earning her seven dollars per week at the sewing machine. She was seventeen years old, and if she stayed until she was twenty she would earn double that sum. In this establishment were many women and girls who had been here from childhood, and the employees were mostly well known to each other, and, with few exceptions, on amiable terms.

One of the exceptions in the present case was a new girl, a handsome blonde, who was an expert worker, and commanded the highest wages paid to a machine embroiderer. She had left another factory to apply at this one for work, and it was whispered among the girls that the cause was that her beau was a clerk in the warerooms below.

Whether this report was true or not, it is very certain that Miss Platt lifted her large, cold blue eyes with a stare of angry surprise when the name of Waverley Osborne was mentioned, and listened intently for the answer.

It was not long in coming, for Fair Fielding tossed her head petulantly, and exclaimed:

“Now, girls, please don’t plague me about him. You know I hate him.”

“Anyhow, he sent you flowers once, and walked home with you twice last week,” laughed Sadie Allen, who was fond of teasing Fair.

“No, he only walked with me once,” corrected Fair quickly. Her eyes flashed as she continued: “I told him then I didn’t want his company, but I couldn’t get rid of him. He would go, and insisted on calling on my mother, too, but,” emphatically, “I guess--she--made--him--understand.”