 Christmas Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. First published in How It's Journal, January 1848. In the town of No Matter Where, there circulated two local newspapers, No Matter When. Now the flying post was long established and respectable, alias bigoted and Tory. The examiner was spirited and intelligent, alias newfangled and democratic. Every week these newspapers contained articles abusing each other as cross and peppery as articles could be, and evidently the production of irritated minds, although they seemed to have one stereotyped commencement. Although the article appearing in last week's post, or examiner, is below contempt, yet we have been induced, etc etc. At every Saturday, the radical shopkeepers shook hands together and agreed that the post was done for by the slashing clever examiner, while the more dignified Tories began by regretting that Johnson should think that low paper, only read by a few of the vulgar, worth wasting his wit upon. However, the examiner was at its last gasp. It was not, though. It lived and flourished, at least it paid its way, as one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was cheap compositor, or whatever title may be given to the head man of the mechanical part of a newspaper, he hardly confined himself to that department, once or twice unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen short. He had filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own, announcements of a forthcoming crop of green peas in December, a grey thrush having been seen, or a white hair, or such interesting phenomena invented for the occasion, I must confess, but what of that? His wife always knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband's literary talent, by a peculiar cough which served as a prelude, and judging from this encouraging sign and the high-pitched and emphatic voice in which he read them, she was inclined to think that an ode to an early rosebud in the corner devoted to original poetry, and a letter in the correspondent's department signed, pro bono publico, were her husband's writing, and to hold up her head accordingly. I never could find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgson's to lodge in the same house as the Jenkins's's. Jenkins held the same office in the Tory paper as Hodgson did in the examiner, and, as I said before, I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper sense of his position, and a proper reverence for all in authority, from the king down to the editor and sub-editor. He would have soon thought of borrowing the king's crown for a nightcap, or the king's scepter for a walking-stick, as he would have thought of filling up any spare corner with any production of his own. And I think it would have even added to his contempt of Hodgson, if that were possible, had he known of the productions of his brain, as the latter fondly alluded to the paragraphs he inserted when speaking to his wife. Jenkins had his wife, too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with wives it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel. To make the opposing parties still more equal, still more well-matched, if the Hodgson's had a baby, such a baby, a pure, puny little thing. Mrs Jenkins had a cat, such a cat, a great, nasty meowing Tomcat, that was always stealing the milk put by for little angels' supper. And now, having matched Greek with Greek, I must proceed to the tug of war. It was the day before Christmas, such a cold east wind, such an inky sky, such a blue black look in people's faces as they were driven out, more than usual, to complete their purchases for the next day's festival. Before leaving home that morning, Jenkins had given some money to his wife to buy the next day's dinner. My dear, I wish for turkey and sausages. It may be a weakness, but I own and partial to sausages. My deceased mother was, such taste a hereditary, as to the sweets, were the plum pudding or mince pies. I leave such considerations to you. I only beg you not to mind expense. Christmas comes but once a year. And again he had called out from the bottom of the first flight of stairs, just close to the Hodgson's door, such ostentatiousness, as Mrs Hodgson observed. You will not forget the sausages, my dear. I should like to have had something above common, Mary, said Hodgson, as they too made their plans for the next day. But I think roast beef must do for us. You see, love, with a family. Only one, Jen. I don't want more than roast beef, though, I'm sure. Before I went to service, mother and me would have thought roast beef a very fine dinner. Well, let's settle it, then. Roast beef and a plum pudding. And now goodbye. Mind and take care of little Tom. I thought he was a bit hoarse this morning. And off he went to his work. Now it was a good while since Mrs Jenkins and Mrs Hodgson had spoken to each other, although they were quite as much in possession of the knowledge of events and opinions as though they did. Mary knew that Mrs Jenkins despised her for not having a real lace cap, which Mrs Jenkins had, and for having been a servant, which Mrs Jenkins had not, and the little occasional pinchings which the Hodgson's were obliged to resort to to make both ends meet would have been very patiently endured by Mary if she had not winced under Mrs Jenkins' knowledge of such economy. But she had her revenge. She had a child, and Mrs Jenkins had none. To have had a child, even such a puny baby as little Tom, Mrs Jenkins would have worn commonest caps and cleaned grates and dredged her fingers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment of her life soured her temper and turned her thoughts inward and made her morbid and selfish. Hang that, cat! He's been stealing again. He's gnawed the cold mutton in his nasty mouth so it's not fit to set before a Christian, and have nothing else for Jem's dinner. But I'll give it him now I've caught him, that I will. So saying, Mary Hodgson caught up her husband's Sunday cane, and despite Puss's cries and scratches, she gave him such a beating that she hoped might cure him of his thievish propensitis, when, lo and behold, Mrs Jenkins stood at the door with a face of bitter wrath. