CHAPTER I.

Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.

WOMAN'S TRIALS;

OR, TALES AND SKETCHES FROM THE LIFE AROUND US.

BY

T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1851.

PREFACE.

THE title of this volume sufficiently indicates its purpose. The

stories of which it is composed have been mainly written with the end

of creating for woman, in the various life-trials through which she has

to pass, sympathy and true consideration, as well in her own sex as in

ours. We are all too much engrossed in what concerns ourselves--in our

own peculiar wants, trials, and sufferings--to give that thought to

others which true humanity should inspire. To the creator of fictitious

histories is, therefore, left the task of reminding us of our duty, by

presenting pictures from the world of life around us--moving pictures,

in which we may not only see the effect of our actions upon others, but

also the relations of others to society, and thus learn to sympathize

with the tried and the tempted, the suffering and the oppressed, the

grief-stricken and the mourner. It is good for us, at times, to forget

ourselves; to think of others and feel a heart-warm interest in all

that concerns them. If the perusal of this volume has such an effect

upon the reader's mind, it will accomplish all that its author desires;

for right feeling is but the prompter to right action.

This book is to be followed, immediately, by other volumes, to the

number of twelve, printed in uniform style: the series, when complete,

to be called, "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD."

"MARRIED LIFE," the volume to come after this, is passing through the

press, and will be ready for publication in a few days.

CONTENTS.

A LESSON OF PATIENCE

I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT

TAKING BOARDERS.

PLAIN SEWING; OR, HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR

JESSIE HAMPTON

THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT

AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE

HOME AT LAST

GOING HOME

WOMAN'S TRIALS.

A LESSON OF PATIENCE.

I WAS very unhappy, from a variety of causes, definable and

undefinable. My chambermaid had been cross for a week, and, by talking

to my cook, had made her dissatisfied with her place. The mother of

five little children, I felt that I had a weight of care and

responsibility greater than I could support. I was unequal to the task.

My spirits fell under its bare contemplation. Then I had been

disappointed in a seamstress, and my children were, as the saying is,

"in rags." While brooding over these and other disheartening

circumstances, Netty, my chambermaid, opened the door of the room where

I was sitting, (it was Monday morning,) and said--

"Harriet has just sent word that she is sick, and can't come to-day."

"Then you and Agnes will have to do the washing," I replied, in a

fretful voice; this new source of trouble completely breaking me down.

"Indeed, ma'am," replied Netty, tossing her head and speaking with some

pertness, "_I_ can't do the washing. I didn't engage for any thing but

chamber-work."

And so saying she left me to my own reflections. I must own to feeling

exceedingly angry, and rose to ring the bell for Netty to return, in

order to tell her that she could go to washing or leave the house, as

best suited her fancy. But the sudden recollection of a somewhat

similar collision with a former chambermaid, in which I was worsted,

and compelled to do my own chamber-work for a week, caused me to

hesitate, and, finally, to sit down and indulge in a hearty fit of

crying.

When my husband came home at dinnertime, things did not seem very

pleasant for him, I must own. I had on a long, a very long face--much

longer than it was when he went away in the morning.

"Still in trouble, I see, Jane," said he. "I wish you would try and

take things a little more cheerfully. To be unhappy about what is not

exactly agreeable doesn't help the matter any, but really makes it

worse."

"If you had to contend with what I have to contend with, you wouldn't

talk about things being _exactly agreeable,_" I replied to this. "It is

easy enough to talk. I only wish you had a little of my trouble; you

wouldn't think so lightly of it."

"What is the great trouble now, Jane?" said my husband, without being

at all fretted with my unamiable temper. "Let us hear. Perhaps I can

suggest a remedy."

"If you will get me a washerwoman, you will exceedingly oblige me,"

said I.

"Where is Harriet?" he asked.

"She is sick, or pretends to be, I don't know which."

"Perhaps she will be well enough to do your washing to-morrow,"

suggested my husband.

"Perhaps is a poor dependence."

I said this with a tartness that ill repaid my husband's effort to

comfort me. I saw that he felt the unkindness of my manner, in the

slight shade that passed over his face.

"Can't you get some one else to do your washing this week?"

I made no reply. The question was easily asked. After that, my husband

was silent,--silent in that peculiar way that I understood, too well,

as the effect of my words, or tones, or state of mind. Here was another

cause for unhappiness, in the reflection that I had disturbed my

husband's peace.

I am sure that I did not much look like a loving wife and mother as I

presided at the dinner table that day. The children never seemed so

restless and hard to manage; and I could not help speaking to them,

every now and then, "as if I would take their heads off;" but to little

good effect.

After my husband went away on finishing his dinner, I went to bed, and

cried for more than half the afternoon. Oh! how wretched I felt! Life

seemed an almost intolerable burden.

Then my mind grew more composed, and I tried to think about what was to

be done. The necessity for having the clothes washed was absolute; and

this roused me, at length, as the most pressing domestic duty, into

thinking so earnestly, that I presently rang the bell for Netty, who

came in her own good time.

"Tell Agnes that I want to see her," said I, not in a very good-natured

way.

The effect was that Netty left the chamber without replying, and

slammed the door hard after her, which mark of disrespect set my blood

to boiling. In a little while my cook made her appearance.

