THE
SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BRICK,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE
OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE HEIRESS,” “WIFE’S SECRET,”
“SILENT STRUGGLES.”
=Philadelphia:=
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Southern District of New York.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
A FRIEND IN NEED 21
CHAPTER II.
PREPARING FOR THE FAIR 41
CHAPTER III.
THE OLD MAID 52
CHAPTER IV.
THE FAIR 61
CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER 75
CHAPTER VI.
THE SOLDIER’S DEATH 88
CHAPTER VII.
THE UNCLE FLEECED 97
CHAPTER VIII.
BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS 109
CHAPTER IX.
THE NEWSBOY 121
CHAPTER X.
ROBERT GETS A SITUATION 127
CHAPTER XI.
AN INTRUDER 134
CHAPTER XII.
AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE 148
CHAPTER XIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 155
CHAPTER XIV.
LOVE AND MALICE 171
CHAPTER XV.
A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN 195
CHAPTER XVI.
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 206
CHAPTER XVII.
A NEW LIGHT 220
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 231
CHAPTER XIX.
A DECLARATION OF LOVE 248
CHAPTER XX.
A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND 265
CHAPTER XXI.
A HUNGRY HEART 279
CHAPTER XXII.
A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN ENGAGEMENT 297
CHAPTER XXIV.
CONCLUSION 315
THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.
CHAPTER I.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God
help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable
apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to
the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of
Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been
forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last
under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer
one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black
sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken
barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of
brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds
and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from
their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in
the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally,
giving forth a sudden rush of sound now and then like broken-winged
birds making wild efforts to fly.
This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in
a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough
broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was
near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light,
bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the
roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it,
praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the
dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple,
pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing
sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and
soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and
patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so
neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not
help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from
some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble
drapery sculptured around a statue.
The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy
with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able
to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her
stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a
great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread
tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly
hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her lap, sighed
heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient
composure.
Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of
age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on
the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in
his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began
to sort over the shells with eager haste.
“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small
either. Get me a knife.”
The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken
case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who
held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably
sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat
the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward
his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished
brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth,
and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it.
The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away
with it to his grandmother’s side.
“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried,
breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a
strong man.
The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face
uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism
expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile
crept around her lips.
“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with
her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”
“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”
“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left
for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all.
That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw
them in, I’ll be bound.”
Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a
caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot
haste.
“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”
With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and
Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion
with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by
anticipation.
“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day
that we get a treat like this.”
Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made
short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions
with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.
“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a
railroad, or something worth while.”
“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s
regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the
hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired,
I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, Robert, for she hasn’t
tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”
Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister
Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of
utter despair seemed upon her.
“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect
one cent. What shall we do?”
The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her
face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of
distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”
The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had
kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the
weeping girl.
“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her
granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and
to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”
“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking
drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised
the boys _such_ a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare
feet, how cold they look!”
“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh
through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be
tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”
Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady
bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else
had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single
disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew
it.
“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy
one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”
“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her
chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”
Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips
were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight
after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the
street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but
around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers
under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the
pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and
desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.
“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!”
cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.
“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry
up.”
“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister
is breaking her heart to know——”
“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”
“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”
“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you get out. Business is
business, and sogers is sogers; a fellow can’t let his heart wear holes
in his jacket.”
“But I want it so—I want it so.”
The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp, and went on
shouting lustily for new customers, leaving the soldier’s son shivering
in the street, his eyes full of tears, and his heart aching with pain.
Robert stood a moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting away
from him, and in his disappointment formed a new resolution.
When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned the name and
address of a lady, celebrated for her energy in all charitable
associations, and who was now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the
benefit of the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable attention.
This lady might be at home. She owed his sister money for fancy articles
made up for this fair. He would go and ask for enough to give them food;
at any rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his father’s
regiment had fought.
Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his course lay toward
that part of the city which seems so far lifted above all the cares and
privations of life that it is little wonder the poor are filled with
envy when they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its
splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches may be found
even in this favored quarter; and it is not remarkable that the outward
contrast presented to them should often engender bitter feelings, and
even intense hatred.
The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only eager to get food for
those he loved, and hear news that might bring smiles back to the lovely
face of his sister. He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his
father had been among the most prosperous and respectable of the working
classes. At another time his naked feet and worn cap, which but half
concealed the bright waves of his hair, might have checked his ardor,
and sent him cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home. Now he
forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from the cold pavement, and
went on his way, resolute to save his sister from the sorrow that had
wounded him to the heart.
