As bare and comfortless as the room was Miss Sophie's life. She
rented these four walls from an unkempt little Creole woman,
whose progeny seemed like the promised offspring of Abraham. She
scarcely kept the flickering life in her pale little body by the
unceasing toil of a pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching,
ceaselessly, wearingly, on the bands and pockets of trousers. It
was her bread, this monotonous, unending work; and though whole
days and nights constant labour brought but the most meagre
recompense, it was her only hope of life.
She sat before the little charcoal brazier and warmed her
transparent, needle-pricked fingers, thinking meanwhile of the
strange events of the day. She had been up town to carry the
great, black bundle of coarse pants and vests to the factory and
to receive her small pittance, and on the way home stopped in at
the Jesuit Church to say her little prayer at the altar of the
calm white Virgin. There had been a wondrous burst of music from
the great organ as she knelt there, an overpowering perfume of
many flowers, the glittering dazzle of many lights, and the
dainty frou-frou made by the silken skirts of wedding guests. So
Miss Sophie stayed to the wedding; for what feminine heart, be it
ever so old and seared, does not delight in one? And why should
not a poor little Creole old maid be interested too?
Then the wedding party had filed in solemnly, to the rolling,
swelling tones of the organ.
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