A FEW weeks later, and the contemplated change was made. The family
removed into a moderate-sized house, at a lower rent, and prepared to
test the new mode of obtaining a livelihood. A good portion of their
furniture had been sold, besides three gold watches and some valuable
jewelry belonging to Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest daughters, in
order to make up a sum sufficient to pay off the debt contracted during
the last few months of the boarding-house experiment. The real loss
sustained by the widow in this experiment fell little short of a
thousand dollars.
"How many scholars have you now?" asked Mrs. Darlington of Edith, two
months after the school was opened, as they sat at tea one evening,
each member of the family wearing a cheerful face.
"Twenty," replied Edith. "We received two new ones to-day. Mrs. Wilmot
came and entered two of her children; and she said that Mrs. Armond was
going to send her Florence so soon as her quarter expired in the school
she is now attending."
"How much will you receive from your present number of scholars?"
inquired Henry.
"I made the estimate to-day," returned Edith, "and find that the bills
will come to something like a hundred and twenty-five dollars a
quarter."
"Five hundred dollars a year," said Henry; "and my five hundred added
to that will make a thousand. Can't we live on a thousand dollars,
mother?"
"We may, by the closest economy."
"Our school will increase," remarked Edith; "and every increase will
add to our income. Oh! it looks so much brighter ahead! and we have so
much real comfort in the present! What a scene of trial have we passed
through!"
"How I ever bore up under it is more than I can now tell," said Mrs.
Darlington, with an involuntary shudder. "And the toil, and suffering,
and danger through which we have come! I cannot be sufficiently
thankful that we are safe from the dreadful ordeal, and with so few
marks of the fire upon us."
A silence followed this, in which two hearts, at least, were humbled,
yet thankful, in their self-communion--the hearts of Henry and Miriam.
Through what perilous ways had they come! How near had they been to
shipwreck!
"Poor Mrs. Marion!" said Edith, breaking the silence, at length. "How
often I think of her! And the thought brings a feeling of condemnation.
Was it right for us to thrust her forth as we did?"
"Can she still be in?"
"Oh no, no!" spoke up Henry, interrupting his mother. "I forgot to tell
you that I met her and her husband on the street to-day."
"Are you certain?"
"Oh yes."
"Did you speak to them?"
"No. They saw me, but instantly averted their faces. Mrs. Marion looked
very pale, as if she had been sick."
"Poor woman! She has had heart-sickness enough," said Mrs. Darlington.
"I shall never forgive myself for turning her out of the house. If I
had known where she was going!"
"But we did not know that, mother," said Edith.
"We knew that she had neither friends nor a home," replied the mother.
"Ah me! when our own troubles press heavily upon us, we lose our
sympathy for others!"
"It was not so in this case," remarked Edith. "Deeply did we sympathize
with Mrs. Marion. But we could not bear the weight without going under
ourselves."
"I don't know, I don't know," said Mrs. Darlington, half to herself.
"We might have kept up with her a little longer. But I am glad from my
heart that her husband has come back. If he will be kind to his wife, I
will forgive all his indebtedness to me."
A few weeks subsequent to this time, as Miriam sat reading the morning
paper, she came upon a brief account of the arrest, in New Orleans, of
a "noted gambler," as it said, named Burton, on the charge of bigamy.
The paper dropped to the floor, and Miriam, with clasped hands and eyes
instantly overflowing with tears, looked upward, and murmured her
thanks to Heaven.
"What an escape!" fell tremblingly from her lips, as she arose and went
to her room to hold communion with her own thoughts.
Three years have passed, and what has been the result of the widow's
new experiment? The school prospered from the beginning. The spirit
with which Edith and Miriam went to work made success certain. Parents
who sent their children were so much pleased with the progress they
made, that they spoke of the new school to their friends, and thus gave
it a reputation, that, ere a year had elapsed, crowded the rooms of the
sisters. Mrs. Darlington was a woman who had herself received a
superior education. Seeing that the number of scholars increased
rapidly, and made the pressure on her daughters too great, she gave a
portion of her time each day to the instruction of certain classes, and
soon became much interested in the work. From that time she associated
herself in the school with Edith and Miriam.
Three years, as we said, have passed, and now the profits on the school
are more than sufficient to meet all expenses. Henry has left his
clerkship, and is a member of the bar. Of course he has little or no
practice--only a few months having elapsed since his admission; but his
mother and sisters are fully able to sustain him until he could sustain
himself.
"How much better this is than keeping boarders!" said Edith, as she sat
conversing with her mother and uncle about the prospects of the school.
"And how much more useful and honourable!" remarked Mr. Ellis. "In the
one case, you fed only the body, but now you are dispensing food to the
immortal mind. You are moreover independent in your own house. When the
day's work is done, you come together as one family, and shut out the
intruding world."
"Yes, it is better, far better," replied Mrs. Darlington. "Ah, that
first mistake of mine was a sad one!"
"Yet out of it has come good," said Mr. Ellis. "That painful experience
corrected many false views, and gave to all your characters a new and
higher impulse. It is through disappointment, trial, and suffering,
that we grow wise here; and true wisdom is worth the highest price we
are ever called upon to pay for it."
Yes, it is so. Through fiery trials are we purified. At times, in our
suffering, we feel as if every good thing in us was about being
consumed. But this never happens. No good in our characters is ever
lost in affliction or trouble; and we come out of these states of pain
wiser and better than when we entered them, and more fitted and more
willing to act usefully our part in the world.
PLAIN SEWING; OR, HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR.
"Do you know of any poor body who does plain sewing?" asked Mrs. Lander
of a neighbour upon whom she called for the particular purpose of
making this inquiry. "I have a good deal of work that I want done, and
I always like to give my plain sewing to people that need it."
"I think I know of a person who will suit you," replied Mrs. Brandon,
the lady to whom the application had been made. "She is a poor widow
woman, with four children dependent upon her for support. She sews
neatly. Yesterday she brought me home some little drawers and
night-gowns that were beautifully made. I am sure she will please you,
and I know she deserves encouragement."
"What is her name?"
"Mrs. Walton; and she lives in Larkin's Court."
"Thank you, ma'am. I will send for her this morning. You say she is
very poor?"
"You may judge of that yourself, Mrs. Lander. A woman who has four
children to support by the labour of her own hands cannot be very well
off."
"No--certainly not. Poor creature! I will throw all I can in her way,
if her work should please me."
"I am sure that will be the case, for she sews very neatly."