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, ma'am, to abuse a poor dumb animal, ma'am, as knows no better than to take food when he sees its ma'am? He only follows the nature which God has given, ma'am, and it's a pity your nature, ma'am, which I've heard is of the stingy saving-species, does not make you shut your cupboard door a little closer. There is such a thing as a law for brute animals. I last Mr Jenkins, but I don't think them radicals has done away with that law yet for all their reform, bill ma'am. My poor precious love of a tommy, is he hurt, and is his leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps, as most people would have given away to a beggar, if he'd taken, wound up Mrs Jenkins, casting a contemptuous look on the remnant of a scraggend of mutton. She felt very angry and very guilty, for she really pitted the poor limping animal, as he crept up to his mistress, and there lay down to bemoan himself. She wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it was certainly her own careless way of never shutting the cupboard door that attempted him to his fault. But the sneer at her little bit of mutton turned her penitence to fresh wrath, and she shut the door in Mrs Jenkins' face, as she stuck caressing her cat in the lobby with such a bang that it wakened little Tom, and he began to cry. Everything was to go wrong with Mary today. Now baby was awake, who was to take her husband's dinner to the office. She took the child in her arms, and tried to hush him off to sleep again, and as she sung, she cried, she could hardly tell why, a sort of reaction from her violent angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten the poor cat. She wondered if his leg was really broken. What would her mother say if she knew how cross and cruel her little Mary was getting, if she should live to beat her child in one of her angry fits? It was of no use lullabying when she sobbed so. It must be given up, and she must just carry her baby in her arms, and take him wither to the office, for it was long past dinnertime. So she pared the mutton carefully, although by so doing she reduced the meat to an infinitesimal quantity, and taking the baked potatoes out of the oven, she popped them piping hot into her basket, with the et cetera's of plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork. It was indeed a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran, and the flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice. Baby cried all the way, though she cuddled him up in her shawl. Then her husband had made his appetite up for a potato pie, and, literary man as he was, his body got so much the better of his mind, that he looked rather black at the cold mutton. Mary had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived at home again. So after she had tried to feed baby, and he had fretfully refused to take his bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on his quilt, surrounded by play things, while she sided away and chopped suites for the next day's pudding. Early in the afternoon a parcel came, done up first in brown paper, then in such a white, grass-bleached, sweet-smelling towel, and a note from her dear, dear mother, in which quaint writing, she endeavoured to tell her daughter that she was not forgotten at Christmas time, but that learning that Farmer Burton was killing his pig, she had made interest for some of his famous pork, out of which she had manufactured some sausages, and flavoured them just as Mary used to like when she lived at home. Dear, dear mother, said Mary to herself, there never was anyone like her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used to make. Home things have a smack with them, no bought things can ever have. Set them up with the sausages. Have a notion if Mrs Jenkins had ever tasted mothers, she'd have no fancy for them towel-made things Fanny took in just now. And so she went on thinking about home, till the smiles and the dimples came out again at the remembrance of that pretty cottage, which would look green even now in the depth of winter, with its pyracanthus and its hollybushes, and the great Portugal laurel that was her mother's pride. At the back path through the orchard to Farmer Burton's, how well she remembered it, the bushels of unripe apples she had picked up there, and distributed among his pigs, till he had scolded her for giving them so much green trash. She was interrupted. Her baby. I call him a baby because his father and mother did, and because he was so little of his age, but I rather think he was eighteen months old, had fallen asleep some time before among his playthings. An uneasy, restless sleep, but of which Mary had been thankful as his morning's nap had been too short, and as she was so busy. But now he began to make such a strange crowing noise, just like a chair drawn heavily and gratingly along a kitchen floor. His eyes were open, but expressive of nothing but pain. Mother's darling! said Mary in terror, lifting him up. Baby, try not to make that noise. Hush, hush, darling, what hurts him? But the noise came worse and worse. Fanny, fanny! Mary called immortal fright, for her baby was almost black with his gasping breath, and she had no one to ask for aid or sympathy but her landlady's daughter, a little girl of twelve or thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother's absence, as daily cook in gentlemen's families. Fanny was more especially considered the attendant of the upstairs lodgers, who paid for the use of the kitchen, for Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat-cooking. But just now, she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon's work of darning stockings. And hearing Mrs. Hodgson's cry of terror, she ran to her sitting-room, and understood the case at a glance. He's got the group. Oh, Mrs. Hodgson, he'll die as sure as fate. Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he could do nothing for him. It had gone too far. He said, if we'd put him in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him. But, bless you, he was never half as bad as your baby. Unconsciously, there mingled in her statement, some of her child's love of producing an effect. But the increasing danger was clear enough. Oh, my baby, my baby, oh, love, love, don't look so ill. I cannot bear it, and my fire so low. There I was, thinking of home, and picking currents, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny, what's the fire like in the kitchen? Speak! Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on as soon as Mrs. Jenkins had done with it. And so I did. It's very low and black. Oh, don't, Mrs. Hodgson, let me run for the doctor. I cannot bear to hear him. It's so like little brother. Through her streaming tears, Mary motioned her to go, and trembling, sinking, sick at heart, she laid the boy in his cradle, and ran to fill her kettle. Mrs. Jenkins, having cooked her husband's snug little dinner, to which he came home, having told him a story of pussies beating, at which he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a peace with that abusive examiner. Having received the sausages and turkey and mince pies, which her husband had ordered, and cleaned up the room, and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat, who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the petting. Having done all these and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins sat down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out separately, and carefully stretched. When, what was that, outside in the street, a chorus of piping children's voices, sang the old carol she had heard, a hundred times in the days of her youth. As Joseph was awaking, he heard an angel sing, This night shall be born our heavenly king. He neither shall be born in house nor in hall, nor in the place of paradise, but in an ox's stall. He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall, but all in fair linen, as were babies all. He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold, but in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould, et cetera. She got up and went to the window. There below stood the group of grey-black little figures, relieved against the snow, which now enveloped everything. For all sake's sake, as she phrased it, she counted out her hate near peace for the singers, out of the copper bag, and threw them down below. The room had become chilly while she had been counting out and throwing down her money, so she stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down right before it, but not to stretch her lace. Like Mary Hodgson, she began to think over long past days, on softening remembrances of the dead and gone, on words long forgotten, on holy stories heard at her mother's knee. I cannot think what's come over me tonight," said she, half aloud, recovering herself by the sound of her own voice, from her train of thought. My head goes wandering on them all times. I'm sure more texts have come into my head with thinking on my mother, within this last half-hour, than I've thought on for years and years. I hope I'm not going to die. Folks say, thinking too much on the dead, betokens we are going to join them. I should be loath to go just yet, such a fine turkey as we've got for dinner to-morrow, too. Knock, knock, knock, at the door, as fast as knuckles could go, and then, as if the commer would not wait, the door was opened, and Mary Hodgson stood there, white as death. Mrs. Jenkins. Oh, your kettle is boiling, thank God. Let me have the water for me, baby, for the love of God. He's got a crook, and he's dying. Mrs. Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden inflexible look on her face, that, between ourselves, her husband knew and dreaded for all his pompous dignity. I'm sorry, I can't oblige you, ma'am. My kettle is wanted for my husband's tea. Don't be afraid, Tommy. Mrs. Hodgson won't venture to intrude herself where she's not desired. You'd better send for the doctor, ma'am, instead of wasting your time in ringing your hands, ma'am. My kettle is engaged. Mary clasped her hands together with passionate force, but spoke no word of entreaty to that wooden face, that sharp, determined voice. But as she turned away, she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial, and strength to forgive Mrs. Jenkins. Mrs. Jenkins watched her go away meekly, as one who has no hope, and then she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did on anyone else. What a brute I am! Lord, forgive me! What's my husband's tea to a baby's life? In Krupp, too, where time is everything. You craved old Vixen, you! Anyone may know you never had a child! She was downstairs, kettle in hand, before she had finished her self-up-braiding, and when in Mrs. Hodgson's room, she rejected all thanks. Mary had not the voice for many words, saying stiffly, I do it for the poor baby's sake, ma'am, hoping he may live to have mercy to poor dumb beasts, if he does forget to lock his cupboards. But she did everything, and more than Mary, with her young inexperience could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath, and tried it with her husband's own thermometer. Mr. Jenkins was as punctual as clockwork