Page:Under the Gaslight.djvu/20

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Peach. Oh, oh! please don't beat, me. I ain't good. I'm only trying to be.

Judas. You're only trying to be, eh? Trying to be good, and here's me as was a-weeping every night, thinking as you was sent up for six months. Who're you living with—you ain't a-keeping house, are you?

Peach. I'm living with.

Judas. , what's she, concert-saloon girl?

Peach. No, she's a lady.

Judas. A lady—and have such baggage as you about. Where's my shoe, I'll make you speak the truth.

Peach. I don't know what she is. She met me when the police was taking me up for loafin' down Hudson Street, and she begged me off.

Judas. Has she any money?

Peach. No, she's poor.

Judas. Any nice clothes?

Peach. O, she's got good clothes.

Judas. Where are they?

Peach. Locked up, and she's got the key.

Judas. You're lying, I see it in your eye. You're always shamefaced when you are telling the truth, and now you're as bold as brass. Where's my shoe? (making a dash at her.)

Peach. (Shouting.) There's (as if curtseying to some one behind .) Good morning, miss.

Judas. (Changing her tone.) Ah! my pretty dear! What a good lady to take you in and give you a home. (Turns and discovers the deception—in a rage.) You hussy, ( retreats) wait till I get you in my clutches again, my lady; and it won't be long. takes care of you, does she. Who will take care of her? Let her look to it. ( enters plainly dressed, at back.) Beg pardon, Miss, I just called to see if you had any old clothes you'd like to exchange.

Laura. No, I don't want anything, my good woman.

Judas. (Eyeing her sharply and going to door.) That's her—I'd know her anywheres!

(Malicious glance, and exit.)

Laura. You've been very good this morning,. The room is as nice as I could wish.

Peach. Please'm, I tried because you are so good to me. ( taking off her shawl and things.) Shall I sweep out the airy? ( does not answer.) I guess I'd better—then she'll be alone, as she loves to be.

(Takes broom and exit, )

Laura (Solos. Opening a package and taking out photographs.) No pay yet for coloring, 'till I have practiced a week longer. Then I shall have all the work I can do. They say at the photographer's I color well, and the best pictures will be given me. The best! Already I have had beneath my brush so many faces that I know, friends of the old days. The silent eyes seem to wonder at me for bringing them to this strange and lowly home. (Picking up letters from table.) Letters; ah! answers to my advertisement for employment. No, only a circular "To the lady of this house." What's that! (Starting) only sweeping. Every time there is a noise I dread the entrance of some one that knows me. But they could never find me in New York, I left them all too secretly and suddenly. None of them can expect I would have descended to