"Agnes," said I, "do you know of any one that can get to do the washing

this week?"

Agnes thought for a few moments, and then replied--

"There's a poor woman who lives near my mother's. I think she goes out

to wash sometimes."

"I wish you would step round and see if she can't come here to-morrow."

Agnes said that she would do so.

"Tell her she must come," said I.

"Very well, ma'am."

And Agnes withdrew.

In an hour she tame back, and said that she had seen the woman, who

promised to come.

"What is her name?" I asked.

"Mrs. Partridge," was answered.

"You think she won't disappoint me?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I don't think Mrs. Partridge is the kind of a woman to

promise and then disappoint a person."

It was some relief to think I was going to get my washing done; but the

idea of having the ironing about all the week fretted my mind. And no

sooner was this leading trouble set aside, than I began to worry about

the children's clothes, and the prospect of losing my cook, who had

managed my kitchen more to my satisfaction than any one had ever done

before.

The promise for a pleasant hour at home was but little more flattering

to my husband, when he returned in the evening, than it had been at

dinner time. I was still in a sombre mood.

In the morning Mrs. Partridge came early and commenced the washing.

There was something in this woman's appearance that interested me, and

something in her face that reminded me of somebody I had seen before;

but when and where I could not tell. Although her clothes were poor and

faded, there was nothing common about her, and she struck me as being

superior to her class. Several times during the morning I had to go

into the kitchen where she was at work, and each time her appearance

impressed me more and more. An emotion of pity arose in my bosom, as I

saw her bending over the washing tub, and remembered that, for this

hard labour during a whole day, the pay was to be but seventy-five

cents. And yet there was an air of meek patience, if not contentment,

in her face; while I, who had every thing from which I ought to have

derived happiness, was dissatisfied and full of trouble. While in her

presence I felt rebuked for my complaining spirit.

At dinner time Mrs. Partridge came to my room, and with a gentle,

patient smile on her face, said--

"If you have no objections, ma'am, I would like to run home for a few

minutes to nurse my baby and give the children something to eat. I'll

make up the time."

"Go by all means," I replied, with an effort to speak calmly.

The woman turned, and went quickly away.

"Run home to nurse the baby and give the children something to eat!"

The words went through and through me. So unexpected a request,

revealing, as it did, the existence of such biting poverty in one who

was evidently bearing her hard lot without a murmur, made me feel

ashamed of myself for complaining at things which I ought to have borne

with a cheerful spirit. I had a comfortable, in fact a luxurious, home,

a kind and provident husband, and servants to do every thing in my

house. There was no lack of the means for procuring every natural good

I might reasonably desire. But, between the means and the attainment of

the natural blessings I sought, there were many obstacles; and, instead

of going to work in a cheerful, confident spirit to remove those

obstacles, I suffered their interposition to make me unhappy; and not

me alone, but my husband and all around me. But here was a poor woman,

compelled to labour hard with her hands before she could obtain even

the means for supplying nature's most pressing wants, doing her duty

with an earnest, resigned, and hopeful spirit!

"It is wicked in me to feel as I do," I could not help saying, as I

made an effort to turn away from the picture that was before me.

When Mrs. Partridge came back, which was in about half an hour, I said

to her--

"Did you find all safe at home?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," she answered cheerfully.

"How old is your baby?"

"Eleven months old, ma'am."

"Is your husband living?"

"No, ma'am; he died more than a year ago."

"How many children have you?"

"Four."

"All young?"

"Yes, ma'am. The oldest is only in her tenth year, but she is a good

little girl, and takes care of the baby for me almost as well as a

grown person. I don't know what I would do without her."

"But ain't you afraid to leave them all at home alone, for so long a

time?"

"No, ma'am. Jane takes excellent care of them, and she is so kind that

they will obey her as well as they do me. I don't know what in the

world I would do without her. I am certainly blessed in having so good

a child."

"And only in her tenth year!" said I--the image of my Alice coming

before my mind, with the thought of the little use she would be as a

nurse and care-taker of her younger brothers and sisters.

"She is young, I know," returned the washerwoman--"too young to be

confined down as much as she is. But then she is a very patient child,

and knows that her mother has a great deal to do. I often wish it was

easier for her; though, as it can't be helped, I don't let it fret me,

for you know that would do no good."

"But how in the world, Mrs. Partridge," said I, "do you manage to

provide for four children, and do for them at the same time?"

"I find it hard work," she replied; "and sometimes I feel discouraged

for a little while; but by patience and perseverance I manage to get

along."

Mrs. Partridge went to her washing, and I sat down in my comfortable

room, having a servant in every department of my family, and ample

means for the supply of every comfort and luxury I could reasonably

desire.

"If she can get along by patience and perseverance," said I to myself,

"it's a shame for me that I can't." Still, for all this, when I thought

of losing my cook through the bad influence of Netty, the chambermaid,

I felt worried; and thinking about this, and what I should do for

another cook, and the trouble always attendant upon bringing a new

domestic into the house, made me, after a while, feel almost as unhappy

as before. It was not long before Netty came into my room, saying, as

she did so--

"Mrs. Smith, what frock shall I put on Alice?"

"The one with a blue sprig," I replied.

"That's in the wash," was answered.

"In the wash!" said I, in a fretful tone. "How came it in the wash?"

"It was dirty."

