 INTRODUCTION Before the reader turns to the first page of this history, let a clear understanding be arrived at between him and the writer. In penning the story of the sewing-girl, the author's purpose was not to get up a thrilling tale, but to present simple truths in a way thought likely to gain for them attention. Let no reader then believe there is here shown one picture which can justly be styled, highly colored. On the contrary, many facts which have come to the knowledge of the writer, in connection with the sewing-girl's experiences, and which might be gathered by any who took the trouble to look for them, have been denied a place in this volume, through fear of their appearing to the ordinary observer, improbable. It is difficult to believe these everyday tales of wrong and oppression, so almost impossible to realize that, in our very midst, under the eye of an enlightened and sympathizing community, there are systematized persecutions of the struggling needy and the unprotected. Yet these things are. The path of the self-dependent woman is thorny at best. That of the sewing-woman, in a very large majority of cases, most particularly so. But with inadequate pay for her labor spring up a long train of attending woes and difficulties, which render it the next thing to unendurable. Indeed, to those who look on, apart from the atmosphere of necessity which envelops the actress in the homely life-drama, too often a tragedy, the wonder is that human hearts and human frames can bear so much, and bear that much so long. End of introduction. CHAPTER I. Mabel had just entered the room, the still, dark sick room, when met at the door with these whispered words. She made no reply, only turned on the speaker her sad, anxious eyes, while her pale face grew yet paler. You understand, Mabel, you know my way, that I think it so much better to know the worst at once. The worst, cousin Algern? The worst, my poor girl. Mabel, almost fainting, let her head fall upon the shoulder of her cousin, who silently put her arms about her. Gently she drew her from the room, and led her to a seté in the hall, where, seating herself, she drew the young girl down beside her. It is well, Mabel, that we should know it, she whispered, well, that while she has yet strength to make such arrangements, as are needful, the effort should be made. It is better for her, better for all. Tears had now come to the partial relief of Mabel, and her sobs were the sole reply to this remark. I have told your mother, my dear, she knows that, unless a miracle be worked in her favour, eight and forty hours are the longest time. Cousin Algern, I must go to her, and Mabel made an effort to throw off the arms entwined about her. Not so, my dear, and the arms enclosed her more closely. Your mother is just now under effect of some drops given her by the doctor. And it is better so. She will be refreshed and strengthened by the rest for the duty before her, while you will have time to compose yourself, as she wishes. She told me to speak to you, to prepare you. Prepare me? sobbed poor Mabel. Oh, cousin Algern, there is no preparing for a thing like this. Not to bear it stoically, my dear. You are too young to affectionate for that, but to reconcile yourself in a measure to this worst, which there is no avoiding, and to hear, with something like composure, the last words of your mother. My dear cousin talked with me before she slept. She said she was neither startled nor alarmed at the communication I made her, that, though she would not say so to us, she had long felt there was nothing to do but to prepare for this parting. It seems, indeed, that she has, quietly to herself, already arranged everything as seems to her best under the circumstances, and it only remains for us to promise faithful compliance with her wishes. Of course, as far as you are concerned, Mabel, there will be perfect willingness. Can you doubt it, cousin? Dear, dear mother, I must go sit beside her. I have not been in the room, you know, since the doctor's coming, when you told me to take Lily away. You will be perfectly quiet, Mabel. You will not attempt to speak to her. Oh, no! I only want to be near her, when, in so little while. You may go, my dear. Lily, I suppose, is asleep. Yes, cousin, poor little thing. She wouldn't have disturbed mother, she's been so quiet. Released from the detaining arms of Mrs. Kingsley, Mabel made her way to her mother's bedside, to smother her grief in quiet, and to gaze through blinding tears upon the loved features soon to be still in death. She sat there alone, none in the chamber but the dying woman and herself, Mrs. Kingsley having retired as soon as the brief conversation in the hall was ended. Mabel Ross was but eighteen, and six months before might have been regarded as the child in feelings and ways which she was at ten. But the woman, the patient and self-sacrificing woman, had been developing within her during these six months. The sudden death of a loved father, less than a year before, had left her and her mother and sisters in what appeared to be the easy circumstances they had long enjoyed, but through failure of a business friend, for whom Mr. Ross had endorsed to a large amount, they were, a few months later, stripped of nearly all their means. The few hundred dollars saved from this wreck of fortune were nearly consumed during the six months' illness of Mrs. Ross, whose condition was such as left her children no thought but for her. Something like fifteen minutes after Mabel commenced her weeping watch beside her mother, Mrs. Kingsley re-entered the room. It is time for the girls to come in from school. She whispered to Mabel. And I would like you to see them below and tell them what I have told you. Mabel cast a wistful look at the pale face on the pillow, which said how regretfully she would leave her mother just then. Mightn't they come to you here, cousin? she asked. You can take them from the room as you did me. Yes, my dear, if it was only Minnie, but Hilda's such a thoughtless girl, she'll be sure to make an outbreak. It's best for you to await their coming in the sitting-room, while I take your place here. Mabel seemed on the point of putting in another plea to remain, then rising she bent a look of grief on the sleeping form of her mother and left the room. Her heart craved to stay, but Cousin Algene had directed her to go below, and Cousin Algene had had all things her own way in the house from the hour the now dying woman was taken ill. Mrs. Kingsley followed the young girl to the door to whisper one more direction, which was that she should remain below with her sisters until summoned by the bell to the sick-room. A few minutes later the expected girls entered the house, and having drawn them into the sitting-room, Mabel, with all the composure she could summon, made to them the sad communication recently made to herself. It was received by each in a way characteristic of the girl, by Hilda, with a passionate burst of weeping, by Minnie, with a pailing of the cheeks and lips and a look of anguish which could find no immediate relief in tears. Both the girls were Mabel's juniors, Hilda being fourteen and Minnie eleven. Putting an arm about each, and clasped in their returning embrace, Mabel sought to bring them to that composure she was herself struggling to attain. "'I'm going this moment to dear mother,' presently cried Hilda, starting up from the sofa where Mabel had drawn them beside her. "'What are we doing here, Mabel, when, in a little time, she'll be—she'll be gone from us?' Then she burst into another spell of noisy weeping. "'Dear Hilda, only stay till you can be more quiet. Mother is sleeping. She needs to sleep all she can just now.' "'I'll be quiet as can be,' rejoined Hilda, almost choking in her efforts to check her sobs. "'Only I'm going to see mother this minute. Cousin Algins been keeping us too much away. It's a shame, and I always thought so. She has meant it for the best,' said Mabel. "'Dear mother has been so nervous and feeble, so easily disturbed. She's a busy body that wants to manage everyone's affairs, Cousin Algins is,' said Hilda, with some temper. "'She's put you aside, Mabel, when you begged to be let do things, and when mother'd rather have had you too.' "'It was a hard thing for me,' Mabel replied, to her tears. "'But then, Cousin Algins knew best, and besides, I had to see to Lily.' "'But when will Cousin Algins let us go to mother, Mabel?' asked the pale, timid Mini, putting her trembling hand in her sisters. "'Yes, I'd like to know that,' cried Hilda, her indignation for the moment getting the better of her distress. "'When will she consent to three poor girls seeing there, there?' This time the indignation gave way, and the weeping reasserted itself. Before Mabel could reply, the bell from the sick chamber sounded. The three girls in silence left the room together, Hilda hurrying in advance, and her sisters following, hand in hand. And thus they entered the chamber, the impetuous Hilda rushing to her mother's bedside, where she threw herself weeping on her knees beside the pillow, and Mabel and Mini pressing up quietly to the bed, suppressing their sorrow, in thought of the suffering woman. Mrs. Ross was now awake. She reclined, with her head somewhat raised, while Mrs. Kingsley sat beside the bed, her arm about little Lily. Lily was not yet three years old, and could not be expected fully to comprehend the scene before her. But she knew her mother was very sick, and that Cousin Algin had directed herself to be very quiet and still, and she did her best to obey her. The sight of Hilda's abandonment of grief was, however, too much for her, and she presently began to cry quite loudly, requiring some trouble on the part of the Cousin to pacify her. "'Do not grieve, my dear children,' said Mrs. Ross, soon as something like quiet was restored. God calls me from you, but our parting is but for a time. Stand by the love to him I have taught you, and we will one day meet where parting is no more.' She extended a shadowy hand to Mabel, and laid the other on the head of Hilda, whose face was now buried in the bed-clothes. "'I may not have strength after this morning to say what I would wish to you, my children,' she continued after a pause. "'Mabel, my darling?' "'Yes, dearest mother?' And Mabel bent close over the pillows, restraining her rising sobs as she best could. "'I leave you, Mabel, head of my little family, the older sister of Hilda and Minnie, who I trust will always look up to you. The mother of my little Lily. My poor baby is too young to be left to any other than a sister's care. I give her to you, Mabel. You will make her worthy that home to which we all are speeding. "'Dear mother, I will do my duty to her as God gives me strength,' sobbed the suffering girl. "'I will pray for strength to do it well.' "'I know it, Mabel. You are my hope for all I leave behind. God be thanked for the blessing given me in you. A hard struggle is before you, my child. The path of the toiling woman is a weary one. "'Don't think of