Mrs. Lander having found out a poor woman who could do plain
sewing--she was always more ready to employ persons in extreme poverty
than those who were in more easy circumstances--immediately sent a
summons for her to attend upon her ladyship. Mrs. Walton's appearance,
when she came, plainly enough told the story of her indigence.
"Mrs. Brandon informs me," said Mrs. Lander, "that you do plain sewing
very well, and that you stand in need of work. I always like to
encourage the industrious poor."
The woman inclined her head, and Mrs. Lander went on.
"Do you make shirts?"
"Yes, ma'am, sometimes."
"Do you consider yourself a good shirt maker?"
"I don't call myself any thing very extra; but people for whom I work
seem generally pleased with what I do."
"I have six shirts cut out for Mr. Lander. How soon can you make them?"
"I couldn't make them all in less than a couple of weeks, as I have
other work that must be done within that time."
"Very well. That will do."
The poor woman took the shirts home, feeling grateful to Mrs. Brandon
for having recommended her, and thankful to get the work. In order to
give satisfaction to both her new customer, and those for whom she
already had work in the house, she divided her time between them,
sewing one day for Mrs. Lander and the next on the work received before
hers came in. At the end of a week, three of the shirts were ready,
and, as she needed very much the money she had earned in making them,
she carried them over to Mrs. Lander on Saturday afternoon.
"I have three of the shirts ready," said she, as she handed to the lady
the bundle she had brought.
"Ah! have you?" remarked Mrs. Lander, as, with a grave face, she opened
the bundle and examined the garments. This examination was continued
with great minuteness, and long enough almost to have counted every
stitch in the garments. She found the shirts exceedingly well made;
much better than she had expected to find them.
"When will you have the others ready?" she asked, as she laid them
aside.
"I will try and bring them in next Saturday."
"Very well."
Then came a deep silence. The poor woman sat with the fingers of both
hands moving together uneasily, and Mrs. Lander looked away out of the
window and appeared to be intent upon something in the street.
"Are these made to please you?" Mrs. Walton ventured to ask.
"They'll do," was the brief answer; and then came the same dead
silence, and the same interest on the part of the lady in something
passing in the street.
Mrs. Walton wanted the money she had earned for making the shirts, and
Mrs. Lander knew it.
But Mrs. Lander never liked to pay out money, if she could help it; and
as doing so always went against the grain, it was her custom to put off
such unpleasant work as long as possible. She liked to encourage the
very poor, because she knew they generally worked cheaper than people
who were in easier circumstances; but the drawback in their case was,
that they always wanted money the moment their work was done.
Badly as she stood in need of the money she had earned, poor Mrs.
Walton felt reluctant to ask for it until the whole number of shirts
she had engaged to make were done; and so, after sitting for a little
while longer, she got up and went away. It happened that she had
expended her last sixpence on that very morning, and nothing was due to
her from any one but Mrs. Lander. Two days at least would elapse before
she would have any other work ready to take home, and what to do in the
mean time she did not know. With her the reward of every day's labour
was needed when the labour was done; but now she was unpaid for full
four days' work, and her debtor was a lady much interested in the
welfare of the poor, who always gave out her plain sewing to those who
were in need of encouragement.
By placing in pawn some few articles of dress, and paying a heavy
interest upon the little sum of money advanced thereon, the poor widow
was able to keep hunger from her door until she could finish some work
she had in hand for a lady more considerate than Mrs. Lander. Then she
applied herself with renewed industry to the three shirts yet to make,
which she finished at the time she promised to have them done. With the
money to be received for these, she was to pay one dollar and a half to
get her clothes from the pawnbroker's shop, buy her little boy a pair
of shoes,--he had been from school a week for want of them,--and get a
supply of food for the many mouths she had to feed.
Mrs. Lander received her with that becoming dignity of manner and
gravity which certain persons always assume when money has to be paid
out. She, as it behooved her to do, thoroughly examined every seam,
line of stitching, and hem upon each of the three shirts, and then,
after slowly laying the garments upon a table sighed, and looked still
graver. Poor Mrs. Walton felt oppressed; she hardly knew why.
"Does the work please you?" she ventured to ask.
"I don't think these are as well made as the others," said Mrs. Lander.
"I thought they were better made," returned the woman.
"Oh, no. The stitching on the bosoms, collars, and wristbands isn't
nearly so well done."
Mrs. Walton knew better than this; but she did not feel in any humour
to contend for the truth. Mrs. Lander took up the shirts again, and
made another examination.
"What is the price of them?" she asked.
"Seventy-five cents."
"Apiece?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Seventy-five cents apiece!"
"I have never received less than that, and some for whom I sew always
pay me a dollar."
"Seventy five cents! It is an imposition. I know plenty of poor women
who would have been glad of these shirts at half the price--yes, or at
a third of the price either. Seventy-five cents, indeed! Oh, no--I will
never pay a price like that. I can go to any professed shirt-maker in
the city, and get them made for seventy-five cents or a dollar."
"I know you can, ma'am," said Mrs. Walton, stung into self-possession
by this unexpected language. "But why should I receive less if my work
is as well done?"
"A pretty question, indeed!" retorted Mrs. Lander, thrown off her
guard. "A pretty question for you to ask of me! Oh, yes! You can get
such prices if you can, but I never pay them to people like you. When I
pay seventy-five cents or a dollar apiece for shirts, I go to regular
shirt-makers. But this is what we generally get for trying to encourage
the poor. Mrs. Brandon said that you were in needy circumstances, and
that it would be a charity to give you work. But this is the way it
generally turns out."
"What are you willing to pay?" asked the poor woman, choking down her
feelings.
"I have had shirts as well made as these for forty cents many and many
a time. There is a poor woman down in Southwark, who sews beautifully,
who would have caught at the job. She works for the shops, and does not
get over twenty-five cents for fine shirts. But as Mrs. Brandon said
you were suffering for work, I thought I would throw something in your
way. Forty cents is an abundance; but I had made up my mind, under the
circumstances, to make it fifty, and that is all I will give. So here
is your money--three dollars."
And Mrs. Lander took out her purse, and counted out six half dollars
upon the table. Only for a few moments did the poor woman hesitate.
Bread she must have for her children; and if her clothes were not taken
out of pawn on that day, they would be lost. Slowly did she take up the
money while words of stinging rebuke were on her tongue. But she forced
herself to keep silence; and even departed, bearing the wrong that had
been laid upon her without uttering a word.
"Did you get my shoes as you promised, mother?" eagerly inquired her
little boy, as she came in, on returning from the house of Mrs. Lander.
"No, dear," replied the heart-full mother, in a subdued voice. "I
didn't get as much money as I expected."