in noting down the temperature of every day. She let his mother place her baby in the tub, still preserving the same rigid, affronted aspect, and then she went upstairs without a word. Mary longed to ask her to stay, but dared not, though, when she left the room, the tears chased each other down her cheeks faster than ever. Poor young mother, how she counted the minutes till the doctor should come. But, before he came, down again stalked Mrs. Jenkins, with something in her hand. I've seen many of these croup fits, which I take it you've not, ma'am. Mustard plaster's is very sovereign, but on the throat, I've been up and made one, ma'am, and by your leave, I'll put it on the poor little fellow. Mary could not speak, but she signed her grateful assent. It began to smart while they still kept silence, and he looked up to his mother as if seeking courage from her looks to bear the stinging pain. But she was softly crying to see him suffer, and her want of courage reacted upon him, and he began to sob aloud. Instantly Mrs. Jenkins' apron was up, hiding her face. Beep-bo, baby, said she, as merrily as she could. His little face brightened, and his mother having once got the cue, the two women kept the little fellow amused, until his plaster had taken effect. He's better. Oh, Mrs. Jenkins, look at his eyes. How different! And he breathes quite softly. As Mary spoke thus, the doctor entered. He examined his patient. Baby was really better. It's been a sharp attack, but the remedies you have applied have been worth all the pharma copia. An hour later, I shall send a powder, etc., etc. Mrs. Jenkins stayed to hear this opinion, and, her heart wonderfully more easy, was going to leave the room, when Mary seized her hand and kissed it. She could not speak her gratitude. Mrs. Jenkins looked affronted and awkward, as if she must go upstairs and wash her hand directly. But in spite of these sour looks, she came softly down an hour or so afterwards to see how baby was. The little gentleman slept well after the fright he had given his friends, and on Christmas morning, when Mary awoke and looked at the sweet little pale face lying on her arm, she could hardly realise the danger he had been in. When she came down, later than usual, she found the household in a commotion. What do you think had happened? Why? Pussy had been a traitor to his best friend, and eaten up some of Mr. Jenkins' own special sausages, and gnawed and tumbled the rest so that they were not fit to be eaten. There were no bounds to that cat's appetite. He would have eaten his own father if he had been tender enough. And now Mrs. Jenkins stormed and cried, Hang the cat! Christmas day, too, and all the shops shut. What was turkey without sausages? gruffly asked Mr. Jenkins. Oh, Jem, whispered Mary, how can what a piece of work he's making about sausages? I should like to take Mrs. Jenkins up some of Mother's. They're twice as good as bought sausages. I see no objection, my dear. Sausages do not involve intimacies. Else's politics are what I can know ways respect. But oh, Jem, if you had seen her last night about baby, I'm sure she may scold me forever and I'll not answer. I'd even make a cat's welcome to the sausages. The tears gathered to Mary's eyes as she kissed her boy. Better take them upstairs, my dear, and give them to the cat's mistress. And Jem chuckled as he's saying. Mary put them on a plate, but still she loitered. What must I say, Jem? I never know. Say, I hope you'll accept of these sausages as my mother. No, that's not grammar. Say what comes up amost Mary. It will be sure to be right. So Mary carried them upstairs and knocked at the door, and went all to come in. She looked very red, but went up to Mrs. Jenkins, saying, Please take these. Mother made them, and was away before an answer could be given. Just as Hodgson was ready to go to church, Mrs. Jenkins came downstairs and called Fanny. In a minute, the latter entered the Hodgson's room, and delivered Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins compliments, and they would be particularly glad if Mr. and Mrs. Hodgson would eat their dinner with them. And carry baby upstairs in a shawl, be sure, added Mrs. Jenkins' voice in the passage, close to the door, whether she had followed her messenger. There was no discussing the matter, with the certainty of every word being overheard. Mary looked anxiously at her husband. She remembered his saying he did not approve of Mr. Jenkins' politics. Do you think it would do for baby? asked he. Oh, yes, answered she eagerly. I would wrap him up so warm. And I've got our room up to sixty-five already, for it's all so frosty, added the voice outside. Now how do you think they settle the matter? The very best way in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins came down into the Hodgson's room, and dined there. Turkey at the top, roast beef at the bottom, sausages at one side, potatoes at the other. Second course, plum pudding at the top, and mince pies at the bottom. And after dinner, Mrs. Jenkins would have baby on her knee, and he seemed quite to take to her. She declared he was admiring the real lace on her cap. But Mary thought, though she didn't say so, that he was pleased by her kind looks and coaxing words. Then he was wrapped up and carried carefully upstairs to tea, in Mrs. Jenkins' room. And after tea, Mrs. Jenkins and Mary, and her husband, found out each other's mutual liking for music, and sat singing old glies and catches, till I don't know what o'clock, without one word of politics on newspapers. Before they parted, Mary had coaxed Pussy on to her knee, for Mrs. Jenkins would not part with baby, who was sleeping on her lap. When you're busy, bring him to me. Do now, it'll be a real favour. I know you must have a deal to do with another coming. Let him come up