"No, it wasn't any such thing. It would have done very well for her to

put on as a change to-day and to-morrow."

"Well, ma'am, it's in the wash, and no help for it now," said Netty,

quite pertly.

I was dreadfully provoked with her, and had it on my tongue to order

her to leave my presence instantly. But I choked down my rising

indignation.

"Take the red and white one, then," said I.

"The sleeve's nearly torn off of that. There isn't any one that she can

wear except her white muslin."

"Oh dear! It's too bad! What shall I do? The children are all in rags

and tatters!"

And in this style I fretted away for three or four minutes, while Netty

stood waiting for my decision as to what Alice was to wear.

"Shall she put on the white muslin?" she at length asked.

"No, indeed! Certainly not! A pretty condition she'd have it in before

night! Go and get me the red and white frock, and I will mend it. You

aught to have told me it was torn this morning. You knew there was

nothing for the child to put on ut this. I never saw such a set as you

are!"

Netty flirted away, grumbling to herself. When she came in, she threw

the frock into my lap with manner so insolent and provoking that I

could hardly keep from breaking out upon her and rating her soundly.

One thing that helped to restrain me was the recollection of sundry

ebullitions of a like nature that had neither produced good effects nor

left my mind in a state of much self-respect or tranquillity.

I repaired the torn sleeve, while Netty stood by. It was the work of

but five minutes.

"Be sure," said I, as I handed the garment to Netty, "to see that one

of Alice's frocks is ironed first thing to-morrow morning."

The girl heard, of course, but she made no answer. That was rather more

of a condescension than she was willing to make just then.

Instead of thinking how easily the difficulty of the clean frock for

Alice had been gotten over, I began fretting myself because I had not

been able to procure a seamstress, although the children were "all in

rags and tatters."

"What is to be done?" I said, half crying, as I began to rock myself

backward and forward in the great rocking-chair. "I am out of all

heart." For an hour I continued to rock and fret myself, and then came

to the desperate resolution to go to work and try what I could do with

my own hands. But where was I to begin? What was I to take hold of

first? All the children were in rags.

"Not one of them has a decent garment to his back," said I.

So, after worrying for a whole hour about what I should do, and where I

should begin, I abandoned the idea of attempting any thing myself, in

despair, and concluded the perplexing debate by taking another hearty

crying-spell. The poor washerwoman was forgotten during most of this

afternoon. My own troubles were too near the axis of vision, and shut

out all other objects.

The dusky twilight had begun to fall, and I was still sitting idly in

my chamber, and as unhappy as I could be. I felt completely

discouraged. How _was_ I to get along? I had been trying for weeks, in

vain, to get a good seamstress; and yet had no prospect of obtaining

one. I was going to lose my cook, and, in all probability, my

chambermaid. What would I do? No light broke in through the cloudy veil

that overhung my mind. The door opened, and Agnes, who had come up to

my room, said--

"Mrs. Partridge is done."

I took out my purse, and had selected therefrom the change necessary to

pay the washerwoman, when a thought of her caused me to say--

"Tell Mrs. Partridge to come up and see me."

My thoughts and feelings were changing. By the time the washerwoman

came in, my interest in her was alive again.

"Sit down," said I, to the tired-looking creature who sank into a

chair, evidently much wearied.

"It's hard work, Mrs. Partridge," said I.

"Yes, ma'am, it is rather hard. But I am thankful for health and

strength to enable me to go through with it. I know some poor women who

have to work as hard as I do, and yet do not know what it is to feel

well for an hour at a time."

"Poor creatures!" said I. "It is very hard! How in the world can they

do it?"

"We can do a great deal, ma'am, when it comes the pinch; and it is much

pleasanter to do, I find, than to think about it. If I were to think

much I should give up in despair. But I pray the Lord each morning to

give me my daily bread, and thus far he has done it, and will, I am

sure, continue to do it to the end."

"Happy it is for you that you can so think and feel," I replied. "But I

am sure I could not be as you are, Mrs. Partridge. It would kill me."

"I sincerely trust, ma'am, that you will never be called to pass

through what I have," said Mrs. Partridge. "And yet there are those who

have it still harder. There was a time when the thought of being as

poor as I now am, and of having to work so hard, would have been

terrible to me; and yet I do not know that I was so very much happier

then than I am now, though I confess I ought to have been. I had full

and plenty of every thing brought into the house by my husband, and had

only to dispense in my family the blessings of God sent to us. But I

let things annoy me then more than they do now."

"But how can you help being worried, Mrs. Partridge? To be away from my

children as you have been away from yours all day would set me wild. I

would be sure some of them would be killed or dreadfully hurt."

"Children are wonderfully protected," said Mrs. Partridge, in a

confident voice.

"So they are. But to think of four little children, the youngest eleven

months and the oldest not ten years old, left all alone, for a whole

day!"

"It is bad when we think about it, I know," returned Mrs. Partridge.

"It looks very bad! But I try and put that view of it out of my mind.

When I leave them in the morning they say they will be good children.

At dinner time I sometimes find them all fast asleep or playing about.

I never find them crying, or at all unhappy. Jane loves the younger

ones, and keeps them pleased all the time. In the evening, when I get

back from my work, there is generally no one awake but Jane. She has

given them the bread and milk I left for their suppers, and undressed

and put them to bed."