it, mother. I am young and strong, and will take the burden for all. We will be together. We will do well.' A silence of some minutes followed. Mrs. Ross was gathering strength to speak further. "'Hilda? My dear Hilda, we'll go to her cousin Algin,' she then said. Hilda raised her head with a startled look into her mother's face. "'Oh! No! No! No!' she cried. "'I'll stay with Mabel, dear mother. Always with Mabel!' Mrs. Ross glanced uneasily at her cousin, and feebly put out her hand to Hilda. "'Your mother has arranged all for the best, Hilda, my dear,' said Mrs. Kingsley. "'Don't disturb her with objections at an awful moment like this.' "'Oh, mother!' cried the young girl. "'Change your mind in this one thing. Oh, do! I can go with no one but Mabel. Be happy with no one else!' The dying woman's hand was laid tenderly on that of the impetuous girl. "'My poor, poor Hilda!' she whispered. "'God temper you to the lot before you.' "'Need Hilda leave us, mother?' Mabel ventured to say. "'Why may we not all be together?' "'If I thought it for the best, my darlings,' Mrs. Ross replied, with another glance at the cousin. "'Yes, girls, if your mother thought it for the best,' echoed the latter, but she has reflected on the matter and sees it would not be. So it remains for you, like good, obedient children, to agree to her wishes. Your mother's last wishes remember.' The words, Your mother's last wishes, caused a sudden sob to choke down what Mabel was about to say, but she struggled with the agony, feeling that she must make an effort to keep her sister to her side in that sad time coming to them. "'Mother, dear mother, leave us together,' she said. "'Let there be no more parting than God orders. No more.' "'How do you expect to live, Mabel Ross?' Mabel abruptly asked the cousin. "'Something like two hundred dollars is all I believe which remains of your father's estate. What then do you propose to do?' "'To work,' was the ready response. "'I'm not at all afraid to work, cousin. Not at all, dear mother.' "'That you can do for yourself and Lily, and help along many, I believe,' replied Mrs. Kingsley in a different tone. But when it comes to Hilda, it is a little too much. "'Not if Hilda does her share,' said the young person in question, and she can and will.' "'She will,' mildly returned her cousin, but not by the side of Mabel. "'If you love your sister, Hilda, you should wish for her own sake to leave her.' "'She thinks I'll be a stone about your neck, Mabel,' said Hilda, with a resentful glance at her cousin. "'She'll make you think so, too, and you'll give me up.' "'Not if dear mother will let me have you,' was the reply. "'I want you, my sister. I want you all.' "'Bula!' whispered Mrs. Ross, and her cousin bent over her. What the dying woman said did not reach the ears of the young people. Neither did the reply made by the cousin. Your mother is wasting her strength in speaking, then said the latter to them, and she wishes me to explain her arrangements to you. Hilda is to come to me. Little Lily is to stay with Mabel, and Minnie is to go to Mrs. Lemming, who was to see your mother yesterday, and sent a message to her through me to-day. Before the words were finished a wail came from the lips of the third sister, a wail that went to the heart of the mother. Minnie had been resting on the arm of Mabel. She clung with all her strength to it now. Mabel had faintly echoed the plaint, but seeing the look of distress on the face of her mother, she checked her feelings and also whispered a word of caution to poor Minnie. "'Dear mother means all for the best,' she then said to her sisters. "'And we will do as she wishes. "'Dearest mother, be easy about us. It shall be as you say, and we will do well.' The assurance came none too soon. Mrs. Ross's features were pailing to the hue of death. A look of death was settling upon her countenance. All saw the change, and the three girls fixed their tear-dim dies upon her in an agony that admitted no words. Little Lily, too, made a cry, and threw herself forward on the pillow beside her mother, positively refusing to be drawn away by the arm of Cousin Algin. "'God, be with you, my poor, penniless girls!' faintly breathed the dying woman. They were the last words she spoke. A state of exhaustion followed, from which there was no rally, and toward the dawn of the next morning the mother breathed her last. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2. The sewing machine. Little Lily would clap her hands in delight as the bright new sewing machine word its busy music, while guided by Mabel's fingers the snowy linen received its neat rows of fairy stitches. The lively talk and pretty ways of her little sister were the recreation which enlivened Mabel's monotonous labours. She could almost, for a time, forget in them their sad orphanage in their poverty. But was it poverty? This was the question the young girl often asked herself, often through the busy hours of the day, often or still in the silent ones of the night. Was it poverty, she was knowing now? When by her sewing machine purchased with the last of the money which came into her hands at the time of her mother's death, only reserving enough to pay one month's advance rent for the couple of neat rooms she occupied with her little sister. She could make enough, nay more than enough, to meet their daily necessities. It is true that by night she was wearied through her twelve hours ceaseless labours, but her sleep rested her and she was contented, happy but for her recent loss. And when, after prayer, she pillowed the curly head of her young sister on her breast, it was with no feeling of repining that God had taken the two loved ones to himself, but of thankfulness that he had still left them so much. Six days of the seven were so past. Then came a bright change. One sweet, soul-and-body-reviving day, delightful in anticipation, soothing in reality, contenting in retrospect, the Sabbath, the beautiful God-given Sabbath, the crowning light to that world which its glorious maker had said was good. To Mabel it was very much more than a day of rest. It was one of revivifying enjoyment and of encouragement to well-doing. Then that day, more than any other, seemed to come to her sweetly her mother's words, I leave you, Mabel, the mother of my little Lily, make her worthy that home to which we all are speeding. Make her worthy that home. Oh, if she failed in this, she failed indeed in her earthly duties. She was given life and strength in vain. Lily saw her path marked out in vain. And that she should not fail. She kept her heart fixed on the sacred trust, and watched from day to day the passage of the infant feet entrusted to her care. She taught the child to love the Sabbath and the bountiful Sabbath giver. She made the day not one of restraint and weariness, but of cheerful, heart-lifting thankfulness and prayer. With the little girl she attended morning service in the church there mother had first taken them to, and there strove to fix the attention and understanding of her young companion. Then, after their simple dinner, came a long walk, if weather permitted, to invigorate each after the home staying of the week. During these walks it was Mabel's custom to talk with the little girl on those sacred themes she wished to impress on the mind of the child, bringing her language so nearly as she could to the comprehension of her companion. And that readiness, that mysterious readiness to comprehend divine truths so frequently seen in the very young, showed itself to Mabel's delight in her infant sister. Startling were the questions she would put. Beautiful the ideas which simply conceived, she is simply confided to her guide. An endless theme between the orphan sisters was the departed mother. The angel in heaven, as Mabel taught the child to conceive her, watching with unwearying interest the well-doing of her children on earth. The first agony of her grief exhausted, it became a sad pleasure to Mabel to yield to the more tranquil weeping which such conversations as these would cause. And when the weather was such as confined them to the house, the pleasant talks would take place in the snug little room, which in the limited economy of Mabel's housekeeping answered every purpose but that of a sleeping apartment. Lily was not a robust child, and Mabel was careful to try her as little as possible. With six o'clock the latter's weekday evening was over, and after the supper which followed, if other household duties or weather did not interfere, she would stroll out for a time with little Lily. Sometimes it was but a few moments so spent, sometimes half an hour. But little or more, it all did its service in giving health and strength to the child and the young sower. These were the times when were made Mabel's and Lily's occasional visits to their sisters. Occasional only, as both Mrs. Lemming and Mrs. Kingsley lived too far from Mabel's humble abode, to permit the walk to be taken so frequently as she and the little Lily would have wished. Her opportunity offered, however, Hilda and Minnie would come to their sisters' home, and these were the most frequent seasons of reunion in the little family. With regard to neither of the older of her sisters was Mabel's mind quite at ease, though her concern was principally aroused for Hilda. The violence of the latter's grief for her mother's loss with time subsided, but she gave no promise of content under her new circumstances. Her unequal temper showed itself in spells of alternate petulance and gloom upon such occasions as she and Mabel met, but no spark of her old liveliness was yet to be seen. It is true that she confessed candidly to her sister that she had no cause of complaint against her cousin since coming under her roof. She was exacting in her work, to be sure, keeping her, for the chief hours of the day, busily employed with her needle. But Hilda knew this fell far short of the time Mabel herself labored, and had the grace to offer no complaint concerning it. She had good clothes and a comfortable home, yet asserted herself to be miserably unhappy. The why may be understood, if not explained, by a conversation between herself and Mabel some five months after the death of their mother. Upon this occasion Hilda had come to visit her sister toward the close of the afternoon, and as they busily talked, the click-click, as little Lily called it, of the sewing machine under Mabel's busy fingers kept up a lively accompaniment and one that prevented their words too distinctly reaching the ear of the child. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Hilda It's something more than a roof over one's head, food to eat and clothes on one's back, one needs to make life bearable, Mabel, said the visitor shortly after her entrance. One needs to feel there's something to those about them, to the folks who give them these things, not to be looked upon as a stock or a stone. Cousin Algen and Cousin Hugh don't look upon you that way, Hilda. I think they show real friendship and kindness. The less you say about their friendship the better, petulantly rejoined Hilda. I never believed in it and never will. With real proofs of it that is unkind, Hilda. Hilda was silent for a while, then said, I'm only seeing things as they really are, Mabel, and that's a thing I can't, for my life help doing. I never liked Cousin Algen, and from the time poor dear mother was sick and she came about us so much, I've liked her less than ever. Dear Hilda, just at the time she most deserved our love? She doesn't deserve a bit of it, Mabel. She's self-self-self all over. So when I think of all she's done in past months and how she's taken me, I see just as plainly as though she'd told me—yes, and a good deal plainer—it's because, in some way or other, it serves herself. Oh, don't look that way, Mabel. Don't make your miserable, crushed down sister Hilda more miserable and crushed down by knowing she can't, even once in a while, tell the sister she loves with all her heart what fancies are in her brain and what things she's getting at with the sharp inside eyes God has given her. I wish I didn't see so much, she added, in a yet more petulant tone, but I can't help it, so must. God made me so, and surely he don't make mistakes. Maybe just maybe now he means it for something. Called by the tone in which the strange words were spoken, Mabel looked up wonderingly to the changing features of her sister. Hilda had always been a mystery to her own more simple nature, and was now yet more of one—just at the time, too, when Mabel had the good of each sister so pressingly at heart and it saddened her. You look as if I'd said something dreadful, resumed Hilda, and maybe I have. Maybe I'm wicked, and maybe I'm going to be wicked or still, but I can't help it. I'm pushed to it, so no one else is to blame than me. Do not talk so dear, Hilda! We have so many blessings to be thankful for, that it seems to be particularly wrong for us to be repining or ugly-tempered. It almost looks like—like a tempting of Providence, you mean! But in Hilda, as her sister paused—now don't—don't, for your life, Mabel, say what you were going to say that time. You mistake, Hilda! What did you think I was going to say? That if I talked in this ugly way you'd not let me come to you! Mabel, if you say that, you'd drive me to desperation! Mabel's cheek paled as she took her sister's restless hand in her own. I had no thought of such words, my darling! She said, Nothing could drive me from you. Nothing make me love you less. It is for your own good I speak of your unhappy way. It would be so much happier for you to see things in a cheerful light, as you used to. Hilda abruptly covered her face and burst into tears. For something like half a minute she so remained. Then, as suddenly checking her crying, she looked up to Mabel, who had twined her arms about her. You're as good as sister has ever lived, Mabel, she said. And if it had only been settled I could live with you, everything would have gone well. But she put dear mother up to parting us all. So you're here, and I'm a mile off. Well, Mabel, I can't live with people I don't love. So some day it'll come to my running away, to you, if you'll have me, to myself, if you turn your back on me. My darling Hilda, how you frighten me! When it comes to the leaving, Mabel, which of the two shall it be? I hope it won't come to it, Hilda. I can't think you mean all those strange things. But if you do leave, with or without cousin's consent, there's but one place for you, and that is your sister's home. Thank you, Mabel. I'll be with you before a great while, make sure. But I don't wish to encourage your discontent, Hilda. I say, all along, it is right we obey dear mother's last directions. If I could find cousin Algin's tolerable, Mabel. But when I see there's so much seeming in all her services to us, that it's so evident she has some reason. I don't care, Hilda, to look for other reason than the good one that appears. The wish to serve four poor fatherless and motherless girls who are nearly related to her. It's just like you, Mabel, to look on the outside and see nothing under it. It always was your way, and I suppose always will be. And I think it's strange, too, for you're as smart a girl as lives. But I'm different. It's my way to worry through things to what's under. To poke through the upper crust, as it were, and see what's in the pie. There always is an upper crust, a something that's put on to make a show of what isn't, while what really is lies covered safe below. Safe enough for the trouble most folks take to poke after it. It seems to me it's all the time covering up and covering up and make believe the whole world through. Dear Hilda, what nonsense you talk. It seems so to you, Mabel, your way of thinking and talking is so different from mine. But God made me as I am, just as He made you as you are. So He means us for different sorts of work, I mean, to bring about different things. You'll do your part well, there's no doubt about that. You'll go on, good and steady to the last, and bring up Lily to be good and steady like yourself. While for me, well, I'll do my part, too. I'll worry, and ferret out this something, and, by and by, it may be a service to us all. I'd rather, Hilda, have you used the good sense I know you have, and put from you those odd fancies. We either have you this matter of how God has made us, and our particular responsibilities, quite right. We have all our faults, and weak points. We are all, by nature, sinful in His eyes, who is in Himself perfect. But then He has given us sure means by which our faults may be lessened, and it pleases Him well to see us striving against them. Can there be a more miserable mistake than to believe that, with assurance of all this, we are simply to make as excuse for our shortcomings, that God has made us with such or such failings? Do not think it, Hilda. We are to struggle bravely with temptation, and the better we come off in the battle, the sureer He will love and bless us. It is easy for you to talk so, Mabel, when you're made with a nature all goodness, where is the battling for you to do? Here in my heart, Hilda, now, at this moment and always, the battle comes to us all, and none can deny it with honour to God. Hilda looked at her sister in surprise. You've grown to be a real woman, Mabel," she said. You're no more the girl you were last year, than if a dozen years had passed between. Mother knew you when she left you, Lily. But then what a mistake to leave you only, Lily! None of us should have been parted from you, Mabel. Our place was by your side, and it's the place we'll come to yet. Don't look frightened again. I'd not come to you today if you'd ask me. I've something to do first where I am, and after that, who knows. But now, about Minnie, have you seen her this week? Yes, last Monday. She wasn't very well when she stopped on Sunday morning, so I went to ask after her. I don't believe she is well. Poor Minnie. I'm not sure, but she has a harder time than me. Mrs. Lemming is kind to her, Hilda. She makes no difference between her and her own niece. When Minnie gets a little more over her sorrow for poor mother, I expect to see her a happy girl. I don't a bit. Mrs. Lemming herself is well enough. But there is the niece. That's anything but pleased to have another girl come in to share the good things she's been getting to herself. She leads Minnie a miserable life. She's a perfect tyrant, that Clarideen. Minnie doesn't say so, Hilda. She makes no complaint. No, because it's not her way. Besides, she's afraid. Then you see things only on the outside, so you know nothing. But I keep my eyes and ears about me. I poke through the upper crust, so I know the whole story. That Clarise a sly, artful snake in the grass, and Mrs. Lemming is deceived by her. I'm sure she'd never have such things if she knew. Such things as what? Anxiously inquired Mabel. Why, the way Clara puts on with Minnie and calls her a charity child of her aunts. She knows Minnie won't tell, so she goes it strong. She makes the poor child ill at ease with the teachers and with the servants, saying her aunt has undertaken to make one lady out of the Ross family, but that she'll never succeed. Mabel knows our Minnie has more of a lady in her little finger than Clara Dean has in her whole body. How did you learn all this, Hilda? Mabel very gravely asked. Through my inside eyes and inside ears, replied the strange girl. I've worried it out, little by little, and now it's a plain story to me. It's jealousy on the part of Clara, because another girl is brought to the house to be made much of, and almost get beyond her with the teachers. Minnie has done wonders with her French, and Clara can't stand it. If she was a mean, stupid girl, it would be another thing. If she was that sort of girl, too, she'd stand Clara's ill-treating better than she does. As it is, it comes near breaking her heart. Oh, no, Hilda! Does she make complaint to you? She does and she doesn't. She'd say nothing if I let her alone, but that I can't do. So I find out everything my own way. I put things right home to her, and, though she fights shy, puts on a crust, you know. She's learning that, like the rest. She ends by crying in her quiet way, and then I know just how the matter stands. Dear Minnie is so sensitive, so timid, said Mabel, that these trials must be much to her. But there is one great good that she must gain in spite of all her suffering, and that is a finished education which will enable her to make a living by teaching. You don't think, then, that Mrs. Lemming means to make a lady of her? Mrs. Lemming, nor no one, can make anything else of Minnie. She is like our dear mother, gentle and lady-like every bit of her. But it is not my notions of a lady to live in idleness or independence when we can work for ourselves. I don't know what our Mrs. Lemming's plans for Minnie, but I know that by giving her a good education she confers a great kindness on her and on us all, and I look to it making our sister dependent on her own efforts in years to come. If father hadn't endorsed for that Barrett, he'd have left us money to live on Mabel, then none of us would have to work, or what's worse, be beholden to strangers. Mabel made no reply. She was adjusting a new needle to her sewing machine. I think that Barrett was a rascal! Very warmly pursued Hilda. Poor father's clerk, too, for years that had already received so many favors from him. The loss of the money is made worse by thought of its having gone to pay another man's debts. It was all right in law and business, Hilda, replied Mabel, who was again busily working. And you can't justly call Mr. Barrett a rascal. It was unlooked for changes in business that caused all the trouble, and he couldn't help it any more than we could. But he could do something for us now we're left alone. said Hilda, still petulantly. Everybody knows he's going on with business again. He is building it up again, Hilda. That is what I've heard. Give him time. He may yet do something for us. Don't you believe he'll ever give us a cent? It seems