Katy had been gone now a long while. Ruth began to grow anxious. She
lifted her head from the pillow, took off the wet bandage from her
aching forehead, and taking little Nettie upon her lap, sat down at the
small window to watch for Katy. The prospect was not one to call up
cheerful fancies. Opposite was one of those large brick tenements, let
out by rapacious landlords, a room at a time at griping rents, to poor
emigrants, and others, who were barely able to prolong their lease of
life from day to day. At one window sat a tailor, with his legs crossed,
and a torn straw hat perched awry upon his head, cutting and making
coarse garments for the small clothing-store in the vicinity, whose
Jewish owner reaped all the profits. At another, a pale-faced woman,
with a handkerchief bound round her aching face, bent over a steaming
wash-tub, while a little girl of ten, staggering under the weight of a
basket of damp clothes, was stringing them on lines across the room
to dry. At the next window sat a decrepit old woman, feebly trying to
soothe in her palsied arms the wailings of a poor sick child. And there,
too, sat a young girl, from dawn till dark, scarcely lifting that pallid
face and weary eyes--stitching and thinking, thinking and stitching. God
help her!
Still, tier above tier the windows rose, full of pale, anxious,
care-worn faces--never a laugh, never a song--but instead, ribald
curses, and the cries of neglected, half-fed children. From window to
window, outside, were strung on lines articles of clothing, pails,
baskets, pillows, feather-beds, and torn coverlets; while up and
down the door-steps, in and out, passed ever a ragged procession of
bare-footed women and children, to the small grocery opposite, for "a
pint of milk," a "loaf of bread," a few onions, or potatoes, a cabbage,
some herrings, a sixpence worth of poor tea, a pound of musty flour, a
few candles, or a peck of coal--for all of which, the poor creatures
paid twice as much as if they had the means to buy by the quantity.
The only window which Ruth did not shudder to look at, was the upper one
of all, inhabited by a large but thrifty German family, whose love of
flowers had taken root even in that sterile soil, and whose little pot
of thriving foreign shrubs, outside the window sill, showed with what
tenacity the heart will cling to early associations.
Further on, at one block's remove, was a more pretentious-looking
house, the blinds of which were almost always closed, save when the
colored servants threw them open once a day, to give the rooms an
airing. Then Ruth saw damask chairs, satin curtains, pictures, vases,
books, and pianos; it was odd that people who could afford such things
should live in such a neighborhood. Ruth looked and wondered. Throngs
of visitors went there--carriages rolled up to the door, and rolled
away; gray-haired men, business men, substantial-looking family men,
and foppish-looking young men; while half-grown boys loitered about
the premises, looking mysteriously into the door when it opened, or
into the window when a curtain was raised, or a blind flew apart.
Now and then a woman appeared at the windows. Sometimes the face was
young and fair, sometimes it was wan and haggard; but, oh God! never
without the stain that the bitterest tear may fail to wash away, save in
the eyes of Him whose voice of mercy whispered, "Go, and sin no more."
Ruth's tears fell fast. She knew now how it could be, when every door
of hope seemed shut, by those who make long prayers and wrap themselves
in morality as with a garment, and cry with closed purses and averted
faces, "Be ye warmed, and filled." She knew now how, when the heart,
craving sympathy, craving companionship, doubting both earth and heaven,
may wreck its all in one despairing moment on that dark sea, if it lose
sight of Bethlehem's guiding-star. And then, she thought, "if he who
saveth a soul from death shall hide a multitude of sins," oh! where, in
the great reckoning-day, shall _he_ be found who, 'mid the gloom of so
dark a night, pilots such struggling bark on wrecking rocks?
* * * * *
"Dear child, I am so glad you are home," said Ruth, as Katy opened the
door; "I began to fear something had happened to you. Did you see your
grandfather?"
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Katy, "please never send me to my grandpa again;
he said we 'should get away all the money he had,' and he looked so
dreadful when he said it, that it made my knees tremble. Is it stealing,
mamma, for us to take grandpa's money away?"
"No," replied Ruth, looking a hue more pallid, if possible, than before,
"No, no, Katy, don't cry; you shall never go there again for money. But,
where is your bag? Why! what's this, Katy. Grandpa has made a mistake.
You must run right back as quick as ever you can with this money, or I'm
afraid he will be angry."
"Oh, grandpa didn't give me that," said Katy; "a gentleman gave me
that."
"A gentleman?" said Ruth. "Why it is _money_, Katy. How came you to take
money from a gentleman? Who was he?"
"Money!" exclaimed Katy. "Money!" clapping her hands. "Oh! I'm so glad.
He didn't say it was money; he said it was something he owed papa;" and
little Katy picked up a card from the floor, on which was pencilled,
"For the children of Harry Hall, from their father's friend."
"Hush," whispered Katy to Nettie, "mamma is praying."