A CONVERSATION.
WHILST her father was thus attending to Ellen, Miss Graham was
anxiously awaiting his return home. He had left her at Mary's bedside,
whither he had accompanied her. She had waited to see the patient fall
into a deep sleep under the influence of the draught her father had
prescribed before she left her. She quite expected to find him within
when she re-entered her home, and was surprised at his absence, and
still more so when an hour passed and yet he did not come.
"I cannot think what can be keeping papa," she remarked to her cousin,
who was visiting her.
"Oh, he has probably been called to see some new patient," replied her
companion, a pretty young lady, very fashionably dressed. "There's no
accounting for a doctor's movements. Nor for a dressmaker's either,
I'm thinking; they hardly ever keep their word. Mrs. Brown promised me
my dress to-day, but she has not yet sent it. It is so tiresome, for I
wanted particularly to wear it to-morrow."
"Why, you only ordered it on Friday," remarked Miss Graham. "I should
not think she could possibly make it in so short a time."
"No, I did not give her very long, certainly," replied the young
lady. "But I told her I must have it to-day, and she promised me I
should. What is the matter, Theresa? Why do you look so grave? Are you
meditating giving me a lecture on my extravagance?"
"It would not be of much use, I fear," returned her cousin, with a
smile. "Your words made me think of the young girl to whom I took my
father this evening. She used to work for a dressmaker, but lost her
situation because she would not consent to work on Sunday. It was
a great trouble to her, poor girl. She could not get any one else
to employ her, and going about from place to place, in all sorts of
weather, she caught a severe cold, which terminated in this illness:
from which I much fear she will never recover."
"Poor girl! How very sad!" observed her companion. "But why should my
words remind you of her? You don't suppose, I hope, that I should wish
to make any one work on Sunday?"
"I don't think any lady would be so selfish as to wish it, if the
question were put to her," replied Miss Graham. "But when so many
insist upon having their orders executed with all speed, the dressmaker
feels forced to make time somehow, and is tempted to encroach upon the
only day of rest that her apprentices can ever enjoy."
"But what is one to do? One must be properly dressed," returned the
young lady, glancing complacently at her elegant attire. "Excuse me,
Cousin Theresa, but you can't expect every one to be so indifferent to
dress as yourself, or to adopt your Quaker-like simplicity."
"Nay, you need not apologise," replied her cousin, with perfect good
temper. "I feel flattered by your remark, for, excepting the poke
bonnet, I rather admire the style adopted by Quaker ladies. But
surely one can be properly dressed without requiring a new dress for
every occasion, especially if it can only be obtained at the cost of
suffering to others. In such a case we ought, I think, for the sake of
our poorer sisters, to deny ourselves the gratification of appearing in
the latest fashion."
"But surely we help them by giving them plenty of employment. A liberal
expenditure in dress must be good for trade."
"Not necessarily," replied Miss Graham. "It has been proved often
enough that the extravagance of the rich can only exert a baneful
influence upon the condition of the poor. The habits of the upper
classes are imitated by those beneath them, and inexpressible sin and
misery are often the result. If ladies were more considerate towards
those they employ, and more anxious to influence them aright, young
workwomen would not be exposed to the terrible temptations by which
many are overcome."
Miss Graham would have said more, for the subject was one on which she
had thought and felt much, and she was moreover well acquainted with
the circumstances of the class for which she pleaded, but she was here
interrupted by the entrance of her father.
"Oh, papa, what has detained you so long?" she inquired.
In a few words, he described to her what had occurred at Miss
Mansfield's, and the aid he had rendered the sufferer.
Miss Graham's sympathy was warmly excited on Ellen's behalf, and whilst
rapidly questioning her father with regard to the particulars of the
occurrence, she forgot for a while the sad condition of her other
scholar. But presently, remembering her, she inquired anxiously, "What
did you think of Mary Nelson, papa?"
Dr. Graham shook his head, and grew grave.
"She is very ill, Theresa," he replied.
"But she may recover? You do not give up hope?" asked his daughter,
alarmed at his manner.
"Whilst there is life, there is always hope, my dear," was her father's
reply.
Miss Graham asked no further for she knew but too well what those words
meant.