to me money won't stay by us. Look at that old uncle of father's, Godfrey Farnham, that died ten years ago, and who, after making believe for an age that he meant to leave something to father, makes a will giving his whole fortune to—who was it he gave it to, Mabel? To Cousin Hugh, who was Uncle Godfrey's nephew on one side of the family, as father was on the other. Oh, yes, I had forgotten it was to Cousin Hugh. Well, that's another proof, Mabel, as I was going to say, of our being the most unlucky of creatures. If it had been anyone else but poor dear father, he'd have got something from Uncle Godfrey, but as it was him, why, he lost it. Mabel made no remark. She knew Hilda's way, as the latter called it, of running on, aggravating herself, and piling up an accumulation of trouble, and knew also that it was needless to make effort to stem the torrent of her humour. Within a year after the death of her mother, a variation took place in Mabel's duties. This was from homework for private customers, to a place in the store of one of the principal agents for sewing machines. It was at Mrs. Lemming's suggestion the change was made, as the summer months, it was now July, were losing Mabel most of her customers. Through this lady's efforts only, the excellent place Mabel found herself in possession of was attained, such positions being too much in demand for the young girl to have come into it by any exertions of her own. In the large cloakroom of this store Mabel had prospect of making, through the coming autumn and winter months, yet more than she had made on her homework. Yet even at the present unfavourable season it afforded her a living, which her customer work had laterally failed to do. Indeed, had she not previously laid by every dollar she could possibly spare, her position would have become a distressing one. But opposed to these advantages of her new position, was the being necessitated to leave little Lily through the waking hours of the weekdays. This was a trial to Mabel herself, and both a trial and inconvenience to the child. To the kindness of a couple of neighbours only, Mabel was at all enabled to get over the difficulty. These neighbours, one of whom occupied a room in the house where Mabel lodged, and the other a portion of an adjacent one, consenting to take the child on alternate days under charge. Poor little Lily missed her sister very much, and though for so young a child, particularly patient and uncomplaining, she was for a time irreconcilable to the change. By and by, however, she found consolation in looking forward to the evening hour, which was to reunite her and her loved Mabel, and beyond this, to the one day out of seven, which was to see no parting between them. For Mabel herself the change was a great one, in more respects than those already mentioned. It brought her in contact with other girls of her age and vocation, and companions of this sort were new to her. The reserve and quiet of her manner caused her, for a time, to feel lost among her new associates. But these were qualities approved by her employers, and she soon won their confidence through them. Among the very few of the girls employed in Mabel's department, who were rather drawn toward her than repulsed by the peculiarities of her demeanor, was one known as Bertha Giles. Of all the girls in the employ of Mr. Blank, Bertha was the one Mabel would have chosen to be well regarded by. There was a quiet, subdued manner about her, which both harmonized with her own feelings and interested her. And she was not sorry when she found Bertha evening after evening, taking advantage of their homeward walk, lying for some distance in the same direction, to claim her as a companion. One evening, as they thus walked together, Mabel remarked on the similarity of her own and her companion's position, so far as they were both doubly orphaned and employed in the same way for a livelihood. Bertha sighed, and for a moment was silent. There is not the similarity you think, she then said. Just now our positions are a good deal alike. But it is only now. You have had an education, which fits you for something better than sewing, if the charge of your little sister, as you say, permitted it. While I have but recently had opportunity to improve the little instruction I received as a child. Your fate is a happy, happy one to mind, Mabel. You are beginning where I leave off. Or I may say, you are at the top of the ladder at the offset. While I have reached it, step by step, through, well, through, what shall I say? Through things it is likely you have neither heard nor dreamed of. And that, beginning where you do, you may thank God it is not likely you ever will know of. I have heard something of the hardships of a sewing girl's life, rejoined Mabel, though I have known nothing of it. Let me tell you something of mine, said her companion. I was only eleven when I first began working for a living. I am now twenty-two. My mother was a noble good woman, and she spared no pains to teach me her own good principles. She taught me what has been all to me since, though she died when I was only turned of ten. My father brought me with him to Chicago, where there was a good opening for him to work. He was a bricklayer. He got a large job, and was well paid, and everything seemed to be looking promising for us. We had taken rooms with a family on Clark Street. And one evening, about eight weeks after our coming to Chicago, I was looking for him to come home to supper, as I often did. It got to be late, and I thought it strange there was no sign of him, for he was very steady in his habits, and never stayed away after working hours. I went to the front step to look about, and while I was there, I saw quite a number of people coming along, and in their midst two men carrying a sette, with something looking like a man covered up on it. I hadn't the smallest thought what it was. Oh, no, I only looked on like the rest, because it was something out of the way to stare at. Presently, just as the crowd had got a few doors from where I stood, a little boy of the neighborhood ran up to me and called out. Oh, Berthie, Berthie, they're bringing home your dead father. They didn't know where he lived till Mr. Burns told them, and now they're bringing him home to be buried. I felt as though it was some terrible dream I was in. I couldn't move or speak. The sette was brought to the curb of the sidewalk, and I tried to go forward to it. I don't know what happened after that, for I fell down, and they had to carry me out of the way to bring the sette with the body of my poor father into the house. He had fallen from a high scaffolding at the building where he worked, and was instantly killed by the fall. The woman of the house was a good sort of woman, and she treated me well, better as I found out since than most would have done, though I didn't think so then. In a little while, when I was able to work, she gave me such things to do as, she said, paid for my living, and she fixed up one or two old black dresses of her own to be my mourning for my father, exchanging them for the good calicoes I had been wearing, which she gave to her children. She was the only living creature I had to care for me in Chicago, or indeed anywhere, and I was willing to stay with her as long as I could. She soon found I was handier at my needle than at housework, and gave me sewing to do instead of rough jobs, and as I always liked sewing, I was well satisfied. So all did very well, till my old black clothes began to wear out, and she told me, as my work didn't pay for more than my board and lodging, she couldn't give me anything new, but only old ones again to patch up. I'd have stood this satisfied enough, but for some of the neighbors who had seen my work, telling me that if I got regularly paid for it, I'd get more than enough to buy new clothes besides food and lodging. I believed them, for they offered me a right good price themselves, so I told her about it, and she said I might do as I liked. I worked first for one, then for another, and in this way got to be a regular sewing-girl, before I was twelve years old. I learned to work on the sewing machine, too, and that was a great thing for me. I wouldn't have asked anything better than to get along as I was doing now, if I could all the time have got work as I began with. But this didn't last. Many times, for a whole week, I couldn't get more than one or two days sewing to do, and this put me back, so that I was often wanting not only shoes and clothes, but even enough to eat. Seeing it wouldn't do to depend on families for work, I got the woman I now lodged with to introduce and recommend me to a clothing store to do machine sewing. But though I could work as fast and a good deal better than many of the grown girls employed, the man would give me little more than half-pay, though his best pay was so small that it was only with the closest pinching a girl could continue to live by it at all. Disappointed again, I determined to work for this man only at such times as I was entirely without customer work, and by managing this way, I believed I should get along. A woman who had sometimes given me work, chanced to come to me after I had been working in the store a few weeks and offered me three days sewing in her house. Of course I gladly took it. With her I got sixty cents a day and my meals beside. In the store I got twenty-five cents a day and had to find myself. Such opportunities as she gave me, occurring once in a while, I saw would enable me to come a good deal nearer to what might be called living than the way I'd been getting along for the past weeks. Ignorant child that I was. I didn't know yet one half the hardness of my employer. When at the end of the three days I returned to him for work, he asked if it was sickness had kept me away. I had been taught by my mother to tell the truth, and though I suspected from the look and tone of the man that it might be against me now, I honestly explained what had kept me from the store, saying that to live I must take customer work when I could get it. Then I learned how entirely hard and soulless was this man, how less than nothing it was to him that I was a poor orphan child, with no one to look to but myself, only my two feeble hands between me and starvation from cold and hunger. I was to work for him the six days out of the seven so long as he should want me and for his own niggardly prices. At the same time liable to be dismissed at any moment, or I should not work for him at all. Had he been willing to pay me at the same rate as girls a few years older, I would willingly have bound myself to him, but I could not live on the short pay he gave me, and saying so I left him. I spent that day trying to get a place somewhere else, and by evening succeeded. With my new employer I was obliged to bind myself as the first insisted, but then he was willing to make a slight advance on my former wages, bringing them nearer to that he paid the full grown girls. I got thirty-five cents a day. I was now all the time sewing, and