FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS.
It was well for me that my mind was actively employed; had it been
otherwise I should have continually brooded over my sorrows. As it was,
when engaged with my duties in the school-room, my thoughts would wander
to those two graves in the church-yard, and my tears would fall upon the
book from which I was listening to a recitation from my pupils.
Georgania having left home, I had only Birdie and Lewis as pupils. Much
pity did those affectionate children evince for me when they could not
but observe my grief. Birdie would often say,--
"Please, Miss Roscom, do not grieve so much; we all love you dearly, and
will be very kind to you."
And Lewis, who could never bear to see my tears, would say,--
"I will be a little brother to you, Miss Roscom, so please don't cry any
more."
To please my pupils, I endeavored to appear cheerful; but truly the
heart knoweth its own bitterness. One thought, however, afforded me some
consolation, and that was, that I was obeying my mother's dying
injunction, by striving to do my duty in the position in which I was
placed. As days and months passed away, I, in some measure, regained my
usual cheerfulness, although I was nowise inclined to forget my mother.
A year had now passed since I saw her laid in the grave. I often visited
her resting-place, and there I renewed my resolve to follow her
precepts; and many a time, kneeling by her grave did I implore wisdom
from on high to enable me to follow the counsels I had so often received
from those lips, now sealed in silence. It seemed to me, at such times,
that I almost held communion with the spirit of my mother.
I experienced much kindness from every member of Mr. Leighton's family.
I spent my leisure time mostly in my room. They did not, of course,
invite me to join parties, but they would often urge me to join a few
friends in their own parlor; but I always replied that my deep mourning
must be my excuse. I had no taste for company or mirth.
One afternoon the Leightons had gone to join a picnic party some two
miles from the city. They had invited me to accompany them, but as usual
I declined. I felt sad and lonely that long afternoon, and, being left
entirely alone, I could not prevent my thoughts from recurring to the
past. I thought of all the happy, careless days of my childhood; then my
memory ran back to the night, when, at ten years of age, I stood by the
death-bed of my father. With the eye of memory, I again saw my mother,
as she stood bowed with grief at the grave of my father; and now I was
left alone to mourn for both father and mother. Memory also fondly
turned to Miss Edmonds, my first teacher. I felt that to see her again
would indeed be happiness; but I knew not where Miss Edmonds then
resided. The last time I had heard from her she contemplated going
South, as governess in a gentleman's family. Then came the memory of the
happy years I passed in Mrs. Wentworth's school. Where now were the many
friends I had then known and loved? As these thoughts passed in quick
succession through my mind, I could not refrain from weeping; and, as I
was under no restraint from the presence of others, my tears seemed
almost a luxury. I know not how long my fit of weeping might have
continued had not one of the domestics entered the room, and informed me
that a poor woman was in the kitchen seeking charity.
"I thought," said the girl, "as the other ladies are all away, you might
give her a trifle, for she seems very needy."
Hastily drying my tears, I went down to the kitchen, where I found a
young woman, who would have been very pretty but for the look of want
and suffering depicted upon her countenance. It was evident, from her
appearance, that she was not an habitual beggar. As I approached her,
she seemed much embarrassed, as she said,--
"Sure an' its mesilf that never expected to come to this at all, at
all."
"My poor woman," said I, "you appear to have been unfortunate."
"An' its mesilf that has been misfortunate," she replied, as the tears
gathered in her fine, dark eyes. She continued,--
"There was never a happier couple than Dinnis O'Flaherty an' I the day
the praste made us one. But, after a while, the wages got low, and the
times were hard wid us. 'Polly,' says Dinnis to me one day, 'will you be
afther goin' to Ameriky wid me?' 'Dinnis,' says I, 'wherever it plases
you to go its I, Polly McBrine, that's ready and willin' to follow.' We
sailed in the _St. Pathrick_, and tin days afther I saw my darlin'
Dinnis buried in the salt say. He fell sick wid a faver, and all me
prayers for his life could not save him; an' here I am, a lone widdy, in
a shtrange land, without a penny in me pocket, nor a place to lay me
head."
Here the poor woman's grief choked her utterance, and, covering her
face with her hands, she wept aloud. I requested the domestic to bring
her some food, which she ate like one famishing. I placed in her hand
money sufficient to secure her from want for two or three days at least.
I did not in the least doubt her story, for her countenance bore the
impress of sincerity. When she left, I requested her to call again in
two or three days, as I felt certain that Mrs. Leighton would assist her
in obtaining some employment. She left me with many thanks, and blessing
me after the manner of her country.