"When will you buy them, mother?" asked the child as tears filled his
eyes. "I can't go to school in this way." And he looked down at his
bare feet.
"I know you can't, Harry; and I will try and get them for you in a few
days."
The child said no more, but shrunk away with his little heart so full
of disappointment, that he could not keep the tears from gushing over
his face. The mother's heart was quite as full. Little Harry sat down
in a corner to weep in silence, and Mrs. Walton took her sewing into
her hands; but the tears so blinded her eyes, that she could not see
where to direct the needle. Before she had recovered herself, there was
a knock at the door, which was opened immediately afterwards by a lady,
who came into the room where the poor widow sat with her little family
around her.
More than an hour had passed since the unpleasant interview with the
poor widow, and Mrs. Lander had not yet recovered her equanimity of
mind nor lost the feelings of indignation which the attempt to impose
upon her by an exorbitant charge had occasioned, when she was favoured
with a visit from Mrs. Brandon, who said familiarly, and with a smile,
as she entered--
"Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Lander? I have just corrected a mistake you
made a little while ago."
"Indeed! what is that?" asked Mrs. Lander, looking a little surprised.
"You only gave poor Mrs. Walton fifty cents apiece for the half dozen
of shirts she made for you, when the lowest price is seventy-five
cents. I always pay a dollar for Mr. Brandon's. The difference is a
very important one to her--no less than a dollar and a half. I found
her in much trouble about it, and her little boy crying with
disappointment at not getting a pair of shoes his mother had promised
him as soon as she got the money for the shirts. He has been from
school for want of shoes for more than a week. So I took out my purse
and gave Mrs. Walton the dollar and a half to make up the sum she had
earned, and told her I would see you about it. I acted right, did I
not? Of course, it was a mistake on your part?"
Mrs. Lander was never more completely out-generalled in her life. The
lady who had corrected her error was one in whose good opinion she had
every reason for desiring to stand high. She could grind the face of
the poor without pity or shame, but for the world she would not be
thought mean by Mrs. Brandon.
"I am very much obliged to you, indeed," she said with a bland smile.
"It was altogether a mistake on my part, and I blame the woman
exceedingly for not having mentioned it at the time. Heaven knows I am
the last person in the world to grind the faces of the poor! Yes, the
very last person. Here is the money you paid for me, and I must repeat
my thanks for your prompt correction of the error. But I cannot help
feeling vexed at the woman."
"We must make many allowances for the poor, Mrs. Lander. They often
bear a great deal of wrong without a word of complaint. Some people
take advantage of their need, and, because they are poor, make them
work for the merest pittance in the world. I know some persons, and
they well off in the world, who always employ the poorest class of
people, and this under the pretence of favouring them, but, in reality,
that they may get their work done at a cheaper rate than it can be made
by people who expect to derive from their labour a comfortable support."
Mrs. Lander was stung to the quick by these words; but she dared not
show the least sign of feeling.
"Surely no one professing to be a Christian can do so," said she.
"Yes, people professing to be Christians do these things," was replied;
"but of course their profession needs a better practice to prove it of
any worth."
When her visitor retired, after having expressed her opinion on the
subject under consideration still more unequivocally, Mrs. Lander did
not feel very comfortable, nor was her good opinion of herself quite so
firm as it had been earlier in the day. But she took good care, in the
future, not to give any more work to Mrs. Walton, and was exceedingly
particular afterwards, in employing poor people, to know whether they
sewed for Mrs. Brandon. There are a good many people in the world who
encourage the poor on Mrs. Lander's principle.
JESSIE HAMPTON.
"WHAT are you doing here, miss?"
The young girl thus addressed was sitting by a centre-table, upon which
stood a lamp, in a handsomely furnished drawing-room. She laid aside
the book she was reading, and, without making any reply, rose up
quickly and retired. Two or three persons, members of the family, were
present. All observed the effect of Mrs. Freeman's words, yet no one
had heard what was said; nor would they have been aware that more than
a request for some service had been made, but for the lady's remark as
the girl left the room.
"I might as well begin at once, and let Jessie know her place."
"What did you say to her, ma?" asked a young lady who sat swinging
herself in a large rocking-chair.
"I simply asked her what she was doing here."
"What did she answer?"
"Nothing. The way in which I put the question fully explained my
meaning. I am sorry that there should have arisen a necessity for
hurting her feelings; but if the girl doesn't know her place, she must
be told where it is."
"I don't see that she was doing any great harm," remarked an old
gentleman who sat in front of the grate.
"She was not in her place, brother," said Mrs. Freeman, with an air of
dignity. "We employ her as a teacher in the family, not as a companion.
Her own good sense should have taught her this."
"You wouldn't have us make an equal of Jessie Hampton, would you, uncle
Edward?" inquired the young lady who sat in the rocking-chair.
"You cannot make her your equal, Fanny, in point of worldly blessings,
for, in this matter, Providence has dealt more hardly with her than
with you. As to companionship, I do not see that she is less worthy now
than she was a year ago."
"You talk strangely, Edward," said Mrs. Freeman, in a tone of dissent.
"In what way, sister?"
"There has been a very great change in a year. Jessie's family no
longer moves in our circle."
"True; but is Jessie any the less worthy to sit in your parlour than
she was then?"
"_I_ think so, and that must decide the matter," returned Mrs. Freeman,
evincing some temper.
The old gentleman said no more; but Fanny remarked--"I was not in
favour of taking Jessie, for I knew how it would be; but Mrs. Carlton
recommended her so highly, and said so much in her favour, that no room
was left for a refusal. As for Jessie herself, I have no particular
objection to her; but the fact of her having once moved in the circle
we are in is against her; for it leaves room for her to step beyond her
place, as she has already done, and puts upon us the unpleasant
necessity of reminding her of her error."
"It don't seem to me," remarked Mr. Freeman, who had till now said
nothing, "that Miss Hampton was doing any thing worthy of reproof. She
has been well raised, we know; is an educated, refined, and intelligent
girl, and, therefore, has nothing about her to create repugnance or to
make her presence disagreeable. It would be better, perhaps, if we
looked more to what persons are, than to things merely external."
"It is all very well to talk in that way," said Mrs. Freeman. "But Miss
Hampton is governess in our family, and it is only right that she
should hold to us that relation and keep her place. What she has been,
or that she is, beyond the fact of her present position here, is
nothing to us."
Mr. Freeman knew from experience, that no particular good would grow
out of a prolonged argument on this subject, and so said nothing
further, although he could not force from his mind the image of the
young girl as she rose up hastily and left the room, nor help thinking
how sad a change it would be for one of his own children, if reduced
suddenly to her condition.