“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,” he thought. “I will
do it for her. It is a man’s place to take the brunt; and when father is
fighting for his country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”
With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps of a spacious white
mansion, whose walls were like petrified snow, and whose windows were
each a broad sheet of crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left
their tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and his little
hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror when he rang the bell.
A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering outside the
vestibule, and drew back in a fit of sublime indignation.
“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed, eyeing the lad with
august scorn. “This is no place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”
“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am the other thing. If you
please, I want to see the lady,” said the boy, resolutely.
“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to do with?” demanded the
servant.
“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”
“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs. Savage?”
“I want some money.”
“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you; and next time you come
to a gentleman’s house, learn to go to the back gate.”
“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister has done work for the
lady, and——”
“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe money to any one. My
young friend your story is getting richer and richer. _She_ owe you
money, indeed!”
“Indeed—indeed she does.”
“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the young gentleman
coming up the steps? Make off with yourself!”
Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring out of one of those
light wagons sometimes used for riding, in which was a pair of fiery
young horses, black as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of
foam. He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement and
mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if his drive had been a
pleasant one.
“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the young man, as Robert
passed him on the steps with angry shame burning in his face. “Did you
want any thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”
The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting a bank-note from
its contents, handed it to the boy.
“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he says I did,” cried
the boy, with tears in his eyes.
“Then what did you come for, my boy?”
“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work for a fair, and it
is that I come about. We need the money so much; and Anna is ashamed to
ask for it. She would rather go hungry.”
“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl, who hesitates to ask for
it!—that must be from mistake or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home,
Jared?”
“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the committee, and will be
till late.”
The young man turned to Robert again. The boy was watching him with
wistful attention. Tears stood in those large blue eyes, and under its
glow of new-born hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy,
immortalized by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage had a kind
heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious; and it is doubtful if
a common boy, with bare feet and poverty-stricken clothes, could have
kept him so long on those marble steps.
“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad, “if your home is
not far from here, I will go with you and settle this matter.”
The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was ashamed to take this
elegant gentleman into his home, or that his beautiful sister should be
found in that place. Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less
worthy feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself. “He
has seen my mother go out, and hopes to obtain something by this
ridiculous claim. I will unearth the little fox!”
“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me the way.”
Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the truth in that handsome
face. He turned at once and went down the steps. Savage followed him,
interested in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting
out a deception. Robert did not speak, but looked back, now and then, as
he turned a corner, to be sure that the gentleman was following him. The
face of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he passed deeper
into the neighborhood where low shanties, and high, barren-looking
tenement-houses were crowded together. He passed whole families huddled
together in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was, craving
the fresh air that could not be found within. Groups of reckless
children, happy in spite of their visible destitution, were playing in
the twilight, which filled the poverty of the street with a golden haze,
such as heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him, and he
grew thoughtful.
“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the door of a tall,
bleak building, crowded full of windows that turned coldly to the north.
“If you please, I will run up first and tell them you are coming.”
“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I shall lose my way
along this railway of stairs.”
Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs
without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till
they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly
under the roof.
“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening a door, and
revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young
Savage where he stood. This was the picture.
A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay
on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little
boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of
suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child,
who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if
he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored
mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers
dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without
warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window,
goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure,
delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this
earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than
Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow
collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre
brown of the grandmother’s dress.
Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the
threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the
child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by
grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.
“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so,
I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the
street, only do not look at me so.”
“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.
“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?”
She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the
window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously.
Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing
by a shrine.
“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.”
Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with
his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion.
She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously,
smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her
grief had thrown it.
“My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile
quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I
met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s
account. Pray tell me how much it is?”
“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much.
Indeed——”
“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke in Robert, who came
forward with a glow on his face. “She considers it begging to ask for
her own, but I don’t.”
“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage. “Business should be
left to men. You and I can settle this little affair.”
“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling. “It is so small a sum
that a word settles it. Only I should like your mother to know how
thankful I am to her for giving us something to do.”
“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing a ten dollar note
upon the window-sill.
“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no change.”
The young man blushed.
“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”
“I’ll run and get it changed,” broke in Robert.
Anna handed him the bank-note.
“No, no! I insist!” said Savage, earnestly. “There is no need of change.
My mother—in fact I want more work done. Let your brother come to me in
the morning; I shall have ever so many handkerchiefs to mark with
initial letters, which I am sure you embroider daintily. Besides, I have
a fancy to make my mother a present of one of those worsted shawls—all
lace-work and bright colors—such as nice old ladies can knit without
injury to the eyesight. I dare say you could do that sort of thing,
madam?”
