MAKE OR BREAK.
Maggie plied the kind-hearted physician with questions in regard to her
father's condition--with questions which no man with merely human
knowledge could answer. He thought Andre would be able to talk to her
by the next day; but he feared the patient would not be well enough to
resume his place in the shop for weeks, and perhaps months.
Andre appeared to be quite comfortable, and did not seem to be
suffering very severely. The doctor had given him some medicine before
he was removed from the banker's house, and the sick man went to sleep
soon after he was put to bed in his own room. Dr. Fisher then went out
into the rear room, and told Maggie that her father would probably
sleep for several hours.
"I will come again in the morning, Maggie," said he. "Is there anything
I can do for you?"
"Nothing more, I thank you, sir," replied she. "I am very grateful to
you for what you have done."
"I know nothing about your father's circumstances; but if you need any
assistance, I hope you will make it known."
"Thank you, sir; I don't think we need anything," replied Maggie, a
slight blush mantling her pretty face; for the idea of asking or
accepting charity was painful to her.
"I fear it will be a long time before your father will be able to work
again," continued Dr. Fisher, glancing around the room to ascertain, if
possible, whether the singular family were in poverty or in plenty.
"I will take good care of him, whether it be for weeks or for months,
or even for years. You don't know how sorry I am to have poor _mon
pere_ sick; but you can't think what a pleasure it is to me to have
an opportunity to do something for him. I wish I could tell you how
good and kind he has always been to me; how tenderly he watched over me
when I was sick; how lovingly he prayed for me; but I cannot, though it
makes me happy to think I can now do something for him."
"You are a good girl, Maggie, and I don't see how Andre could have done
any less for you," replied the doctor. "Who keeps house here?"
"O, I do that, sir."
"Then you must have to work very hard."
"Indeed, I don't! I have to keep busy almost all day; but it is such a
pleasure to me to know that I am doing something for _mon pere_, that I
never think it is hard at all."
Everything looked so neat and nice in the house that the doctor could
not decide whether any assistance was required or not. He was one of
those good physicians who felt for the poor and the humble. Though he
practised in some of the richest and most aristocratic families in the
city, his mission was not to them alone. He visited the haunts of
poverty, and not only contributed his professional services in their
aid, but he gave with no stinted hand from his own purse to relieve
their wants. When he died, the sermon preached on the Sunday after his
funeral was from the text, "The beloved physician;" and no one ever
went to his reward in heaven who better deserved the praise bestowed
upon him.
In the present instance, he felt that his work was not alone to heal
the sick. His patient was a journeyman barber, with only a boy, and a
girl of fifteen, to depend upon. This same doctor often went among his
friends in State Street, in 'change hours, to preach the gospel of
charity in his own unostentatious way. All gave when he asked, and it
was not a very difficult matter for him to raise fifty or a hundred
dollars for a deserving family. He purposed to do this for those under
the barber's humble roof, who, without being connected by the remotest
tie of blood, were more loving and devoted towards each other than many
whom God had joined by the ties of kindred.
The doctor never told anybody of his good deeds. Hardly did his left
hand know what his right hand did; and one of his eyes, which followed
not the other's apparent line of vision, seemed to be looking out all
the time for some hidden source of human suffering. He was as tender of
the feelings of others as he was of the visible wounds of his patients.
He saw the blush upon the cheeks of Maggie, and he interpreted it as
readily as though the sentiment had been expressed in words. He forbore
to make any further inquiries in regard to the pecuniary condition of
the strange family; but he was determined that all their wants should
be supplied, without injury to their laudable pride. He went away, and
Maggie and Leo were left to themselves.
"You haven't been to supper, Leo," said Maggie, when Dr. Fisher had
gone.
"I don't seem to care about any supper," replied Leo, gloomily.
"You must eat your supper, Leo," added Maggie, as she placed the teapot
on the table. "There are some cold sausages I saved for _mon pere_. Sit
down, Leo. We must work now, and we need all the strength we can get."
Then she crept on tiptoe into the front room, and looked into the face
of the sleeper. He was still slumbering, and she returned to the table,
seating herself in her accustomed place, near the stove. Leo looked
heavy and gloomy, as well he might; for the sad event of that day
promised to blast the bright hopes in which his sanguine nature
revelled. He knew, and Maggie knew, that Andre Maggimore had made no
preparation for the calamity which had so suddenly overtaken him.
It was Wednesday, and the wages of the preceding week were more than
half used. He had no money, no resources, no friends upon whom he could
depend, to fall back on in the day of his weakness. The barber was
faithful and affectionate as a woman, but he had no business
calculation, and his forethought rarely extended beyond the duration of
a single week. While he owed no man anything, and never contracted any
debts, he had never saved a dollar beyond what he had invested in
furnishing the small house.
