Ruth had found employment. Ruth's MSS. had been accepted at the office
of "The Standard." Yes, an article of hers was to be published in the
very next issue. The remuneration was not what Ruth had hoped, but it
was at least a _beginning_, a stepping-stone. What a pity that Mr.
Lescom's (the editor's) rule was, not to pay a contributor, even after
a piece was accepted, until it was printed--and Ruth so short of funds.
Could she hold out to work so hard, and fare so rigidly? for often there
was only a crust left at night; but, God be thanked, she should now
_earn_ that crust! It was a pity that oil was so dear, too, because most
of her writing must be done at night, when Nettie's little prattling
voice was hushed, and her innumerable little wants forgotten in sleep.
Yes, it _was_ a pity that good oil was so dear, for the cheaper kind
crusted so soon on the wick, and Ruth's eyes, from excessive weeping,
had become quite tender, and often very painful. Then it would be so
mortifying should a mistake occur in one of her articles. She must
write very legibly, for type-setters were sometimes sad bunglers, making
people accountable for words that would set Worcester's or Webster's
hair on end; but, poor things, _they_ worked hard too--they had _their_
sorrows, thinking, long into the still night, as they scattered
the types, more of their dependent wives and children, than of the
orthography of a word, or the rhetoric of a sentence.
* * * * *
Scratch--scratch--scratch, went Ruth's pen; the dim lamp flickering in
the night breeze, while the deep breathing of the little sleepers was
the watchword, _On!_ to her throbbing brow and weary fingers. One
o'clock--two o'clock--three o'clock--the lamp burns low in the socket.
Ruth lays down her pen, and pushing back the hair from her forehead,
leans faint and exhausted against the window-sill, that the cool
night-air may fan her heated temples. How impressive the stillness! Ruth
can almost hear her own heart beat. She looks upward, and the watchful
stars seem to her like the eyes of gentle friends. No, God would _not_
forsake her! A sweet peace steals into her troubled heart, and the
overtasked lids droop heavily over the weary eyes.
Ruth sleeps.
* * * * *
Daylight! Morning _so_ soon? All night Ruth has leaned with her head on
the window-sill, and now she wakes unrefreshed from the constrained
posture; but she has no time to heed _that_, for little Nettie lies
moaning in her bed with pain; she lifts the little creature in her lap,
rocks her gently, and kisses her cheek; but still little Nettie moans.
Ruth goes to the drawer and looks in her small purse (Harry's gift); it
is empty! then she clasps her hands and looks again at little Nettie.
Must Nettie die for want of care? Oh, if Mr. Lescom would _only_ advance
her the money for the contributions he had accepted, but he said so
decidedly that "it was a rule he _never_ departed from;" and there were
yet five long days before the next paper would be out. Five days! what
might not happen to Nettie in five days? There was her cousin, Mrs.
Millet, but she had muffled her furniture in linen wrappers, and gone
to the springs with her family, for the summer months; there was her
father, but had he not said "Remember, if you _will_ burden yourself
with your children, you must not look to me for help." Kissing little
Nettie's cheek she lays her gently on the bed, whispering in a husky
voice, "only a few moments, Nettie; mamma will be back soon." She
closes the door upon the sick child, and stands with her hand upon her
bewildered brow, thinking.
* * * * *
"I beg your pardon, madam; the entry is so very dark I did not see you,"
said Mr. Bond; "you are as early a riser as myself."
"My child is sick," answered Ruth, tremulously; "I was just going out
for medicine."
"If you approve of Homoeopathy," said Mr. Bond, "and will trust me to
prescribe, there will be no necessity for your putting yourself to that
trouble; I always treat myself homoeopathically in sickness, and happen
to have a small supply of those medicines by me."
Ruth's natural independence revolted at the idea of receiving a favor
from a stranger.
"Perhaps you disapprove of Homoeopathy," said Mr. Bond, mistaking the
cause of her momentary hesitation; "it works like a charm with children;
but if you prefer not to try it, allow me to go out and procure you
whatever you desire in the way of medicine; you will not then be obliged
to leave your child."
Here was another dilemma--what _should_ Ruth do? Why, clearly accept
his first offer; there was an air of goodness and sincerity about him,
which, added to his years, seemed to invite her confidence.
Mr. Bond stepped in, looked at Nettie, and felt her pulse. "Ah, little
one, we will soon have you better," said he, as he left the room to
obtain his little package of medicines.
"Thank you," said Ruth, with a grateful smile, as he administered to
Nettie some infinitesimal pills.
"Not in the least," said Mr. Bond. "I learned two years since to doctor
myself in this way, and I have often had the pleasure of relieving
others in emergencies like this, from my little Homoeopathic stores. You
will find that your little girl will soon fall into a sweet sleep, and
awake much relieved; if you are careful with her, she will, I think,
need nothing more in the way of medicine, or if she should, my advice is
quite at your service;" and, taking his pitcher of water in his hand, he
bowed respectfully, and wished Ruth good morning.
Who was he? what was he? Whir--whir--there was the noise again! That
he was a man of refined and courteous manners, was very certain. Ruth
felt glad he was so much her senior; he seemed so like what Ruth had
sometimes dreamed a kind father might be, that it lessened the weight of
the obligation. Already little Nettie had ceased moaning; her little
lids began to droop, and her skin, which had been hot and feverish,
became moist and cool. "May God reward him, whoever he may be," said
Ruth. "Surely it _is_ blessed to _trust_!"