A good deal more was said by Mrs. Freeman, who did not feel very
comfortable, although she fully justified herself for what she had done.
The young girl, who had been reminded so harshly of the error into
which she had fallen, went quickly up into her cold chamber, and there,
with a burning cheek, sat down to think as calmly as her disturbed
feelings would permit. The weakness of tears she did not indulge;
self-respect, rather than pride, sustained her. Had she acted from the
first impulse, she would have left the house immediately, never again
to re-enter it; but reason soon told her that, however strong her
impulses might be, duties and considerations far beyond mere feeling
must come in to restrain them.
"Whatever I have been," she said to herself, as she sat and reflected,
"I am now simply a governess, and must steadily bear that in mind. In
this house I am to receive no more consideration than a mere stranger.
Have I a right to complain of this? Have I cause to be offended at Mrs.
Freeman for reminding me of the fact? Her reproof was unkindly given;
but false pride has in it no gentleness, no regard for another's
feelings. Ah me! this is one more lesson of the many I have to learn;
but let me bear up with a brave heart. There is one who knows my path,
and who will see that nothing therein need cause my feet to stumble.
From this moment I will think of all here as strangers. I will
faithfully do what I have engaged to do, and expect therefor only the
compensation agreed upon when I came. Have I a right to expect more?"
The bright colour faded gradually from the flushed cheeks of Jessie
Hampton, and with a calm, yet pensive face, she arose and went down
into the room which had been set apart for her use when giving
instruction to the children. It was warmed and lighted, and had in it a
small library. Here she sat alone, reading and thinking, for a couple
of hours, and then retired to her chamber for the night.
As was intimated in the conversation that arose upon her leaving the
drawing-room, Jessie Hampton's circumstances had suffered, in a very
short period, a great change. A year before she was the equal and
companion of Fanny Freeman, and more beloved and respected by those who
knew her than Fanny was or ever could be; but unexpected reverses came.
The relative who had been to her as a father for many years was
suddenly deprived of all his worldly goods, and reduced so low as to be
in want of the comforts of life. So soon as Jessie saw this, she saw
plainly her duty.
"I cannot burden my uncle," said she resolutely to herself. "He has
enough, and more than enough, to bear up under, without the addition of
my weight." Thoughtfully she looked around her; but still in doubt what
to do, she called upon a lady named Mrs. Carlton, who was among the few
whose manner towards her had not changed with altered fortune, and
frankly opened to her what was in her mind.
"What does your uncle say?" inquired Mrs. Carlton. "Does he approve the
step?"
"He knows nothing of my purpose," returned Jessie.
"Then had you not better consult him?"
"He will not hear of it, I am certain; but, for all that, I am resolved
to do as I propose. He has lost his property, and is now in great
trouble. He is, in fact, struggling hard to keep his head above water:
my weight might sink him. But, even if there were no danger of this, so
long as I am able to sustain myself, I will not cling to him while he
is tossed on the waves of adversity."
"I cannot but highly approve your decision," said Mrs. Carlton, her
heart warm with admiration for the right-minded girl. "The fact that
your uncle has been compelled to give up his elegant house, and retire
with you to a boarding-house, shows the extremity to which he has been
reduced. I understand that his fine business is entirely broken up, and
that, burdened with debts, he has commenced the world again, a few
hundred dollars all his capital in trade, resolved, if health and a
sound mind be continued to him, to rise above all his present
difficulties."
"And shall I," replied Jessie, "sit an idle witness of the honourable
struggle, content to burden him with my support? No! Were I of such a
spirit, I would be unworthy the relation I bear him. Much rather would
I aid him, were it in my power, by any sacrifice."
"If I understand you aright," said Mrs. Carlton, after thinking for a.
few moments, "you would prefer a situation as governess in a private
family."
"Yes; that would suit me best."
"How would you like to take charge of Mrs. Freeman's younger children?
She mentioned to me, only yesterday, her wish to obtain a suitable
instructor for them, and said she was willing to pay a liberal salary
to a person who gave entire satisfaction."
Jessie's face became thoughtful.
"Mrs. Freeman is not the most agreeable person to be found, I know,
Jessie," said her friend; "but the step you propose involves sacrifices
from the beginning."
"It does, I know; and I must not forget this. Had I a choice, I
certainly should not select the family of Mrs. Freeman as the one in
which to begin the new life I am about entering upon. She and Fanny are
among the few who have ceased to notice me, except with great coldness,
since my uncle's misfortunes. But I will not think of this. If they
will take me, I will go even into their house, and assume the humble
duties of a governess."
Mrs. Carlton immediately called upon Mrs. Freeman, and mentioned
Jessie. Some objection was made on the score of her being, an old
acquaintance, who would expect more notice than one in her position was
entitled to receive. This, however, was overruled by Mrs. Carlton, and,
after an interview with Jessie, an engagement was entered into for a
year, at a salary of four hundred dollars.
When Jessie mentioned the subject to her uncle, Mr. Hartman, he became
a good deal excited, and said that she should do no such thing. But
Jessie remained firm, and her uncle was at last compelled, though with
great reluctance, to consent to what she proposed, regarding it only as
a temporary measure.
The first day's experience of Jessie under the roof of Mrs. Freeman is
known to the reader. It was a painful experience, but she bore it in
the right spirit. After that, she was careful to confine herself to the
part of the house assigned her as a servant and inferior, and never
ventured upon the least familiarity with any one. Her duty to the
children who were committed to her charge was faithfully performed, and
she received, regularly, her wages, according to contract, and there
the relation between her and this family ceased. Day after day, week
after week, and month after month, did Jessie Hampton, uncheered by an
approving smile or friendly word, discharge her duties. But she had
within, to sustain her, a consciousness that she was doing right, and a
firm trust in an all-wise and merciful Providence.
Mrs. Carlton remained her steady friend, and Jessie spent an evening at
her house almost every week, and frequently met there many of her old
acquaintances. Of her treatment in the house of Mrs. Freeman she never
spoke, and when questioned on the subject avoided giving a direct
answer.
Mr. Hartman's struggle proved to be a hard one. Harassed by claims that
he could not pay off at once, his credit almost entirely gone, and the
capital upon which he was doing business limited to a few hundred
dollars, he found it almost impossible to make any headway. In a year
from the time Jessie had relieved him from the burden of her support,
so far from being encouraged by the result of his efforts, he felt like
abandoning all as hopeless. There are always those who are ready to
give small credits to a man whom they believe to be honest, even though
once unfortunate in business; but for such favours Mr. Hartman could
not have kept up thus far. Now the difficulty was to pay the few notes
given as they matured.