striving to live by the sewing, busy at the store on the machine, or at basting and button-homemaking, from seven to six. And after my return home, engaged until a late hour of the night with hand sewing on such customer work as I could get. At other times it was my own sewing I was busy with, or the washing of my clothes, for I couldn't, of course, pay for the doing of it. And so night after night I was employed for hours after I should have been in bed. There were no more cheerful little talks with people who employed me, no more cutting out and fitting and change of one sort or another to enliven my toil. It was the ceaseless, hard task work, with small wages, done in forced silence and under the eye of a hard taskmaster, or the solitary homework, dragged through weary night hours with feeble light and crushed spirit. To be sure, there were plenty of others doing just as myself. But that didn't in the least mend the matter. And as we sat at our store work, each of us only read in the faces around her the same dreary, day in and day out story she was going over in her own heart. After struggling along for a while, I found that to keep the snug little room I had been occupying, and to board with the nice family I was with, were comforts I could not afford. So I looked about for a cheaper way of living. There were three girls working for my employer, who lodged together in a house where there were both lodgers and borders, and they told me I could find accommodation there, and I applied for it and got it. Here, my expenses were a good deal lessened. But very soon I learned to look back on the time spent in the quiet place I had left as a time of happiness to what I now knew. This crowded boarding-house was noisy and disorderly, and filled with so many strange people that I was at first quite frightened. I told you that my mother was a good woman, and that she had striven to give me good morals and good habits. I was only eleven when I lost her, but Providence, I will not call it chance, Mabel, has ever since placed me with persons who lived decently. They seemed to respect the good training I had had, and to be unwilling to place anything in my way likely to change me for the worse. How different it all was now! A good many of the lodgers were sowing girls, striving, like myself, to eke out a living from their poorly paid work. Some of them had, from the first, impressed me unfavorably, and upon a nearer acquaintance I liked them still less. But I could make little, if any, choice between them and others associated as we were together, especially as I had to share a room with several. I at times look back with a feeling of terror to the four years I spent in that house, and in others that left me no more choice in my companions. I saw so much, I heard so much, I was so mixed up with wrongdoing, with temptations, misery, and despair. God only knows how I came out of it unhurt. Yes, He knows, for He kept always before me the thought of my mother, my good, pure mother, whose lessons I couldn't forget. Oh, Mabel, I saw in those times every turn and move of a poor sowing girl's life. I saw their trials and temptations, their weakness, their remorse, and their suffering. I saw, too, how many a one whose place it was to pity, guide, and encourage them to good, their very employers even, plotted to lead them to evil. Oh, surely there were temptations enough in their pinching poverty, the actual starvation often staring them in the face without this. There were girls I knew who had much good in them, and that wanted to live virtuously and honestly, and had struggled long to do so. Yet I knew of more than one of these dropping off from among us, and being seen no more in the busy places they had filled. I heard of them. I heard how they had been driven into wrong by want and trouble, or enticed into it by artful workers. I heard things, Mabel Ross, that would make your heart ache, and your blood boil to know. But I will not tell them to you. I would be happier and easier at this moment if I could forget them all myself, if I could forget all the worlds injustice and depression I learned in those four years. Though I did no wrong myself, I often feel almost as remorseful as though I had. Those things have left such ugly places in my memory. They have taken so much of the happy, young feeling out of me. It will only be a few months now before I am married, and it is a real good young man will make me his wife. Since I have known this young carpenter, I felt worse than ever about those miserable four years, and I think I'd be willing to give any four of those coming to forget them. I'd be so much happier as the simple girl I was before. I'd feel myself so much worthier the love of this good young man. How did you get a place at Mr. Blanks? Mabel inquired. Through the young carpenter, a friend of his boarded in the house where I lodged. He knew, well as I did, the trials we poor sewing girls were put to, and became a true friend of mine, because he saw I could not be led to wrong. He spoke kindly of me to George Hallett, and in that way brought us together. George had influence to get me on trial at Mr. Blanks, and I did my best to give satisfaction, so got fixed in the place I have now. At Mr. Blanks I'm easy and happy to what I was before, and believe I needn't fear knowing again such dark days as I have come through. The two girls had now arrived at the corner where they generally parted, and Bertha Giles turned in the direction of her home, leaving Mabel to pursue the way to hers, not only graver but sadder for this story she had just heard. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 Hilda and her Mystery On her return home one evening Mabel found Hilda awaiting her. The look and manner of the latter showed considerable excitement, and Mabel felt satisfied that something had gone wrong at Cousin Algin's. She was not left long in doubt concerning what was the something wrong. I told you long ago, Mabel, Hilda said, turning abruptly from the caresses of Little Lily, whom she had brought home, I told you that I saw the time was coming when I couldn't stand being at Cousin Algin's. It's come at last, though not so soon as I looked for. I've left her for good. I'm sorry, Hilda, her sister very gravely replied. I mean, sorry that you couldn't be as well pleased with Cousin Algin as she was with you. She wasn't pleased with me at all, Hilda quickly replied. It was only make-believe. She asked for you herself, Hilda, and seemed to want to do well by you, said Mabel. But I have nothing to say now about that, she added, seeing the cloud gathering on her sister's brow. Since you were not content to stay, you were right to come directly to me. You don't look over pleased to see me for all, remarked Hilda gloomily. If I am not, it is on your own account, Hilda. Mabel sadly rejoined. Oh, my sister, if you knew as I do the trials and sufferings of poor sewing-women you would value the home you have left. How I have thought of you, Hilda, as I have learned more of these things, and how anxiously I have watched you, hoping to see you more content at Cousin Algin's. There's no need to try frightening me, Mabel. I can't go back again. Cousin Algin and I are quits. You have not quarreled, Hilda. No, for there was no need of it. I just told her I was going to leave her and try and get along some other way. She—well, she said I could go. How did she say it, Hilda? Tell me all, my sister. You know our dear mother left you to Cousin Algin. She's reminding me of that, Mabel, to make me feel badly. No, Hilda, only to keep you from doing what you may sometime be sorry for. Well, she wasn't a bit surprised, and it would have been funny if she were when she's been seeing, for long, how things were working. She knows pretty much what I think of her. She knows, too, that I've got my suspicions about something. She's too smart and too conscious not to know that. You talk mysteries, Hilda. I wish you would be planer. I will, Mabel. I stayed at Cousin Algin's this over a year just for one thing, and when that thing was done there was nothing more to keep me there. Not, I mean, that I succeeded about that one thing, or at least that I got any real satisfaction about it. But I made a good, bold trial for it, and though it ended in a failure I'm proud at this minute that I made it. My dear sister, do you call this being plain? Hilda laughed, a rare thing with her now, but when she did laugh it was with a merry, ringing tone pleasant to hear. The sound of her own voice seemed to cheer her spirits, for she went on in a different tone than before. It must seem a funny mystery to you, to be sure, she said. And it's nonsense in me to say, I'll be plain about it. For that's a thing I've made up my mind is not for the best. The truth is, Mabel, if you were a different girl from what you are, a little bit on the harem's harem, like me, I'd let you into the whole secret. But being the staid, close thinking, and afraid of doing something the least bit out of the way, sort of girl you are, I prudently say to myself, Hilda, you keep that thing to yourself, if you want anything to come of it. Mabel smiled, yet still it was in a grave tone, she remarked. It does not seem to me there can safely be mysteries between us, Hilda. I should like to know just what is on your mind. To be made worried and anxious for nothing. Now, if you'd known what's been on my mind these months, Mabel, you'd have been talking to me about it, and discouraging me, and putting all sorts of objections in the way of my working it out. And maybe even letting Cousin Algern herself get an inkling of it. As it is, well, Hilda, as it is, as it is, Mabel, you've had no worry about it, and you know nothing. So I'm left free to try some other plan of working. I've done all I can in the house. Now I'll try and see what can be done out of it. There's more than one way of working at everything, and as my first plan has failed me, I'll find another. My dear sister, you will presently find there is but one way to work at what is before you now, the making of a living, and that is from seven till six, for six days of the week. It is not likely you will find time to busy yourself about these fancies that have been bewildering you. I'm not afraid of the work, Mabel. You're thinking of Cousin Algern, that day by dear mother's bedside, the stone around your neck. You're afraid I'll be a drag on you. No, Hilda, I am not afraid. Nor need you be. Next you wait and see. In leaving Cousin Algern, I've thrown myself on myself, Mabel, not on you. On that account I have neither fear nor regret, Hilda. My only concern is your acting contrary to the solemn injunctions of our mother. Get that idea out of your head, Mabel. Mother never would have thought of parting us. It was Cousin Algern's planning altogether. Mabel made no rejoinder. She was sitting on the little satay with Lily between Hilda and herself, her hand and that of the latter joined in that of the little girl. Lily had listened with attention to the conversation between her sisters, and