“Oh, yes!” answered the old lady, brightening visibly. “If I only had
the worsted to begin with, and needles, and——”
“That is just what I leave the extra five dollars for. Robert, remember,
that is for grandma to begin her work with. It would so oblige me,
madam, if you could have the shawl done by Christmas.”
The old lady broke into a pleasant little laugh. Little Joseph, who had
been listening greedily, pulled at her dress and whispered:
“Grandma! Grandma! Can I have something now?”
“Yes, dear, yes! only wait a minute.”
“But I am tired of waiting, grandma.”
“Hush, darling, hush!”
Joseph nestled down to his old place, and, half hidden by his grandma’s
garments, watched the stranger with his great, bright eyes, eager to
have him gone.
The young man saw something of this; but he had never in his life
encountered absolute want, and could not entirely comprehend its
cravings.
“Let us see about the colors,” he said, approaching the grandmother.
“White, with a scarlet border, just a pretty fleece of soft, bright wool
turned into lace.”
“I know, I know!” said the old woman, nodding pleasantly. “You shall
see; you shall see.”
“Now, that this is settled,” said the young man, balancing his hat in
one hand with hesitation, “we must have a consultation, my mother and I,
about providing something a little more permanent.”
“You are kind, very kind, sir,” said the old lady, smoothing the
kerchief over her bosom, with a soft sweep of both hands. “When my son
comes home from the war, he will thank you. Anna, there, don’t exactly
know how to do it; and I am an old-fashioned lady, fast turning back to
my place among the children; but my son, her father, you know, is a very
smart man.”
“And brave as a lion,” shouted little Joseph, from behind the shelter of
his grandmother’s garments.
“Hurra! so he is! They made him a corporal the first thing they did.
By-and-by he’s going to be a lieutenant. Then, won’t we live! Well, I
reckon not; oh, no!” responded the larger boy.
“Robert! Robert!” said the sister, in gentle reproof.
“I couldn’t help it, Anna; can’t for the life of me. Beg the gentleman’s
pardon all the same, though.”
“Don’t ask pardons of me. I rather like it, my fine fellow,” answered
Savage. “But there has been a great battle; I hope no bad news has
reached you!”
“I do not know. That is what makes us so anxious. If I could but see a
paper.”
“Go and get one this moment,” said Savage, thrusting some currency into
Robert’s hand.
The boy darted off like an arrow; they could hardly hear his feet touch
the stairs. Directly he came back again, breathless and pale, with the
paper open in his hand, which he searched eagerly for news.
“They have been in the midst of it,” he cried. “The regiment is all cut
up; but I don’t see his name in the list. Dear, how I wish the paper
would hold still. Anna, you try.” The girl held out her hand, but it
shook like an aspen leaf; and Savage took the paper.
“What is your father’s name?” he inquired.
“Robert Burns.”
“I’m named after him, I am,” cried Robert, with an outburst of pride.
Savage ran his eyes hastily down the list of killed. The old woman left
her chair and crept toward him, white and still; while little Joseph
crept after, forgetting his hunger in the general interest. No one
spoke; there was not a full breath drawn. Savage looked up from the
paper, and saw those wild, questioning eyes, those white faces, turned
upon him with an intensity that made his heart swell.
“His name is not here,” he said.
Dry sobs broke from the women; but Robert shouted out, “Glory! glory!”
And little Joseph laughed, clapping his pale hands.
“But the wounded,” whispered Anna; “look there.”
“All right, so far,” answered Savage, running his eyes rapidly down the
list. “There is no Burns here.”
The old woman dropped into her chair, and gathering little Joseph to her
bosom, covered his face with gentle kisses; while Robert half strangled
his sister with caresses, and shook hands vigorously with Mr. Savage,
who was rather astonished to find his eyes full of tears, which threw
the whole room into a haze.
“Don’t forget to come in the morning,” he said, turning toward the door.
“Of course I wont,” answered the boy, following his new friend into the
passage; “but that yellow chap, will he let me in?”
“Come and see. But, Robert, I say, you and I must be friends—fast
friends, you know.”
“Yes, when we know each other through and through. But I’m in charge
here when father’s gone, and haven’t much time for anything else.
Good-by, sir; I’ll be on hand in the morning.”
Savage went away, with his mind and heart full of the scene he had just
witnessed. How poor they were? What barren destitution surrounded those
two women: yet, how lady-like they seemed. There was nothing in their
poverty to revolt his taste, fastidious as it was. Neat and orderly
poverty carried a certain dignity with it. He thoroughly respected these
two women; their condition appealed to every manly feeling in his
nature. Though distrustful from habit and education, he had faith in
them, and went home full of generous impulses, wondering how he could do
them good. Meantime, Robert went back to the room, radiant.