A note of five hundred dollars was to fall due on the next day, and Mr.
Hartman found himself with but a hundred dollars to meet it. The firm
from which he had bought the goods for which the note was given had
trusted him when others refused credit to the amount of a single
dollar, and had it in their power to forward his interests very greatly
if he was punctual in his payments. It was the first bill of goods they
had sold him, and Hartman could not go to them for assistance in
lifting the note, for that would effectually cut off all hope of
further credit. He could not borrow, for there was no one to lend him
money. There was a time when he could have borrowed thousands on his
word; but now he knew that it would be folly to ask for even hundreds.
In a state of deep discouragement, he left his store in the evening and
went home. After tea, while sitting alone, Jessie, who came to see him
often, tapped at his door.
"Are you not well?" she asked, with much concern, as soon as the smile
with which he greeted her faded from his face, and she saw its drooping
expression.
"Yes, dear," he replied, trying to arouse himself and appear cheerful;
but the effort was in vain.
"Indeed, uncle, you are not well," remarked Jessie, breaking in upon a
longer period of silent abstraction into which Mr. Hartman had fallen,
after in vain trying to converse cheerfully with his niece.
"I am well enough in body, Jessie; but my mind is a little anxious just
now," he replied.
"Isn't your business coming out as well as you expected?" inquired the
affectionate girl.
"I am sorry to say that it is not," returned Mr. Hartman. "In fact, I
see but little hope of succeeding. I have no capital, and the little
credit I possess is likely to be destroyed through my inability to
sustain it. I certainly did anticipate a better reward for my efforts,
and am the more disappointed at this result. To think that, for the
want of three or four hundred dollars, the struggle of a whole year
must prove in vain! As yet, even that small sum I cannot command."
The face of Jessie flushed instantly, as her uncle uttered the last two
sentences.
"And will so small an amount as three or four hundred dollars save you
from what you fear?" she asked, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, even so small an amount as that. But the sum might as well be
thousands. I cannot command it."
"You can, uncle!" replied Jessie, with a glow of exultation on her
cheek, and a spirit of joy in her voice. "_I_ have the money. Oh! it is
the happiest hour of my life!"
And sinking forward, she laid her now weeping face upon the breast of
her uncle. Her tears were the out-gushing waters of gladness.
"_You_ have the money, child?" said Mr. Hartman, after the lapse of a
few moments. "Where did you get it?"
"I have had no need to spend my salary."
"Your salary! Have you saved it all?"
"Every dollar. I had clothing sufficient, and there was no other want
to take it from me. Dear uncle, how happy it makes me to think that I
have it in my power to aid you! Would that the sum was tens of
thousands!"
Mr. Hartman, as soon as the first surprise was over, said, with evident
emotion--
"Jessie, I cannot express how much this incident has affected me. But,
deeply grateful to you as I feel for such an evidence of your love, I
must push back the hand that would force this aid upon me. I will not
be unjust to you. I will not take your hard earnings to run the risk of
losing them."
A shadow passed over the face of Jessie, and her voice was touched with
something like grief as she replied--
"How can you speak to me thus, uncle? How can you push back my hand
when, in love, it seeks to smooth the pillow upon which your troubled
head is resting? Would you deny me a higher gratification than I have
ever known? No--no--you cannot!"
Mr. Hartman was bewildered. He felt as if it would be a kind of
sacrilege to take the money of his niece, yet how could he positively
refuse to do so? Apart from the necessity of his circumstances, there
was the cruelty of doing violence to the generous love that had so
freely tendered relief. In the end, all objections had to yield, and
Mr. Hartman was saved from a second disaster, which would have entirely
prostrated him, by the money that Jessie had earned and saved.
A short time after the occurrence of this circumstance, the Freemans
gave a large party. Mrs. Carlton, who was present, said to Mrs.
Freeman, an hour after the company had assembled--
"Where is Miss Hampton? I've been looking for her all the evening.
Isn't she well?"
"What Miss Hampton do you mean?" asked Mrs. Freeman, drawing herself up
with an air cold and dignified.
"Miss Jessie Hampton," replied Mrs. Carlton.
"Sure enough!" said a young man, who was sitting by, and who had been
attentive to Fanny Freeman; "where is Miss Hampton? I haven't seen her
for a long time. What can have become of her? Is she dead, or is she
married?"
"Her uncle, I suppose you know, failed in business, and has become
poor," replied Mrs. Carlton.
"True. I was perfectly aware of that, but didn't reflect that poverty
was a social crime. And is it possible that so lovely a girl as Jessie
Hampton has been excluded from the circle she so graced with her
presence, because of this change in her uncle's circumstances?"
"It is true to a very great extent, Mr. Edgar," returned Mrs. Carlton,
"though I am glad to say that there are a few who can appreciate the
real gold of her character, and who love her as truly and esteem her as
highly as ever they did."
"A worthy few, and if I were only so fortunate as to fall in company
with her, I would be of the number. Is she here to-night?"
The young man looked at Mrs. Freeman, and became aware, from the
expression of her face, that the subject was disagreeable to her. With
easy politeness he changed the theme of conversation; but as soon as
opportunity offered, sought out Mrs. Carlton, and asked a question or
two more about Jessie.
"What has become of Miss Hampton? I should really like to know," he
said.
Mrs. Carlton could only reply direct, and she answered,
"She is living in this family in the capacity of governess."
"Indeed! I have been visiting here, off and on, for a twelvemonth, but
have neither seen her nor heard her name mentioned. Are you sure?"
"Oh yes. I procured her the situation over a year ago, and see her
almost every week."
"This being the case, and it also being plain that her worth is not
appreciated here, our remarks a little while ago could not have been
very pleasant to the ears of Mrs. Freeman."
"I presume not," was returned.
The young man became thoughtful, and, in a little while, withdrew from
the crowded rooms and left the house. He was the son of a wealthy
merchant, and had recently come into his father's business as a
partner. It was to the firm of Edgar & Son that the note of Mr.
Hartman, which Jessie had aided him to lift, had been due.
On the day succeeding the party at Mrs. Freeman's, Mr. Hartman came in
to purchase some goods, and, after selecting them, asked if he could
have the usual credit.
"Certainly," replied old Mr. Edgar; "and to double the amount of the
bill."
Hartman thanked the merchant, and retired.
"You know the five hundred dollar note that he paid last week?" said
Mr. Edgar, speaking to his son, and alluding to Hartman, who had just
left.