"Dear little girl! What a treasure she must be!" I could not help

saying.

"She is, indeed. I don't see how I could get along without her."

"You could not get along at all."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I could. Some way would be provided for me," was the

confident reply.

I looked into the poor woman's face with wonder and admiration. So

patient, so trustful, and yet so very poor. The expression of her

countenance was beautiful in its calm religious hope, and it struck me

more than ever as familiar.

"Did I ever see you before, Mrs. Partridge?" I asked.

"Indeed, ma'am, I don't know. I am sure I have seen you somewhere. No,

now I recollect; it is your likeness to a young schoolmate that makes

your face so familiar. How much you do favour her, now I look at you

more closely."

"What was her name?" I asked.

"Her name was Flora S----."

"Indeed! Why, that was my name!"

"Your name! Did you go to Madame Martier's school?"

"I did."

"And can you indeed be my old schoolmate, Flora S----?"

"My maiden name was Flora S----, and I went to Madame Martier's. Your

face is also familiar, but how to place you I do not know."

"Don't you remember Helen Sprague?"

"Helen Sprague! This can't be Helen Sprague, surely! Yes! I remember

now. Why, Helen?" and I stepped forward and grasped her hand. "I am

both glad and sorry to see you. To think that, after the lapse of

fifteen years, we should meet thus! How in the world is it that fortune

has been so unkind to you? I remember hearing it said that you had

married very well."

"I certainly never had cause to regret my marriage," replied Mrs.

Partridge, with more feeling than she had yet shown. "While my husband

lived I had every external blessing that I could ask. But, just before

he died, somehow or other he got behind-hand in his business, and after

his death, there being no one to see to things, what he left was seized

upon and sold, leaving me friendless and almost penniless. Since then,

the effort to get food and clothes for my children has been so constant

and earnest, that I have scarcely had time to sit down and grieve over

my losses and sufferings. It is one perpetual struggle for life. And

yet, though I cannot now keep the tears from my eyes, I will not say

that I am unhappy. Thus far, all things necessary for me have come. I

yet have my little flock together, and a place that bears the sacred

name of home."

I looked into Helen's face, over which tears were falling, and wondered

if I were not dreaming. At school she had been the favourite of all,

she was so full of good humour, and had such a cheerful, peace-loving

spirit. Her parents were poor, but respectable people, who died when

Helen was fifteen years old. She was then taken from school, and I

never saw her afterward until she came to my house in the capacity of a

washerwoman, hundreds of miles away from the scenes of our early years.

"But can't you find easier work than washing?" I asked. "Are you not

handy with your needle?"

"The only work I have been able to get has been from the clothing men,

and they pay so little that I can't live on it."

"Can you do fine sewing?" I asked.

"Yes, I call myself handy with my needle."

"Can you make children's clothes?"

"Boy's clothes?"

"No. Girl's clothing."

"Oh, yes."

"I'm very much in want of some one. My children are all in"--rags and

tatters I was going to say, but I checked myself--"are all in need of

clothes, and so far I have not been able to get anybody to sew for me.

If you like, I will give you three or four weeks' sewing at least."

"I shall be very glad to have it, and very thankful for your kindness

in offering it to me," returned Mrs. Partridge, rising from her chair,

and adding as she did so--

"But I must be getting home. It is nearly dark, and Jane will be

anxious to see me back again."

I handed her the seventy-five cents she had earned for washing for me

during a whole day. Promising to come over and see me early in the

morning about the sewing, she withdrew, and I was left again to my own

reflections.

"If ever a murmurer and complainer received a severe rebuke, it is I!"

was the first almost audible thought that passed through my mind. "To

think that I, with my cup full and running over with blessings, should

make myself and all around me unhappy, because a few minor things are

not just to my satisfaction, while this woman, who toils like a slave

from morning until night, and who can hardly procure food and clothing

for her children, from whom she is almost constantly separated, is

patient and hopeful, makes me feel as if I deserved to lose what I have

refused to enjoy."

On the next morning Mrs. Partridge called quite early. She cut and

fitted several frocks for the children, at which work she seemed very

handy, and then took them home to make. She sewed for me five weeks,

and then got work in another family where I recommended her. Since

then, she has been kept constantly employed in sewing, at good prices,

by about six families. In all of these I have spoken of her and created

an interest in her favour. The mere wages that she earns is much less

than what she really receives. All her children's clothes are given to

her, and she receives many a bag of meal and load of coal without

knowing from whence it comes. In fact, her condition is more

comfortable in every way than it was, and, in fact, so is mine. The

lesson of patience I learned from Mrs. Partridge in my first, and in

many subsequent interviews, impressed itself deeply upon my mind, and

caused me to look at and value the good I had, rather than fret over

the few occurrences that were not altogether to my wishes. I saw, too,

how the small trouble to me had been the means of working out a great

good to her. My need of a washerwoman, about which I had been so

annoyed, and the temporary want of a seamstress which I had

experienced--light things as they should have been--led me to search

about for aid, and, providentially, to fall upon Mrs. Partridge, who

needed just what it was in my power to do for her.

Whenever I find myself falling into my old habit, which I am sorry to

say is too frequently the case, I turn my thoughts to this poor woman,

who is still toiling on under heavy life-burdens, yet with meekness and

patience, and bowing my head in shame, say--

"If _she_ is thankful for the good she has, how deep should be _my_

gratitude!"