at this pause, looking earnestly into the face of the last speaker, said, Mother's all the time watching us, Hilda, and she thinks as much about our being happy and good now as she did when she was with us. I wouldn't. Oh, not for the world! Do anything to worry, dear mother! Hilda stared at the child, glanced at Mabel, then, catching Lily in her arms, burst into tears. Neither would I, dear Lily! She cried. Don't you think, child, that I do anything that would distress dear mother if she were indeed like a spirit among us? She is among us, said the child solemnly. She hears us, and she sees us. Mabel says it so, and I know it, I feel it all the time. Tears were in Mabel's eyes, as well as Hilda's. She pressed a kiss upon the cheek of the little girl, and silence for a time fell upon them all. But Hilda's feelings were particularly changeable, especially were her periods of subdued feeling of short duration, a moment more, and she had resumed the subject of her stay at her cousin Algins. You would have had me take you into my confidence, Mabel! She said, in a sort of half-vaunting, half-gesting way. But how would you have felt to know what I was sometimes doing? Fancy for instance, one night not long since, a stormy, rainy night it was, and me creeping out of my bed, between one and two before morning, creeping, creeping downstairs, passing cousin Algins' room like a ghost, my heart fairly standing still at the slightest suspicion of a sound, all in the dark, but with matches in my pocket to strike a light when I got to the end of my journey. I tell you, Mabel, what I went through that night was enough to frighten any dozen girls of my age out of their senses. But it didn't frighten me, or at least if it did, I didn't feel a bit like turning back, or being sorry I had undertaken it. Then the failure came. But I won't tell you about that, Mabel. It would make you feel badly for nothing. You may be sure, though, that I managed to turn myself, yes, and as cleverly as though I'd gone over it all before. And so I had, in my own mind, for I'd thought again and again of all the things that might turn up and how it would be best for me to act through each and every one of them. The best of it all is no one suspected me. They thought of burglars, the servants, any one but me. Mabel had offered no interruption to this relation. She sat gazing on the speaker, her features pale, and a look of apprehension upon them. No one suspected you, Hilda? My sister, what is it you have attempted? Nothing to make such a long face about, Mabel. And Hilda tried to force a laugh. Besides, it's over now, and will never come that way again. As I said before, I'm going to work out of the house now. When Mabel came to speak with Mrs. Kingsley about Hilda's leaving her, she found that lady perfectly good tempered upon the subject. Hilda's a strange girl, she smilingly said, and somehow I like her for her very oddity. She has a dash and sprightliness about her, which enlivens a dull couple like your cousin Hugh and myself. But she wasn't content, and I didn't think it right to put constraint upon her. We will leave her alone, and probably she will, after a time, be content to return to us. There is one thing, Mabel, I wish you both to understand. Our house is always open to her, when she feels disposed to make it her home. Mabel thanked her cousin warmly. She was much impressed with her kindness of manner, and scarcely thought Hilda deserved so much forbearance at her hands. When she reported to Hilda the result of their peace-conference, the latter looked queerly at her. All for effect, she said. Cousin Algin understands that admirably. She invites me to come back, does she? Well, maybe I will, some time. But it'll be a visit of a sort she doesn't look for. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER VI HILDA A SOWING GIRL Mabel would have been pleased, could she have procured sufficient work from her old customers to keep Hilda employed at home, as the latter could then have taken charge of little Lily. But failing in this, and seeing it would be necessary for her sister to find employment in some of the stores, she lost no time in having her taught the operation of the sewing machine. A fee of three dollars procured the necessary instruction, and in a few weeks' time Hilda was competent to machine work, and after some trouble and further delay Mabel succeeded in procuring her a place in one of the clothing stores. Here the young girl applied herself to her labors with such industry as surprised while it delighted her sister. Her humors were so changeable, and her temper so uncertain, that Mabel had entertained great fears for her under these new circumstances. Mabel had heard enough of the character of Hilda's employer, though he was, probably, but little worse than the generality of his class, to know there was neither consideration nor ordinary feeling to be looked for at his hands. And in thought of her sister's impatience and odd independence of character, she looked for an abrupt termination of her duties, almost as soon as entered upon. Not so, however, Hilda either found her present trials more tolerable than her sister had apprehended, or brought to her aid a philosophy for which Mabel had not given her credit. Hilda's sole concern appeared to be that, with all her efforts, she could not make sufficient to defray the actual edition of expense she was and had been to Mabel. The latter endeavored to reassure her on this point. The rent of her rooms, she reminded her, was not increased by their occupation by a third-comer, while Hilda's addition to their little treasury, trifling though it was, covered what additional expense was incurred by her presence. Still, Hilda was not satisfied. If I could only work as you do, Mabel, she, one evening, said to her, I'd somehow contrive to get a better price for my work. I wonder why I was made so good for nothing, while you're good for everything. I am pretty good at sewing, and am thankful for it, replied Mabel, who perceived that her sister was in one of her more desponding moods. But remember, I have had a good deal more practice than you. If you persevere, as you are doing now, you will, by and by, find yourself an excellent sewer. What I want is to get a place like you have at Mr. Blanks, rejoined Hilda, a place where the wages are a decent return for one's ten hours hard work. But I don't expect to get it, she added. I don't believe it's in me to be up to it. And even if it was, I might never get the chance to do my best and be properly paid for it. There's Etta Burgess, who's as good a workwoman as you'd wish to see, and yet she's glad to get her two and three dollars a week with Lellerman. And Maddie Rivers, too, I'd give a good deal to sew like Maddie. She could take any place in Chicago, yet she has to drag along on her forty or fifty cents a day like the rest of them. If I were alone, Mabel, I'd make no headway at all on the mean thirty-five or forty cents I get. But you are not alone, Hilda. Still I can't forget the near three weeks I lived on you, Mabel, while I learned to sew on the machine. Hilda added, after a pause. And worse than that, the money you had to pay to have me taught. I haven't said much about it, but it's never out of my thoughts. That is wrong, Mabel returned. You shouldn't trouble yourself about it, Hilda. Which is Maddie Rivers? She then abruptly asked. You one that walked home with you, Saturday evening? Yes, she lives on Lassalle Street. But she comes this way to keep me company. I like her ever so much. Mabel looked grave. She was preparing little Lily for bed, and glanced up from her employment to the face of Hilda, as she said. Why encourage her to put herself out of her way, Hilda? It would be better for you to be alone than to have company not suited to you. And why isn't Maddie Rivers suited to me? And Hilda fired up a little. She's a poor sewing-girl, and so am I. Surely you're not getting proud, Mabel. It's not for us to be that. I have one sort of pride, Hilda, and would like you to have the same. It is a pride to keep strictly to the path of right and decency. We are but poor sewing-girls, to be sure. And for that very reason should regard appearance closely. We have nothing but our good characters, my sister, and cannot value them too highly. And hasn't Maddie a good character, too, Mabel? And what right have you to think that she doesn't value it? Mabel didn't immediately reply. Before her mind's eye was the picture of Maddie Rivers, and she turned from it with a feeling of disapproval which she did not altogether care to explain. Neither the dress nor the manner and general appearance of her sister's new companion quite answered her ideas of a modest young woman. I trust she has a good character, Hilda, and that she values it, she presently said. Poor girl! I trust so indeed. But it is not everyone, my sister, who has been blessed with so good a mother as ours, to give the altogether right view of things. And it can be no advantage to you to be much with girls who have been less carefully brought up. And how do you know what sort of bringing up Maddie has had? Perhaps, Mabel, it has been good as our own. Is her mother living, Hilda? I don't know. I never heard her say a word about her mother. But I suppose she has one, or has had one, anyway. Most people have had mothers. But what has that got to do with the matter? Everything to do with her bringing up Hilda, as you know. Oh, yes, of course, I forgot. Well, most likely Maddie, one time or another, had a mother, and so a bringing up, too. The poor girl is probably an orphan like ourselves. Mabel spoke very gravely, for there was still before her the picture of the disapproved Maddie. And for that reason we ought to have some feeling for her, said Hilda warmly. I have, anyhow. I like her. Like her, Hilda, have every kind feeling for her, and do her such service, too, as you can. But don't be intimate with her. I am so anxious concerning the associates you form, Hilda. Being in a young girl's start in life depends on her companions. For the matter of that, Mabel, beggars mustn't be choosers. Maybe Maddie Rivers, nor Edda Burgess, neither, ain't quite the sort of girl I'd choose if we were living as we once were. They don't dress well, and they're a little rude and free in their manners, besides which they can scarcely read and write. But then they're kind and obliging to me, and they're sociable, and offhand in their ways, and I like them. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and sewing girls will mostly be found with sewing girls. Mabel saw the force of the reasoning, and looked troubled. Since her sister had not the discrimination she desired, how was she to give it to her? Lily, being now ready for bed, knelt at her sister's feet to repeat her nightly prayer. Hilda, who saw the advantage she had gained in the argument with Mabel, and perhaps overestimated it, was about to add something she believed would settle it yet more completely in her favour, when the voice of the child broke the silence which had followed her own last words. Delaying the remark for a future occasion, Hilda fixed her eyes upon the little supplicant. The child's prayer followed, concluding as usual with, God bless my dear sisters and all my friends. Amen, my darling, added Mabel, finding Lily pause. Lily pressed the hand which held her own, and raised her eyes from her sister's lap to give her a glance. Something more, Mabel, she whispered. Then, raising her voice again, added, her head once more bowed on Mabel's knee. God, please to take great care of dear sister Hilda and put in her heart to go the way Mabel wants her to go. For Christ's sake, amen. Mabel's eyes and Hilda's met. A cloud had gathered on the brow of the latter. Mabel, she exclaimed, glancing quite angrily from her to the little girl. In reply, Mabel put her fingers to her lips with a deprecatory glance. Then, lifting Lily to her feet, pressed a kiss upon her lips. Good night, my darling, and God bless you, she said. Good night, dear Mabel, Hilda, dear, good night. Good night, child. But Hilda did not kiss the little face held up to her. A look of grieved surprise came over the features of the child, and Lily drew a step back but did not move away. Hilda, said Mabel, in a tone of gentle reproof, then added to the child, kiss Hilda's hand for good night, Lily. She loves you dearly. Lily kissed the hand, looked timidly into Hilda's face. Then, having softly repeated her, good night, passed round to her bed. For some time no word was exchanged between the older sisters. Mabel busying herself and putting away little Lily's clothes, while Hilda sat on the sofa, absently regarding her. Then Mabel began to prepare her sewing machine to work. This was the time she generally devoted to her own and Lily's sewing, and she had quite a little pile of garments on hand now. It was a delightful thing to Mabel so to employ herself. Pleasant to her to know that the sound of her sewing machine was a soothing lullaby of which her young sister never wearied. The little instrument clicked busily now for some time, no other sound breaking the silence of the room. Mabel, meanwhile, was thinking gravely over the occurrences of the past half hour, Hilda, to all appearance, thinking very busily of something too. I don't know what to make of that child, Mabel. Then abruptly said the latter, quite a sharp tone in her voice. Am I to understand she's put up to this sort of thing? I mean not, Hilda. It is all her own thought, poor darling. So strange, muttered Hilda. Strange maybe, but perfectly natural, Hilda. I am sorry you were so unkind to her. I couldn't help it, and I think I was right. I'm not going to encourage her in disrespect. I mean, what looks like disrespect. And it's all over now, and there's nothing more to be said about it. CHAPTER VII On the following morning, Hilda still showed coldness in her manner to the little lily, which proved that the impression of the previous evening had remained longer than impressions generally did with her. Vainly was quick to perceive this, and endeavored in her gentle way to conciliate her sister, though it is not likely she knew, poor child, exactly how she had offended. Vainly she sought to have it all made right by a kiss when Hilda should leave to go to her work. The latter slipped off without giving her an opportunity to offer it. It was about noon, when, in the room where she worked at Mr. Blanks, Mabel received notice that someone was desiring to see her. With a feeling of undefinable apprehension, she hastened to present herself to the applicant. It was the person with whom she had some hours before left the little lily. The coming of this woman, her pale countenance and alarmed expression, told Mabel before a word had been spoken that something had befallen the child. It's not much I expect, said the woman, in reply to her hurried inquiry, but in a tone that to poor Mabel's ear contradicted the words, only a fall poor little dear, but as she was set on seeing you I thought it best to come round. Mabel hurriedly made application for permission to leave, and this being given lost no time in getting home. Your sister has come, Lily, said a neighbour of Mabel's, as the latter appeared in the room. On the bed over which the speaker bent lay little Lily, her face pale as death, and a look of agony on every feature. She checked the sharp cry about to escape her, and tried to smile reassuringly on her sister. It is not very bad, Mabel, she whispered, maybe I'm more frightened than hurt. These were the words Mabel was in the habit of saying upon occasions of trifling accidents to the child, and as she heard them now, in faint and broken accents, and with appearances of suffering which the little one vainly strove to hide, they went with a pang of agony to her heart. Someone had thoughtfully sent for a doctor, and very soon after Mabel's coming he appeared. After a careful examination he informed Mabel that he found no bones broken, but that, as it was evident the little girl was in much suffering, it was likely some internal injury had been received, though he could not yet determine its nature. It would have been strange indeed if no other injury than the few bruises apparent were the result of the fall down an entire flight of steep steps, which little Lily had suffered, and poor Mabel hung upon the words, some internal hurt, in an agony of apprehension. A tranquilizing medicine was, under the physician's direction, given the little sufferer, and before very long she became quieted and finally slept. But even in sleep, how pale and pinched appeared the little features. Her last words had been that her pains had ceased. But as Mabel tearfully regarded her, lying thus, she could not but fancy they still were wracking the little frame. The doctor and the neighbours retired, and the sister remained alone beside the sleeping child, alternately lifting her heart in prayer that God would bring speedy relief to the little sufferer, and weeping at sight of the sad change on the infant face. A while after six, Hilda returned home. Mabel heard her quick step approaching the room, and hurried out to prevent her two precipitated entrants, for the condition of Lily was one that rendered strict quiet necessary. A very few words explained what had happened, and Hilda followed her sister into the room, as quietly as she could have desired. The pale face on the pillow was scarcely paler than that of the newcomer, as she bent it over the still little form. There was a look of remorseful sorrow also on the countenance of Hilda, which awakened the pity of Mabel, for she well understood it. Could either of them forget the little occurrence of the last evening, or Hilda's parting with the child that morning? And had little Lily forgotten it? Oh no! It spoke in the look of sweet forgiving love, which, upon waking, she bent on Hilda, and in the affectionate twining of her arms about her neck, as the latter hung weeping over her. I'd like to keep my arms hugging you, dear Hilda, she said, as she let them fall by her side again. Only, I can't, it hurts me so. But don't cry, Hilda. Don't cry, Mabel. Tomorrow Lily will be all right again. Hilda withdrew her eyes from the child's face to that of Mabel. It was a look of apprehension the sisters exchanged, and each turned from the look with greater grief at heart. Tomorrow little Lily would be all right again? No one who looked upon her now could think it possible. Yesterday, this very morning, the little form was full of health and strength, but many a morrow might dawn without finding it the same. Some internal hurt, the doctor thinks it may be, whispered Mabel. He told you nothing more than that? No. Perhaps he didn't wish to say just what he thought, for fear of discouraging me. But I fear myself it is some hurt to the back, some inward hurt. Mabel, do you remember poor core of fielding? Yes, Hilda. Hilda covered her face and turned abruptly away. Then catching to her breast the little hand which lay motionless beside Lily, she bent her head on the bed and burst into passionate weeping. Don't cry, Hilda. Oh, don't cry so, said the child. I must, Lily, sobbed Hilda. My heart is breaking for my naughtiness to you. Don't you care whether Hilda cries or not? Don't trouble your dear precious little heart about her. She was naughty last night, and she was naughty this morning. She deserves to suffer. Poor, poor Hilda! And evidently, with an effort that caused no slight pain, the other little hand was laid caressingly upon her sister's head. Hilda is never naughty. Lily loves her dearly. And will Lily pray for her again, like she did last night? Will she ask God to give her a good, kind heart, like Lily's own? A smile lighted, for a moment, the pale features of the child, as a ready assent was given. Pray for me always, darling. God will surely hear you when you speak so kindly for your sister. Mabel did not go to Mr. Blanks on the following morning, nor did she see prospect of going for a long while to come. She could not leave the little sufferer, who took such solace from her presence, and whose helpless condition required her constant attention. It was with a heavy heart that Hilda that morning went to her labours. The shadow which had fallen on their humble home had fallen on the spirits of the strange girl, with a gloom she believed she should never throw off. In the evening, before returning home, she went to Mrs. Lemmings to acquaint Mini with the accident which had befallen their little Lily. Mrs. Lemmings showed considerable concern upon hearing it, and gave consent to Mini going immediately with Hilda to visit her sister. Mini's visits home, as she called those made to her sisters, had never been so frequent as she or they desired, and they had laterally become yet less so. Indeed, owing to various obstacles, for some unexplained reason placed in the way by Mrs. Lemmings, her appearance in Mabel's rooms had come to be quite an event for her sisters and herself. Very sad was the visit she now made, and many and sorrowful the tears she shed over the stricken Lily. Her grief was not of the turbulent, convulsive sort of Hilda's, but more like Mabel's, in its quiet, subdued expression. I wish I could stay, Mabel, if it was but a morning or a day, said Mini, that I might do something for poor little Lily. I've never felt so badly about being from home as I do now. No, not from the first. You'd soon find things so different here from what you're used to, remarked Hilda, not giving Mabel time to reply, that you'd tire of it, and as to doing something for Lily, what sort of a nurse would you make with that delicate barrage dress on? The last words were added in a little bitterness of tone, as she glanced from the visitor's thin dress to her own homely one of cotton. It's not my fault, Hilda, replied Mini, with a hurt look. Don't you believe I'd be glad to come with a dress better suited and make myself useful, helping Mabel? Don't you believe it, Mabel? I do, Mini, and so does Hilda, was the reply. We all know you would be one of us, if you could, Mini. Without