"I do."
"Well, I heard something about that note this morning that really
touched my feelings. Hartman spoke of the circumstances to a friend,
and that friend--betraying, I think, the confidence reposed in
him--related it to me, not knowing that we were the parties to which
the note had been paid. On that note he came near failing again."
"Indeed! And yet you have just sold him freely!"
"I have. But such are my feelings that I would risk five thousand
dollars to keep him up. I know him to be a man of strict honesty."
"There is no doubt of that," replied the son.
"You remember his niece, I suppose?" said old Mr. Edgar.
"Oh, very well."
"When Mr. Hartman's circumstances became reduced, she, of her own free
choice, relieved him of the burden of her support, and assumed the
arduous and toilsome duties of a governess in one of our wealthy
families, where she has ever since been. On the evening before the note
of which I spoke was due, she called to see her uncle, and found him in
trouble. For some time he concealed the cause but so earnest was she in
her affectionate entreaties to know why he was unhappy, that he told
her the reason. He was again embarrassed in his business, and, for want
of a few hundred dollars, which one, circumstanced as he was, could not
borrow, was in danger of being again broken up. To his astonishment,
Jessie announced the fact that she had the sum he wanted, saved from
her salary as governess. He at first refused to take it, but she would
listen to no denial."
"Noble girl!" exclaimed the young man.
"She must be one in a thousand," said Mr. Edgar.
"She is one in ten thousand!" replied the son, enthusiastically. "And
yet worth like hers is passed over for the tinsel of wealth. Do you
know in whose family she is governess?"
"I do not."
"I can tell you. She is in the family of Mr. Freeman."
"Ah!"
"Yes. You know they gave a party last night?"
"I do."
"Miss Hampton was not present."
"As much as might have been inferred."
"And yet there was no young lady in the room her equal in all that goes
to make up the character of a lovely woman."
"Well, my son," replied the old gentleman, "all I have to say is, that
I look upon this young lady as possessing excellencies of character far
outweighing all the endowments of wealth. Money! It may take to itself
wings in a day; but virtue like hers is as abiding as eternity. If your
heart is not otherwise interested, and you feel so inclined, win her if
you can. Another like her may never cross your path. With such a woman
as your wife, you need not tremble at the word adversity."
The young man did not reply. What his thoughts were, his actions
subsequently attested.
After the party, to the distant coldness with which Mrs. Freeman had
treated Jessie since she came into her house, were added certain signs
of dislike, quickly perceived by the maiden. In addressing her, Mrs.
Freeman exhibited, at times, a superciliousness that was particularly
offensive. But Jessie checked the indignant feelings that arose in her
bosom, and, in conscious rectitude of character, went on faithfully
discharging her duties. Since the timely aid she had been able to bring
her uncle, she had a new motive for effort, and went through her daily
task with a more cheerful spirit.
One day, about six months after the occurrence of the party which has
been mentioned, Jessie, a little to the surprise of Mrs. Freeman, gave
that lady notice that, at a certain time not far off, she would
terminate her engagement with her. The only reason she gave was, that
the necessity which took her from home no longer remained. At the time
mentioned, Jessie left, although Mrs. Freeman, urged by other members
of the family, who could better appreciate the young lady's worth,
offered a considerable increase of salary as an inducement to remain.
"What do you think?" exclaimed Fanny, about three weeks subsequently,
throwing open the parlour door, where the family had assembled just
before tea. "Jessie Hampton's married!"
"What!" ejaculated Mrs. Freeman. "Married?"
"Oh yes, sure enough," said Mr. Freeman, "I heard of it a little while
before I left my counting-room. And, more surprising still, she is
married to young Edgar."
"Oh, no!" responded Mrs. Freeman, incredulously. "It's some mistake.
Never! It cannot be."
"Oh, but it is a fact, mother," said Fanny, with ill-concealed chagrin.
"Lizzy Martin was her bridesmaid. They were married at Mrs. Carlton's
this morning, and the whole bridal party has gone off to Saratoga."
"He's got a good wife," remarked the brother of Mrs. Freeman, in his
quiet way. "I always liked that young man, and like him better than
ever now. I knew he was a fellow of good sense; but he has showed
himself to possess more of that sterling material than I thought."
Mr. Freeman also gave his opinion, and in doing so, expressed himself
pretty freely in regard to the treatment Jessie had received, while in
the house.
As for his wife, when the truth assumed an undoubted form, she sunk
into mortified silence, and Fanny felt even worse than her mother, and
for reasons that lay nearer her heart.
In a little while the bride took her old place in society, and many
who, in her seclusion, passed her coldly, or all unnoticed, met her now
with smiles and with warm congratulations. Of all the changes that
followed as a consequence of her marriage, there was none that filled
her with so much delight as the improved prospects of her uncle, Mr.
Hartman. Her husband became his fast friend, and sustained him through
every difficulty. One home held them both. How purely and brightly the
stream of Jessie's happiness flowed on, need not be told.
Virtue and integrity of character had met their just reward. In
adversity she was not cast down, and when prosperity again smiled she
was not unduly elated. In either relation to society, she was a
dispenser of blessings to those she loved.
It is a fact worthy of notice, that those who looked down upon Jessie,
and passed her unnoticed while she was only a governess, now referred
to the noble, self-sacrificing spirit that prompted her to act as she
had done, and spoke of her conduct with admiration.
THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT.
"JUST four weeks off," said a little boy, striking his hands together,
"and papa will be home!"
"Yes, four weeks more, and we shall see dear father. It will be the
happiest New Year's day we ever had; won't it, mother?" said the little
boy's sister, a bright smile playing over her face.
"I hope so," replied the mother. "Father has been away so long, his
coming home would make any day in the year a happy one."
"I wonder what he will bring me for a New Year's present?" said the boy.
"I know what I'll get," said the little sister.
"What?"
"A hundred kisses."
"Oh! I don't care much for kisses."
"But I do; and I'm sure of getting them."
"I wonder what mamma will get?"
"I know!" replied the sister, with an arch smile.
"What?"
"Just what I will." And the little girl looked at her mother, and
smiled still more archly.
"A hundred kisses, you mean?"
"We'll see."
The mother's hand rested from her work, and she looked at her children,
with a calm, yet happy face. Their words had caused her to realize, in
imagination, with more than usual distinctness, the fact of her
husband's return, which he had written would be on the first day of the
coming new year. He had been away for many months, and home had hardly
seemed like home during his absence.