I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT!

MR. LAWSON, the tailor, was considered a very good member of society.

He was industrious, paid what he owed, was a kind husband and father

and a pleasant and considerate neighbour. He was, moreover, attached to

the church, and, by his brethren in the faith, considered a pious and

good man. And, to say the truth, Mr. Lawson would compare favourably

with most people.

One day as Mr. Lawson stood at his cutting board, shears in hand, a

poorly dressed young woman entered his shop, and approaching him,

asked, with some embarrassment and timidity, if he had any work to give

out.

"What can you do?" asked the tailor, looking rather coldly upon his

visitor.

"I can make pantaloons and vests," replied the girl.

"Have you ever worked for the merchant tailors?"

"Yes, sir, I worked for Mr. Wright."

"Hasn't he any thing for you to do?"

"No, not just now. He has regular hands who always get the preference."

"Did your work suit him?"

"He never found fault with it."

"Where do you live?"

"In Cherry street," replied the young woman.

"At No.--."

Mr. Lawson stood and mused for a short time.

"I have a vest here," he at length said, taking a small bundle from a

shelf, "which I want by tomorrow evening at the latest. If you think

you can make it very neatly, and have it done in time, you can take it."

"It shall be done in time," said the young woman, reaching out eagerly

for the bundle.

"And remember, I shall expect it made well. If I like your work, I will

give you more."

"I will try to please you," returned the girl, in a low voice.

"To-morrow evening, recollect."

"Yes, sir. I will have it done."

The girl turned and went quickly away. As she walked along hurriedly,

her slender form bent forward, and there was an unsteadiness in her

steps, as if from weakness. She did not linger a moment, nor heed any

thing that was passing in the street.

A back room in the third story of an old house in Cherry street was the

home of the poor sewing girl. As she entered, she said, in a cheerful

voice, to a person who was lying upon a bed which the room contained--

"I have got work, sister. It is a vest, and it must be done by

to-morrow evening."

"Can you finish it in time?" inquired the invalid in a faint voice.

"Oh, yes, easily;" and as she spoke, she laid off her bonnet and shawl

hurriedly and sat down to unroll the work she had obtained.

The vest proved to be of white Marseilles. As soon as the invalid

sister saw this, she said--

"I'm afraid you won't be able to get that done in time, Ellen; it is

very particular work. To stitch the edges well will alone take you many

hours."

"I will sit up late, and get a fair start to-night, Mary. Then I can

easily finish it in time. You know a vest is only a day's work for a

good sewer, and I have nearly a day and a half before me."

"Yes; but you must remember, Ellen, that you are not very fast with

your needle, and are, besides, far from being well. The work, too, is

of the most particular kind, and cannot be hurried."

"Don't fear for me in the least, Mary. I will do all I have engaged to

do," and the young woman, who had already arranged the cut-out garment,

took a portion of it in her lap and commenced her task.

The two sisters, here introduced, were poor, in bad health, and without

friends. Mary, the older, had declined rapidly within a few months, and

become so much exhausted as to be obliged to keep her bed most of the

time. The task of providing for the wants of both fell, consequently,

upon Ellen. Increased exertion was more than her delicate frame could

well endure. Daily were the vital energies of her system becoming more

and more exhausted, a fact of which she was painfully conscious, and

which she, with studious care, sought to conceal from Mary.

When, through loss of friends and change of circumstances, the two

sisters were thrown entirely dependent upon their own exertions for a

livelihood, they, with prudent forethought, immediately applied

themselves to the learning of a trade in order to have the means of

support. Confinement for twelve or fourteen hours a day, sitting in one

position--a great change for them--could not long be endured without

producing ill effects on frail young creatures at best. Mary, the

older, failed first; and, at the time of which we are writing, had so

far declined as to be little more than the shadow of any thing earthly.

With her own unaided hands, Ellen found it impossible to earn enough

for even their most simple need. Often Mary was without medicine,

because there was no money left after food and fuel were bought. More

and more earnestly did Ellen apply herself as want came in more varied

shapes; but the returns of her labour became daily less and less

adequate to meet the demands of nature.

The busy season had passed, and trade was dull. Ellen worked for only

two merchant tailors, and with them she was considered an extra hand.

When business fell off, as the season approached towards mid-summer,

she was the first to receive notice that no more work could be given

out for the present. With a disheartened feeling she returned home on

receiving this intelligence. Mary saw that something was wrong the

moment she entered, and tenderly inquired the cause of her trouble. On

learning what it was, she endeavoured to comfort and assure her, but to

little purpose.

As soon as Ellen could regain sufficient composure of mind, she went

forth in search of work at other shops. To one of her peculiar, timid,

and shrinking disposition this was a severe trial. But there was no

passing it by. Three days elapsed, during which every effort to get

work proved unsuccessful. Even the clothing stores had nothing to give

out to extra hands.