designing it, Mabel's words added a point to those of Hilda. She would be one of them, if she could. They all felt, then, that she was not one of them. Knowing that her sister meant no unkindness by the remark, Mini turned her eyes away from her, that she might not see that they had pained her. I think I'll ask Mrs. Lemming to let me come and spend a day with you, Lily dear, she said, when taking leave. Would you like me to come, Lily? I would fan you to sleep, like Mabel does. It would be nice, replied the child, and Mabel could work on her sewing machine without running to me all the time. Mrs. Lemming will never let you do it, observed Hilda. It would be two altogether out of the prim way she's marked out for you. You're the lady of the family, Mini, and have got to keep up the lady's part. Beside, what would Clara Dean say to your playing nurse? I wouldn't care what she said, if Mrs. Lemming would let me do it, replied Mini. The earnestness of her tone was not lost upon the observant little Lily, who raised her arms to invite her to an embrace, and Mini pressed kiss after kiss upon the lips and brow of the little sufferer. You'd better hurry and put on your bonnet, Mini, observed Hilda. I promised Mrs. Lemming to see that you were at home by supper time. Mini kissed her little sister again, and turned to put on her bonnet as directed. Some of the disadvantages of being a lady, said Hilda, a little maliciously. A lady mustn't be seen alone in the street after dark, not even a little lady of only twelve years old. I don't know, but I'd rather be only a common sewing girl that can come and go as I like. How can you, Hilda? said Mabel, in a gently reproachful tone. Come, kiss me, Mini, she added, and kiss Lily again, too. You're a good, kind girl, and we all love to have you home with us. I will speak to Mrs. Lemming myself, and ask her to let you come oftener to see us. Now poor little Lily is hurt. CHAPTER 8 A SEARCH FOR WORK It was well Mabel had laid by every little amount of money she could spare. For now came the time she needed it. There were daily comforts required for Lily, which it would have grieved her sister to see her go without. Not only were the medicines necessary for the little sufferer expensive, but her appetite having become particularly delicate, she must have suffered for want of nourishment had there not been procured her such wholesome delicacies as tempted her. It was about the fifth day after little Lily's accident that Mabel began to look about her for homework to do. She had heard too much of the niggerly prices paid for labour at the clothing stores to make application at any of them until other opportunities failed her. And she made her first efforts among her old customers, stating the condition of little Lily, which prevented her remaining at Mr. Blanks. But those who had formerly employed her had now found someone else to attend to their regular sewing, and were not disposed to make a change in her favour. One or two of them said indeed that were she able to come to their house to work, they could employ her. But as they wished to superintend their work, it was quite impossible to give it out. Several hours of several days were spent by Mabel in these fruitless efforts. Then resolved to leave little Lily no more, as she had done for this purpose, to strangers, she made application at one of the large clothing stores. Determined to go from one to another of these till she should procure work to take home with her, she was not so much disappointed to find this first application unsuccessful. Unfortunately, however, for the applicant, the busier part of the season had not yet fairly set in, and she soon saw that to procure work at all she must take it at inferior prices. She had been refused at two or three places, when she entered a store on Lake Street. She bore with her a written recommendation from her former employer, and she tendered this to the man who presented himself, as she had done at previous places. He glanced his eye over it. Your work may be good for some, yet not suit me, he bluntly said. I choose to judge for myself of work done on my goods. Have you work to give me? asked Mabel. If so, you can judge if my sewing suits you. A little more talk like this, interspersed with remarks from the man regarding the dullness of the season for work, resulted in his offering a dozen flannel shirts as a test of Mabel's abilities. How much do you pay for these? Mabel asked. I give one dollar a dozen, you finding the thread. Mabel was aghast. Her mind readily summed up the number of hours it would take her to complete the dozen, and perceived she would be paid but something like thirty-five or forty cents for her day's work. Yet what was she to do? She thought of the little sufferer at home, looking anxiously, painfully for her return. She thought of the absolute necessity there was for some money to be made, with such a trifle remaining of the little she had stored away, and came to the conclusion that forty, or even thirty-five cents a day, was better than nothing. I will take the shirts, she said, and perhaps, when you find them well done, you will be willing to pay me better for others? There was no response to this, perhaps. I'm particular about my work, said the man, and let me have that dozen shirts just as soon as possible. Mabel left the store with the flannel, and hurried home to her expectant little lily. Poor Mabel's so tired, said the child, as her sister bent down to kiss her. Her cheeks are as white as anything. Mabel's cheeks were indeed white. Her heart was heavy, her hopes seeming to fade out. For all misfortunes appeared coming upon her at once. One fact was staring her in the face. One prognostic tearing at her heartstrings. She was entering upon the downward path of the sewing-girl. She was leaving behind her cheering work and cheering prices. She was entering upon that dreary, dark path of wearisome work and niggardly pay, which she had heard pictured by many who had trod it. She was beginning the battle for life, life for herself and her little lily, to be snatched from the hands of the ruthless and unfeeling, the grasping taskmaster, the heartless employer of the poor sewing-women. That evening, when little lily lay soothed by the medicine which alone brought her entire ease, Mabel commenced her labours upon the dozen shirts. Hilda sat reading to her, till wearied by the employment, when she stretched herself on the sofa, half musing, half dozing. How long do you intend to work at these shirts, Mabel? She asked, after some time had thus been passed. Until twelve, I want to get them finished by Saturday evening. I'm sure it must be near twelve now, said Hilda. Only fifteen minutes after eleven, returned her sister, having consulted her watch, the precious watch which had come to her through the hands of both parents. What a long, long evening! I mean night, Mabel. Why have it so long? Undress and go to bed, Hilda. You're trying yourself to no purpose by remaining up. Go to bed and leave you working all by yourself, Mabel? I couldn't do it. It's bad enough for you to be so pushed without being left alone at your work. I shall not feel alone, Hilda, with you and dear lily in sight. I'm in better spirits than I've been all day, for I've calculated time and see that by sitting up to-night and tomorrow the shirts will be done by Saturday evening, and I can't believe but that this man will pay me better when he sees how well they are done. Now's the time my work would tell, Mabel, if I was able to take such a place as you had to give up at Mr. Blanks. Mabel, after all my talk and boast, I'm pretty much the stone about your neck, and have been from the day I came to you. Don't talk so, Hilda. You're doing your best, and that is all any one can do. You used to satisfy me that I was no great additional expense, Mabel, but that was when you were at Mr. Blanks. But how different all is getting to be now! If dear little lily only could get well again! Not so loud, Hilda. You know she sleeps very lightly, and it would make her unhappy to know what a grave change her accident has made for us. I never felt as if we were to go on as we were doing, said Hilda, after a pause. Not that it was anything to the comfort we had known in times past, but because it was so much better than many another. It is indeed, Hilda, and we have still many blessings to be thankful for. No want, my sister. No seeing of our darling lily needing what we can't give her. Not yet, Mabel. And Hilda looked off into the obscurity of the adjoining room, as though piercing through the present to the darkness of a coming day. Do you believe, Mabel? She, after a while, added, that we are to be brought to such troubles as we hear of. I trust not, my sister. But whatever trial God sees fit to bring us, be assured, he will also give us strength to bear. That is, if we humbly look to him for it. As she ceased speaking, Mabel paused in her work, and, like her sister, looked off into the shadowy distance. If it were only thought of privation and struggle, she presently said, it would hold no terror for me. But alas, the hour of trouble is often the hour of temptation, too. The weak must go down before it. The strong only, the strong in a Christian faith, can bear up against the press of evils. You fear for me, Mabel? The question was so faintly put that but for the temporary stillness about them Mabel had not heard it. Dear Hilda, can I help it? I know you, for a good, pure-minded girl. But in the changed path which may be before us, others have stumbled who perhaps have started as fairly. And, Mabel, if you'd heard much as I have of the cruel temptations put in their way, you would only wonder how so many have gone on steadily and honestly. But if excuses can be made for some, could any be made for me? No, Mabel, with such a mother as ours, and with such a sister as you, if there's any good in me at all, and you say there is, you should have no cause for uneasiness. If I could only see you stronger, my sister, in that trust which is the safeguard against all. You shall, you will see me stronger in it, Mabel. Look at yourself, look at our poor Lily. Can I be with you and learn nothing of the goodness you are both made up of? There is many. Do you think her sweet patience is thrown away upon me, because I don't seem to make much of it? If I'm the last to catch the goodness of our dear mother, the last to profit by the lessons she taught us, I'll still come into it yet. Oh, Mabel, can I forget, dear mother, can I forget you? I am glad to have had this talk with you, Hilda. Mabel said, taking within her own the hand her sister, in her earnestness, had placed on her arm. It has relieved my mind of a mountain-load. Let me know you always, as I know you now, my dear sister, and I shall have a mind at ease, whatever trial awaits us. You know that proverb of Solomon? The rich man's wealth is his strong city. The destruction of the poor is their poverty. Let us resolve that poverty brings to us no destruction, and it will hold for us few terrors.