Katy's cheeks were flushed and an ominous cough still lingered, but she
spoke cheerfully: "It's my last day in: I can go to-morrow. It's the
beef-tea has done it, I do believe. Did you know Maria brought it to me
every day? I don't know what I'll do without it."
"Learn to make it yourself, Katy."
"Me?" and Katy laughed incredulously. "When would I get time? and what
would I make it on? We don't have a fire but Sundays, and only a show
of one then. And I don't want it, either: I ain't used to it."
"What do you live on, Katy?"
"Why, we did have breakfast and tea here--coffee and meat for
breakfast, and bread and butter and tea for supper. I get a cream-cake
or some drop-cakes for dinner, but for a good while I've just paid a
dollar a week for my share of the room, and bought something for
breakfast--'most always a pie. You can get a splendid pie for five
cents, and a pretty good one for three; and it's plenty too. That's the
way the girls in the bag-factory do. They don't get but three dollars a
week, and it takes seventy-five cents for their room, so they haven't
got anything for board. Mary Jones says she's settled on pie, because
it stays by better'n anything, and once in a while she goes down to
Fulton Market and has some coffee.
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