Reduced to their last penny, Ellen was almost in despair, when she

called upon Mr. Lawson. The garment he gave her to make seemed to her

like help sent from heaven. Cheerfully did she work upon it until a

late hour at night, and she was ready to resume her labour with the

rising sun. But, as Mary had feared, the work did not progress

altogether to her satisfaction. She had never made over one or two

white Marseilles vests, and found that she was not so well skilled in

the art of neat and accurate stitching as was required to give the

garment a beautiful and workmanlike appearance. The stitches did not

impress themselves along the edges with the accuracy that her eye told

her was required, and she was troubled to find that, be as careful as

she would, the pure white fabric grew soiled beneath her fingers. Mary,

to whom she frequently submitted the work, tried to encourage her; but

her eyes were not deceived.

It was after dark when Ellen finished the garment. She was weary and

faint; for she had taken no food since morning, and had been bending

over her work, with very little intermission, the whole day; and she

had no hope of receiving any thing more to do, for Mr. Lawson, she was

sure, would not be pleased with the way the vest was made. But, want of

every thing, and particularly food for herself and sister, made the sum

of seventy-five cents, to be received for the garment, a little

treasure in her eyes; and she hurried off with the vest the moment it

was finished.

"I will bring home a little tea, sister," she said, as she was about

leaving; "I am sure a cup of tea will do you good; and I feel as if it

would revive and strengthen me."

Mary looked at Ellen with a tender, pitying expression, while her large

bright eyes shone glassy in the dim rays sent forth by a poor lamp; but

she did not reply. She had a gnawing in her stomach, that made her feel

faint, and a most earnest craving for nourishing and even stimulating

food, the consequence of long abstinence as well as from the

peculiarity of her disease. But she did not breathe a word of this to

Ellen, who would, she knew, expend for her every cent of the money she

was about to receive, if she was aware of the morbid appetite from

which she was suffering.

"I will be back soon," added Ellen, as she retired from the room.

Mary sighed deeply when alone. She raised her eyes upwards for a few

moments, then closing them and clasping her hands tightly together, she

lay with her white face turned towards the light, more the image of

death than of life.

"Here it is past eight o'clock, and that vest is not yet in," said Mr.

Lawson, in a fretful tone. "I had my doubts about the girl when I gave

it to her. But she looked so poor, and seemed so earnest about work,

that I was weak enough to intrust her with the garment. But I will take

care, another time, how I let my feeling get the better of my judgment."

Before the individual had time to reply, Ellen came in with the vest,

and laid it on the counter, at which the tailor was standing. She said

nothing, neither did the tailor make any remark; but the latter

unfolded the vest in the way that plainly showed him not to be in a

very placid frame of mind.

"Goodness!" he ejaculated, after glancing hurriedly at the garment.

The girl shrunk back from the counter, and looked frightened.

"Well, this is a pretty job for one to bring in!" said the tailor, in

an excited tone of voice. "A pretty job, indeed! It looks as if it had

been dragged through a duck puddle. And such work!"

He tossed the garment from him in angry contempt, and walked away to

the back part of the shop, leaving Ellen standing almost as still as a

statue.

"That vest was to have been home to-night," he said, as he threw

himself into a chair. "Of course, the customer will be disappointed and

angry, and I shall lose him. But I don't care half so much for that, as

I do for not being able to keep my word with him. It is too much!"

Ellen would have instantly retired, but the thought of her sick sister

forced her to remain. She felt that she could not go until she had

received the price of making the vest, for their money was all gone,

and they had no food in the house. She had lingered for a little while,

when the tailor called out to her, and said--

"You needn't stand there, Miss! thinking that I am going to pay you for

ruining the job. It's bad enough to lose my material, and customer into

the bargain. In justice you should be made to pay for the vest. But

there is no hope for that. So take yourself away as quickly as

possible, and never let me set eyes on you again."

Ellen did not reply, but turned away slowly, and, with her eyes upon

the floor and her form drooping, retired from the shop. After she had

gone, Mr. Lawson returned to the front part of the store, and taking up

the vest, brought it back to where an elderly man was sitting, and

holding it towards him, said, by way of apology for the part he had

taken in the little scene:

"That's a beautiful article for a gentleman to wear--isn't it?"

The man made no reply, and the tailor, after a pause, added--

"I refused to pay her, as a matter of principle. She knew she couldn't

make the garment when she took it away. She will be more careful how

she tries again to impose herself upon customer tailors as a good vest

maker."

"Perhaps," said the old gentleman, in a mild way, "necessity drove her

to you for work, and tempted her to undertake a job that required

greater skill than she possessed. She certainly looked very poor."

"It was because she appeared so poor and miserable that I was weak

enough to place the vest in her hands," replied Mr. Lawson, in a less

severe tone of voice. "But it was an imposition in her to ask for work

that she did not know how to make."

"Brother Lawson," said the old gentleman, who was a fellow member of

the church, "we should not blame, with too much severity, the person

who, in extreme want, undertakes to perform work for which he does not

possess the requisite skill. The fact that a young girl, like the one

who was just here, is willing, in her extreme poverty, to labour,

instead of sinking into vice and idleness, shows her to possess both

virtue and integrity of character, and these we should be willing to

encourage, even at some sacrifice. Work is slack now, as you are aware,

and there is but little doubt that she had been to many places seeking

employment before she came to you. It may be--and this is a very

probable suggestion--that she did not come to you for work until she,

and those who may be dependent upon the meagre returns of her labour,

were reduced to the utmost extremity. And, it may be, that even their

next meal was dependent upon the receipt of the money that was expected

to be paid for making the vest you hold in your hand. The expression of

her face as she turned away, and her slow, lingering step and drooping

form, as she left the shop, had in them a language which told me of all

this, and even more."

