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My knees trembled. I remember that I had to sit down on the bench in front of the loom. "I don't know," I said. "I have never sold anything and I don't know what to say."

He smiled. "Do you think $250 would be about right?"

$250! More than three months salary at Hellman House. More than I had ever earned at a single stroke. I was dumfounded. And to think that what to me had been only the fun of making things had a monetary value. It was almost too much.

Forthwith, Mr. Watson wrote a check and said he would have someone come and collect the fabrics. A day or two later, the shelves were bare. I stared at them, pinching myself.

Thereafter, of course, I wove furiously. I would come home from the Settlement House, go to the loom, and weave until two and three o'clock in the morning. I had no specific outlets in mind, no stores where the fabrics might be sold. But who could say? Anyway, as I have said, this was not work;