The dark day had come, and Leo was the first to see it. In another
week, or, at most, in two weeks, every dollar the barber had would have
been spent. It was plain enough to him that he could not continue to
attend school till exhibition day came, and he would lose the medal he
coveted, and for which he had worked most diligently. Maggie poured out
his cup of tea, and handed it to him. He was eating his supper; but his
head was bowed down.
"Leo," said she.
He looked up with a start, took his tea, and immediately lost himself
again.
"Leo!" added Maggie, in her peculiarly tender tones.
He looked up again.
"What are you thinking about, Leo?" she continued, gazing earnestly at
him. "I need not ask you, Leo. You are thinking of poor _mon pere_."
"I was thinking of him. I was thinking, too, that I should lose my
medal now," replied Leo, gloomily.
"Fie on your medal! Don't think of such a trifle as that!" she added,
gently rebuking the selfish thought of her brother.
"You don't quite understand me, Maggie."
"I hope you are not thinking of yourself, Leo--only of _mon pere_."
"I was thinking that he has worked for me, and now I must work for him.
I must give up my school now."
"You must, indeed, Leo."
"We can't stay in this house unless we pay the rent. Father made ten
dollars a week, and it took every cent of it to pay the expenses. What
shall we do now?"
"We must both work."
"We can't make ten dollars a week if both of us work. But you can't do
anything more than take care of father. I don't see how we are going to
get along. Fitz Wittleworth has only five dollars a week at Mr.
Checkynshaw's. If he gave me the same wages, it wouldn't more than half
pay our expenses."
Maggie looked puzzled and perplexed at this plain statement. It was a
view of the situation she had not before taken, and she could not
suggest any method of solving the difficult problem.
"We can reduce our expenses," said she, at last, a cheerful glow
lighting up her face as she seemed to have found the remedy.
"You can't reduce them. The doctor's bill and the medicines will more
than make up for anything we can save in things to eat and drink."
"That's very true, Leo. What shall we do?" inquired Maggie,
sorrowfully, as her ingenious argument was overthrown.
"I don't know what we can do. They say doctors charge a dollar a visit,
and that will make seven dollars a week. The medicines will cost
another dollar, at least, perhaps two or three. That makes eight
dollars. Even if we save three dollars a week in provisions and such
things, it will cost fifteen dollars a week. I might as well try to fly
as to make that. I couldn't do it. It's half as much again as father
could make."
"O, dear!" sighed Maggie, appalled by this array of financial demands.
"I suppose the doctor won't bring in his bill yet a while," added Leo.
"But we must pay him. _Mon pere_ would worry himself to death in a
short time if he knew he was getting in debt."
"I don't see how we can do it."
Leo relapsed into silence again, and finished his supper. The problem
troubled him. He sat down by the stove, and did not move for half an
hour. Maggie cleared off the table, washed the dishes and put them
away, creeping stealthily into the front room every few moments to
assure herself that all was well with her father.
"Leo, don't worry any more. We shall be cared for somehow. Our good
Father in heaven will watch over us in the future, as he has in the
past. Trust in God, Leo," said Maggie, impressively. "I will not worry
any more, and you must not."
"I will trust in God; but God expects me to do something more than
that. He helps those who help themselves. I am going to do something!"
exclaimed he, springing to his feet. "MAKE OR BREAK, I'm going to do my
duty; I'm going to do my whole duty."
"What are you going to do, Leo?"
"I don't know yet; but, make or break, I'm going to do something. It's
no use for me to work for Mr. Checkynshaw at five dollars a week, when
it will cost us fifteen dollars a week to get along. I'm going to do
something," continued Leo, as he took a lamp from the shelf and lighted
it.
Then he stopped before Maggie, and looked her full in the face, his
eyes lighting up with unusual lustre.
"Why, what's the matter, Leo? What makes you look at me so?"
"Maggie, Andre is not our own father; but he has done all that an own
father could do for us. Maggie, let me take your hand."
She gave him her hand, and was awed by the impressive earnestness of
his manner.
"Maggie, I'm going to do my duty now. I want to promise you that poor
father shall never want for anything. I want to promise you that I will
do all for him that a real son could do."
"Good, kind Leo! We will both do our whole duty."
Leo dropped her hand, and went down stairs into his workshop. The white
mice were capering and gamboling about their palatial abodes, all
unconscious that poor Andre had been stricken down. Leo gave them their
suppers, and sat down on the work-bench. He was in deep thought, and
remained immovable for a long time.
He was a natural mechanic. His head was full of mechanical ideas. Was
there not some useful article which he could make and sell--a
boot-jack, a work-box, a writing-desk--something new and novel? He had
half a dozen such things in his mind, and he was thinking which one it
would pay best to mature. His thought excited him, and he twisted about
on the bench, knocking a chisel on the floor. The noise frightened the
mice, and they made a stampede to their nests. He looked up at them.
"That's an idea!" exclaimed he, leaping off the bench. "Make or break,
I'll put it through!"