A great change came over the tailor's countenance.

"I didn't think of that," fell in a low tone from his lips.

"I didn't suppose you did, brother Lawson," said his monitor. "We are

all more apt to think of ourselves than of others. The girl promised

you the vest this evening?"

"Yes."

"And, so far as that was concerned, performed her contract. Is the vest

made so very badly?"

Mr. Lawson took up the garment, and examined it more carefully.

"Well, I can't say that the work is so very badly done. But it is

dreadfully soiled and rumpled, and is not as neat a job as it should

be, nor at all such as I wished it. The customer for whom it is

intended is very particular, and I was anxious to please him."

"All this is very annoying, of course; but still we should always be

ready to make some excuse for the short-comings of others. There is no

telling under how many disadvantages the poor girl may have laboured in

making this vest. She may have had a sick mother, or a father, or

sister to attend to, which constantly interfered with and interrupted

her. She may have been compelled, from this cause, to work through a

greater part of the night, in order to keep her promise to you. Under

such circumstances, even you could hardly wonder if the garment were

not made well, or if it came soiled from her hands. And even you could

hardly find it in your heart to speak unkindly to the poor creature,

much less turn her away angrily, and without the money she had toiled

for so earnestly."

"I didn't think of that," was murmured in a low abstracted voice.

"Who could wonder," continued the old man, "if that unhappy girl,

deprived of the reward of honest labour, and driven angrily away as you

drove her just now, should in despair step aside into ruin, thus

sacrificing herself, body and soul, in order to save from want and

deprivation those she could not sustain by virtuous toil?"

"I didn't think of that," fell quick and in an agitated voice from the

tailor's lips, as, dropping the garment he held in his hand, he hurried

around his counter and left the shop.

Ellen was not tempted as the friend of Mr. Lawson had supposed; but

there are hundreds who, under like circumstances, would have turned

aside. From the shop of the tailor she went slowly homeward; at her

heart was a feeling of utter despondency. She had struggled long, in

weariness and pain, with her lot; but now she felt that the struggle

was over. The hope of the hour had failed, and it seemed to her the

last hope.

When Ellen entered the room where her sister lay, the sight of her

expectant face (for the desire for nourishing, refreshing food had been

stronger than usual with Mary, and her fancy had been dwelling upon the

pleasant repast that was soon to be spread before her) made the task of

communicating the cruel repulse she had received tenfold more painful.

Without uttering a word, she threw herself upon the bed beside her

sister, and, burying her face in a pillow, endeavoured to smother the

sobs that came up convulsively from her bosom. Mary asked no question.

She understood the meaning of Ellen's agitation well; it told her that

she had been disappointed in the expectation of receiving the money for

her work.

Deep silence followed. Mary clasped her hands together and raised her

eyes upward, while Ellen lay motionless with her face hidden where she

had first concealed it. There was a knock at the door, but no voice

bade the applicant for admission enter. It was repeated; but, if heard,

it met no response. Then the latch was lifted, the door swung open, and

the tailor stepped into the room. The sound of his feet aroused the

passive sisters. The white face of Mary was to him, at first, a

startling image of death; but her large bright eyes opened and turned

upon him with an assurance that life still lingered in its earthly

tenement.

"Ellen, Ellen," said the sick girl, faintly.

Ellen, too, had heard the sound of footsteps on the floor, and she now

raised up slowly, and presented to Lawson her sad, tearful countenance.

"I was wrong to speak to you as I did," said the tailor without

preface, advancing towards the bed and holding out to Ellen the money

she had earned. "There is the price of the vest; it is better made than

I at first thought it was. To-morrow I will send you more work. Try and

cheer up. Are you so very poor?"

The last two sentences were uttered in a voice of encouragement and

sympathy. Ellen looked her thankfulness, but did not venture a reply.

Her heart was too full to trust her lips with utterance.

Feeling that his presence, under all circumstances, could not but be

embarrassing, Mr. Lawson, after taking two or three dollars from his

pocket and placing them on the table with the remark--"Take this in

advance for work," retired and left the poor sisters in a different

frame of mind from what they were in when he entered. Shortly after

they received a basket, in which was a supply of nourishing food.

Though no one's name was sent with it, they were not in doubt as to

whence it came.

Mr. Lawson was not an unfeeling man, but, like too many others in the

world, he did not always "think."

TAKING BOARDERS.

CHAPTER I.

A LADY, past the prime of life, sat thoughtful, as twilight fell

duskily around her, in a room furnished with great elegance. That her

thoughts were far from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expression

of her countenance too clearly testified. She was dressed in deep

mourning. A faint sigh parted her lips as she looked up, on hearing the

door of the apartment in which she was sitting open. The person who

entered, a tall and beautiful girl, also in mourning, came and sat down

by her side, and leaned her head, with a pensive, troubled air, down

upon her shoulder.

"We must decide upon something, Edith, and that with as little delay as

possible," said the elder of the two ladies, soon after the younger one

entered. This was said in a tone of great despondency.

"Upon what shall we decide, mother?" and the young lady raised her head

from its reclining position, and looked earnestly into the eyes of her

parent.