“Here,” he said, thrusting a bun into Joseph’s hand, “break it in two,
and give grandma half; Anna and I will wait awhile. Here is the money,
sister; I got it changed at the baker’s, where they wouldn’t trust us a
loaf yesterday. You didn’t know it, but I asked ’em. Didn’t their eyes
open when I took out that bill. How does the bun taste, Josey? Why, if
the fellow hasn’t finished up his half already. Here, give me back some
of that money; I’m off for a supper. There is three sticks of wood in
the closet, and a little charcoal; just throw them on the fire, and let
’em blaze away; who cares for the expense! Hurra!”
Away the boy went, bounding down the stairs like a young deer, leaving
Anna and the grandmother in a state of unusual cheerfulness. They raked
up the embers into a little glowing pile, crossed the wood over them,
and filled the tea-kettle as a pleasant preliminary. The hearth, clean
and cold before, was swept again; and as the darkness closed in, the end
of a candle was brought forth and lighted, revealing the desolate room
in gleams of dull light, that struggled hard against the shadows.
“How pleasant it is,” murmured the old lady, leaning toward the fire,
and rubbing her withered hands over each other. “See, darling, how the
firelight dances on the hearth. Hark, now! the kettle is beginning to
sing! That means supper, Joseph.”
“Are you hungry, grandma?” asked the boy, looking up to that kind, old
face.
“Yes, dear, a little.”
“But you wouldn’t eat a bit of the bun.”
“That was because I liked to see you eat it.”
“Oh, how nice it was! When will Robert come back with more?”
“Here I am!” cried Robert, dashing against the door, and forcing it open
with his foot. “Here I am, with lots of good things. There’s a ring of
sausages. Here’s bread and butter, and a little tea for grandma, bless
her darling old heart; and just one slice of sponge-cake for Anna—cake
is awful dear now, or I’d have got enough to treat all round. There’s a
paper of sugar, and—and here they go all on the table at once! Sort ’em
out, Anna, while I run for a pint of milk, and an apple to roast for
grandma. I forgot that. How she does like roasted apples. Get out the
frying-pan, and bustle about, all of you. Isn’t that young Mr. Savage a
splendid fellow? How I’d like to be a drummer-boy in his regiment. Hurry
up, Anna, I’m after the milk!”
Away the boy went again, with a little earthen pitcher in his hands,
happy as a lark.
Anna Burns brought forth the frying-pan, placed the links of sausages in
it, and surrendered them to grandma, who smiled gently on little Joseph
as they began to crisp, and swell, and send forth an appetizing flavor
into the room. The kettle, too, sent forth gushes of warm steam, hissing
and singing like some riotous, living thing held in bondage. Altogether,
the little room grew warmer and pleasanter every moment; and the bright
face of Anna Burns grew radiant as she moved about it, setting out the
table with a few articles of China left from their former comfortable
opulence, and spreading it with a tablecloth of fine damask, so worn and
thin, that the pawnbrokers had rejected it.
“Here we go!” cried Robert, coming in with the milk. “Hurra! all ready,
and the sausages hissing! That’s the time o’ day! Just get down that
China teapot, Anna, and let grandma make the tea. There, Joe, is an
apple for you; I reckon you can eat it without roasting. I’ll put one
down for grandma. Don’t she look jolly, with the firelight dancing over
her? Come, now, all’s ready; bring up the chairs, Josey, that’s your
part of the job.”
Little Joseph fell to work with great spirit, and dragged up the chairs,
while Anna was dishing the sausages and cutting the bread. Then the old
woman drew up to her place nearest the fire, with the teapot before her,
ready to do the honors; and, with her hands folded in meek thankfulness
on the table, asked a blessing on the only food they had tasted in two
days.
Well, God did bless that food, common as it was; and no Roman feast,
where libations were poured out to heathen gods, ever tasted sweeter
than this humble meal. There was quite a jubilee about that little, pine
table; and the old lady, who sat smiling over her teacup, was by no
means the least joyous of the little party. As for Robert, he came out
famously; talked of the brave exploits his father must have performed in
battle; told stories; got up once or twice to kiss his grandmother; and,
altogether, behaved in a very undignified manner for the head of a
family, as he proudly proclaimed himself. Even little Joseph came out of
his natural timidity, and burst into shouts of childish laughter more
than once, when Robert became unusually funny. And as for Anna, she
laughed, and smiled, and talked that evening, till the boys fairly left
their half-empty plates to climb on her chair and caress her. That happy
supper, and the pleasant evening that followed, was enough to reconcile
one with poverty, which, after all, is not the greatest evil on earth.