"We mustn't think too much about it," said the mother, "or we will get
so impatient for dear father's return as to make ourselves unhappy. I
am sure we will all love him better than ever we did, when he does come
home!"
"I am sure I will," returned the little girl.
"Oh! I think I never loved him so well in my life as I have since he
has been away."
Thus talked the mother and her children of the return of one whose
presence was so dear to them all.
This brief conversation took place in a farm-house. In the room sat,
near the fire, a man whose appearance was any thing but pleasant to the
eyes. He was a labourer, who had been hired, some months previously, by
the farmer. He did not seem to hear what was said, yet he was listening
with reluctant attention. The mother and her children continued still
to talk of what was uppermost in their minds--the absent one, and his
expected return--until the man became restless, and at last got up and
went out.
"I don't wonder Mr. Foster went out of the room," said the boy, as the
person alluded to shut the door.
"Why, Edward?" asked his sister.
"Can't you think, Maggy?"
"No. What made him go out?"
"Because we said we were so glad papa was coming home on New Year's
day. I'm sure he must have thought of his home. They won't be so glad
to see him on New Year's day, as we are to see our dear, good father."
"Why do you say that, my son?" asked the mother.
"I'm sure they can't be so glad," said Edward. "I know I wouldn't be so
glad to see my father, if he was like Mr. Foster. Doesn't he spend
nearly all the money he gets in liquor? I've heard you say that his
poor wife and children hardly have enough to eat or to wear, although
he gets very good wages, and could make them comfortable if he would.
No, I'm sure they can't love him as we love our father, nor be as glad
to see him come home as we will be to see our father. And he knows it,
and that made him go out of the room. He didn't like to hear us
talking."
The boy was correct in his conclusions. The man Foster, of whom he
spoke, did feel troubled. He had children and a wife, and he was absent
from them, and had been absent for many months. On New Year's day he
was to go home; but many painful feelings mingled with the thought of
seeing his long-neglected and much-abused family. Since he had been
away, he had expended more than half his earnings upon himself, and yet
his appearance was worse than when he went from home, for, in exchange
for his money, he had received only poison.
It was evening. Without, the air was cold. The sky was clear, and the
moon and stars shone brightly. Foster walked a short distance from the
house, trying to drive from his mind the images that had been conjured
up by the words of the children and their mother; but he could not. His
own abused wife and neglected little ones were before him, in their
comfortless home, poorly clad, and pale and thin from want of healthy
and sufficient food. Did they think of him, and talk with so much
delight of his return? Alas! no. He brought no sunshine to their
cheerless abode.
"Wretch! wretch!" he said to himself, striking his hand hard against
his bosom. "A curse to them!--a curse to myself!"
For an hour the unhappy man stayed out in the chilly air; but he did
not feel the cold. Then he re-entered the house, but did not go into
the room where the happy mother sat with her children, but to the
lonely attic where he slept.
Twenty miles away lived the wife and three children of Foster. The
oldest boy was eleven years of age, and the youngest child, a little
girl, just five. Three small mounds, in a burying-ground near by where
the humble dwelling stood, marked the place where as many more
slept--more blessed than the living. The mother of these children was a
pale-faced woman, with a bent forth and an aspect of suffering. She had
been long acquainted with sorrow and trouble. Like hundreds and
thousands of others in our land, she had left, years before, the
pleasant home of her girlhood, to be the loving companion of one on
whose solemnly pledged faith she relied with the most unwavering
confidence. And, for a time, the trust was not in vain. The first
golden period of her married life was a happy time indeed! None could
have been more thoughtful of her comfort, nor more tender of her
feelings, than was her husband. But, alas! it was with him as with
hundreds and thousands of others. Not once did it cross his mind that
there was danger to him in the pleasant glass that was daily taken. The
bare suggestion he would have repelled as an insult. On the day of his
marriage, Henry Foster received from the father of his wife the
title-deeds of a snug little place containing thirty acres, which was
well stocked for a small farmer. He had, himself, laid by a few hundred
dollars. Thus he had a fair start in the world, and a most comfortable
assurance of happiness and prosperity. For several years every thing
went on pleasantly. The farm was a very garden spot, and had increased
from thirty to sixty acres by the purchase of contiguous lands. Then a
change became apparent. Foster took more interest than formerly in what
was going on in the village near by. He attended the various political
meetings held at the "Travellers' Rest," and was a prominent man on
training and election days. After a while, his wife began to look on
these days with a troubled feeling, for they generally sent him home in
a sad plight; and it took nearly a week for him to get settled down
again to his work. Thus the declension began, and its progress was too
sadly apparent to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, even before others, less
interested than herself, observed it. At the end of ten years from the
happy wedding day, the farm, now more like a wilderness than a
beautiful garden, was seized and sold for debt. There were no friends
to step in and go Foster's security, and thus save his property from
sacrifice. The father of his wife was dead, and his own friends, even
if they had not lost confidence in him, were unable to render any
assistance.
The rented farm upon which Foster went with his family, after being
sold out, was cultivated with no more industry than his own had been of
late years. The man had lost all ambition, and was yielding himself a
slave to the all-degrading appetite for drink. At first, his wife
opposed a gentle remonstrance; but he became impatient and angry at a
word, and she shrank back into herself, choosing rather to bear
silently the ills of poverty and degradation, which she saw were
rapidly approaching, than to run the risk of having unkindness, from
one so tenderly loved, added thereto.
Affliction came with trouble. Death took from the mother's arms, in a
single year, three children. The loss of one was accompanied by a most
painful, yet deeply warning circumstance. The father came home from the
village one evening, after having taken a larger quantity of liquor
than usual. While the mother was preparing supper, he took the babe
that lay fretting in the cradle, and hushed its frettings in his arms.
While holding it, overcome with what he had been drinking, he fell
asleep, and the infant rolled upon the floor, striking its head first.
It awoke and screamed for a minute or two, and then sank into a heavy
slumber, and did not awake until the next morning. Then it was so sick,
that a physician had to be called. In a week it died of brain fever,
occasioned, the doctor said, by the fall.
For a whole month not a drop of liquor passed the lips of the rebuked
and penitent father. Even in that short time the desert places of home
began to put forth leaves, and to give promise of sweet buds and
blossoms; and the grieving mother felt that out of this great sorrow
was to come forth joy. Alas! that even a hope so full of sadness should
be doomed to disappointment. In a moment of temptation her husband
fell, and fell into a lower deep. Then, with more rapid steps the
downward road was traversed. Five more years of sorrow sufficed to do
the work of suffering and degradation. There was another seizure for
debt, and the remnant of stock, with nearly all their furniture, was
taken and sold. The rented farm had to be given up; with this, the hope
of gaining even sufficient food for her little ones died in the
wretched mother's mind.