"We must decide to do something by which the family can be sustained.

Your father's death has left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as you

already know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond the furniture of

this house, instead of an independence which we supposed him to

possess. His death was sad and afflictive enough--more than it seemed I

could bear. But to have this added!"

The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, and was lost in a

stifled sob.

"But what _can_ we do, mother?" asked Edith, in an earnest tone, after

pausing long enough for her mother to regain the control of her

feelings.

"I have thought of but one thing that is at all respectable," replied

the mother.

"What is that?"

"Taking boarders."

"Why, mother!" ejaculated Edith, evincing great surprise, "how can you

think of such a thing?"

"Because driven to do so by the force of circumstances."

"Taking boarders! Keeping a boarding-house! Surely we have not come to

this!"

An expression of distress blended with the look of astonishment in

Edith's face.

"There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a boarding-house," returned

the mother. "A great many very respectable ladies have been compelled

to resort to it as a means of supporting their families."

"But to think of it, mother! To think of _your_ keeping a

boarding-house! I cannot bear it."

"Is there any thing else that can be done, Edith?"

"Don't ask _me_ such a question."

"If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try and think with me, my

child. Something will have to be done to create an income. In less than

twelve months, every dollar I have will be expended; and then what are

we to do? Now, Edith, is the time for us to look at the matter

earnestly, and to determine the course we will take. There is no use to

look away from it. A good house in a central situation, large enough

for the purpose, can no doubt be obtained; and I think there will be no

difficulty about our getting boarders enough to fill it. The income or

profit from these will enable us still to live comfortably, and keep

Edward and Ellen at school."

"It is hard," was the only remark Edith made to this.

"It is hard, my daughter; very hard! I have thought and thought about

it until my whole mind has been thrown into confusion. But it will not

do to think for ever; there must be action. Can I see want stealing in

upon my children, and sit and fold my hands supinely? No! And to you,

Edith, my oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand up

bravely by my side."

"And you are in earnest in all this?" said Edith, whose mind seemed

hardly able to realize the truth of their position. From her earliest

days, all the blessings that money could procure had been freely

scattered around her feet. As she grew up and advanced towards

womanhood, she had moved in the most fashionable circles, and there

acquired the habit of estimating people according to their wealth and

social standing, rather than by qualities of mind. In her view, it

appeared degrading in a woman to enter upon any kind of employment for

money; and with the keeper of a boarding-house, particularly, she had

always associated something low, vulgar, and ungenteel. At the thought

of her mother's engaging in such an occupation, when the suggestion was

made her mind instantly revolted. It appeared to her as if disgrace

would be the inevitable consequence.

"And you are in earnest in all this?" was an expression mingling her

clear conviction of the truth of what at first appeared so strange a

proposition, and her astonishment that the necessities of their

situation were such as to drive them to so humiliating a resource.

"Deeply in earnest," was the mother's reply.

"We are left alone in the world. He who cared for us and provided for

us so liberally has been taken away, and we have nowhere to look for

aid but to the resources that are in ourselves. These well applied,

will give us, I feel strongly assured, all that we need. The thing to

decide is, what we ought to do. If we choose aright, all will doubtless

come out right. To choose aright is, therefore, of the first

importance; and to do this, we must not suffer distorting suggestions

nor the appeals of a false pride to influence our minds in the least.

You are my oldest child, Edith; and, as such, I cannot but look upon

you as, to some extent, jointly with me, the guardian of your younger

brothers and sisters. True, Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly so; but

still you are the eldest--your mind is more matured, and in your

judgment I have the most confidence. Try and forget, Edith, all but the

fact that, unless we make an exertion, one home for all cannot be

retained. Are you willing that we should be scattered like leaves in

the autumn wind? No! you would consider that one of the greatest

calamities that could befall us--an evil to prevent which we should use

every effort in our power. Do you, not see this clearly?"

"I do, mother," was replied by Edith in a more rational tone of voice

than that in which she had yet spoken.

"To open a store of any kind would involve five times the exposure of a

boarding-house; and, moreover, I know nothing of business."

"Keeping a store? Oh, no! we couldn't do that. Think of the dreadful

exposure!"

"But in taking boarders we only increase our family, and all goes on as

usual. To my mind, it is the most genteel thing that we can do. Our

style of living will be the same; our waiter and all our servants will

be retained. In fact, to the eye there will be little change, and the

world need never know how greatly reduced our circumstances have

become."

This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith to taking boarders.

Something, she saw, had to be done. Opening a store was felt to be out

of the question; and as to commencing a school, the thought was

repulsed at the very first suggestion.

A few friends were consulted on the subject, and all agreed that the

best thing for the widow to do was to take boarders. Each one could

point to some lady who had commenced the business with far less ability

to make boarders comfortable, and who had yet got along very well. It

was conceded on all hands that it was a very genteel business, and that

some of the first ladies had been compelled to resort to it, without

being any the less respected. Almost every one to whom the matter was

referred spoke in favour of the thing, and but a single individual

suggested difficulty; but what he said was not permitted to have much

weight. This individual was a brother of the widow, who had always been

looked upon as rather eccentric. He was a bachelor and without fortune,

merely enjoying a moderate income as book-keeper in the office of an

insurance company. But more of him hereafter.