From a farmer on his own account, Foster now became a mere farm
labourer; with wages sufficient, however, to have made things
comfortable at home under the management of his frugal, industrious
wife, if all he earned had been brought home to her. But at least one
third, and finally one half, and sometimes more, went to swell the gain
of the tavern-keeper. Had it not been that a cow and a few chickens
were left to them at the last seizure of their things, pinching hunger
would have entered the comfortless home where the mother hid herself
with her children.
At last Foster became so good for nothing, that he could not obtain
employment as a farm hand anywhere in the neighbourhood, and was
obliged to go off to a distance to get work. This, to him, was not felt
to be a very great trial, for it removed him from the sight of his
half-fed, half-clothed children, and dejected, suffering wife; and he
could, therefore spend with more freedom, and fewer touches, of
compunction, the greater portion of his earnings in gratifying the
inordinate cravings of his vitiated appetite.
Thus, in general, stood affairs at the opening of our story. Let us now
take a nearer and more particular view. Let us approach, and enter the
cheerless abode of the man who, to feed an evil and debasing appetite,
could heartlessly turn away from his faithful wife and dependent little
ones, and leave them to the keenest suffering.
New Year's day, to which the farmer's wife and children were looking
forward with so much delight, was but little more than a week off, and
Mrs. Foster expected her husband home also. But with what different
feelings did she anticipate his arrival! He never brought a glad
welcome with his presence; although his wife, when he was absent,
always looked for and desired his return. He had been away over three
months; and was earning twenty dollars a month. But, he had only sent
home eighteen dollars during the whole time. This, we need hardly say,
was far from enough to meet the wants of his family. Had it not been
that George, who was but eleven years old, went every day to a factory
in the village and worked from morning until night, thus earning about
a dollar and a half a week, and that the mother took in sewing,
spinning, washing and ironing, and whatever she could get to do, they
must have wanted even enough to eat.
It was but six days to New Year's. Mrs. Foster had been washing nearly
the whole day,--work that she was really not able to do, and which
always so tired her out, that in the night following she could not
sleep from excessive fatigue,--she had been washing nearly all day, and
now, after cleaning up the floor, and putting the confused room into a
little order, she sat down to finish some work promised by the next
morning. It was nearly dark, and she was standing, with her sewing,
close up to the window, in order to see more distinctly in the fading
light, when there came a loud knock at the door. One of the children
opened it, and a man, whose face she knew too well, came in. He was the
owner of the poor tenement in which they lived.
"Have you heard from Foster since I was here last?" said the man, with
an unpleasant abruptness of manner.
"No sir, I have not," replied Mrs. Foster, in a low, timid voice, for
she felt afraid of the man.
"When do you expect him home?"
"He will be here at New Year's."
"Humph! Do you know whether he will bring any money?"
"I am sure I cannot tell; but I hope so."
"He'd better;"--the man spoke in a menacing tone--"for I don't intend
waiting any longer for my rent."
No reply was made to this.
"Will you tell your husband, when he returns, my good woman, what I
have just said?"
"I will," was meekly replied.
"Very well. If he doesn't come up to the notch then, I shall take my
course. It is simple and easy; so you had better be warned in time."
And the man walked out as abruptly as he came in. Mrs. Foster looked
after him from the window, where she had continued standing, and saw
him stop and look attentively at their cow, that stood waiting to be
milked, at the door. A faintness came over her heart, for she
understood now, better than before, the meaning of his threats.
An hour after dark George came home with his hand in a sling. He went
up, quickly, to where his mother was sitting by a table at work, and
dropping down in a chair, hid his face in her lap, without speaking,
but bursting into tears as he did so.
"Oh George! what is the matter?" exclaimed the mother in great alarm.
"What ails your hand?"
"It got mashed in the wheel," replied the boy, sobbing.
"Badly?" asked the mother, turning pale, and feeling sick and faint.
"It's hurt a good deal; but the doctor tied it up, and says it will get
well again; but I won't be able to go to work again in a good while."
And the lad, from sobbing, wept bitterly. The mother leaned her head
down upon her boy, and wept with him.
"I don't mind the hurt so much," said George, after he had recovered
himself; "but I won't be able to do any thing at the mill until it gets
well."
"Can't I go to work in his place, mamma?" spoke up, quickly, little
Emma, just in her tenth year. Mrs. Foster kissed the earnest face of
her child and said--
"No, dear; you are not old enough."
"I'm nine, and most as big as George. Yes, mamma, I'm big enough. Won't
you go and ask them to let me come and work in brother's place till he
gets well?"
The mother, her heart almost bursting with many conflicting emotions,
drew the child's head down upon her bosom, and held it tightly against
her heart.
The time of severer trial was evidently drawing near. Almost the last
resource was cut off, in the injury her boy had sustained. She had not
looked at his hand, nor did she comprehend the extent of damage it had
received. It was enough, and more than enough, that it was badly
hurt--so badly, that a physician had been required to dress it. How the
mother's heart did ache, as she thought of the pain her poor boy had
suffered, and might yet be doomed to suffer! And yet, amid this pain,
came intruding the thought, which she tried to repel as a selfish
thought, that he could work no more, and earn no more, for, perhaps, a
long, long time.
Yes, the period of severer trial had evidently come. She did not permit
herself even to hope that her husband when he returned would bring with
him enough money to pay the rent. She knew, too well, that he would
not; and she also knew, alas! too well that the man to whose tender
mercies they would then be exposed had no bowels of compassion.
Wet with many tears was the pillow upon which the mother's head reposed
that night. She was too weary in body and sorrowful in mind to sleep.
On the next morning a deep snow lay upon the ground. To some a sight of
the earth's pure white covering was pleasant, and they could look upon
the flakes still falling gracefully through the air with a feeling of
exhilaration. But they had food and fuel in store--they had warm
clothing--they had comfortable homes. There was no fear of cold and
hunger with them--no dread of being sent forth, shelterless, in the
chilling winter. It was different with Mrs. Foster when she looked from
her window at daylight.
George had been restless, and moaned a good deal through the night; but
now he slept soundly, and there was a bright flush upon his cheeks.
With what a feeling of tenderness and yearning pity did his mother bend
over him, and gaze into his fair face, fairer now than it had ever
looked to her. But she could not linger long over her sleeping boy.
With the daylight, unrefreshed as she was, came her "never ending,
still beginning" toil; and now she felt that she must toil harder and
longer, and without hope.