to me. I'll take the greatest cares of him, pretty darling. How sweet he looks when he's asleep. When the couples are once more alone, the husband's unburdened their minds to their wives. Mr. Jenkins said to his, Do you know, Burgess tried to make me believe Hodgson was such a fool as to put paragraphs into the examiner now and then. But I see he knows his place, and has got too much sense to do any such thing. Hodgson said, Mary love, I almost fancied when Jenkins was speaking, so much similar than I expected. He guesses I wrote that pro bono and the rosebud. At any rate, I have no objection to your naming it, if the subject should come up a most. I should like him to know I'm a literary man. Well, I've ended my tale. I hope you don't think it too long. But before I go, just let me say one thing. If any of you have any quarrels or misunderstandings, or coolnesses, or cold shoulders, or shynesses, or tiffs, or myths or huffs, with anyone else, just make friends before Christmas. You will be so much merrier if you do. I ask it of you for the sake of that old angelic song heard so many years ago by the shepherds, keeping watch by night on Bethlehem Heights. End of Christmas Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell Hand and Heart by Elizabeth Gaskell This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org First published in the Sunday School Penny Magazine, July 1849 Mother, I should so like to have a great deal of money, said little Tom Fletcher one evening as he sat on a low stool by his mother's knee. His mother was knitting busily by the firelight, and they had both been silent for some time. What would you do with a great deal of money if you had it? Oh, I don't know. I would do a great many things, but should not you like to have a great deal of money, Mother? persisted he. Perhaps I should, answered Mrs. Fletcher. I'm like you sometimes, dear, and think that I should be very glad of a little more money. But then, I don't think I am like you in one thing, for I always have some little plan in my mind, for which I should want the money. I never wish it just for its own sake. Why, Mother, there are so many things we could do if we had but money. Real good wise things, I mean. And if we have real good wise things in our head to do, which cannot be done without money, I can quite enter in the wish for money. But you know, my little boy, you did not tell me of any good or wise thing. No, I believe I was not thinking of good or wise things just then, but only how much I should like money to do what I liked, answered little Tom, ingenuously, looking up in his mother's face. She smiled down upon him and stroked his head. He knew she was pleased with him for having told her openly what was passing in his mind. Presently he began again. Mother, if you wanted to do something very good and wise, and if you could not do it without money, what should you do? There are two ways of obtaining money for such wants. One is by earning, and the other is by saving. Now both are good, because both imply self-denial. Do you understand me, Tom? If you have to earn money, you must steadily go on doing what you do not like, perhaps, such as working when you would like to be playing, or in bed, or sitting talking with me over the fire. You deny yourself these little pleasures, and that is a good habit in itself, to say nothing of the industry and energy you have to exert in working. If you save money, you can easily see how you exercise self-denial. You do without something you wish for, in order to possess the money it would have cost. In as much as self-denial, energy and industry are all good things, you do well either to earn or to save. But you see, the purpose for which you want the money must be taken into consideration. You say, there's something wise and good. Either earning or saving becomes wholly in this case. I must then think which will be most consistent with my other duties before I decide whether I will earn or save money. I don't quite know what you mean, mother. I will try and explain myself. You know, I have to keep a little shop, and to try and get employment in knitting stockings, and to clean my house and to mend our clothes, and many other things. Now, do you think I should be doing my duty if I left you in the evenings, when you come home from school, to go out as a waiter at ladies' parties? I could earn a good deal of money by it, and I could spend it well among those who are poorer than I am, such as Lame Harry, but then I should be leaving you alone in the little time that we have to be together. I do not think I should be doing right, even for our good and wise purpose to earn money if it took me away from you at nights. Do you, Tom? No, indeed. You never mean to do it, do you, mother? No, she said smiling. At any rate, not till you are older. You see, at present, then, I cannot earn money, if I want a little more than usual to help a sick neighbour, I must then try and save money. Dilly everyone can do that. Can we, mother? We are so careful of everything. Ned Dixon calls us stingy. What could we save? Oh, many a many a little thing. We use many things which are luxurious, which we do not want, but only use them for pleasure, tea and sugar, butter, our Sunday's dinner of bacon or meat, the grey ribbon I bought for my bonnet, because you thought it was prettier than the black which was cheaper. All these are luxurious. We use very little tea or sugar, it's true, but we might do without any. You did do without any, mother, for a long long time, you know, to help Widow Black. It was only for your bad headaches. Well, but you see, we can save money, a penny, a hape me a day, or even a penny a week, would in time make a little store, ready to be applied to the good and wise purpose when the time comes. But do you know, my little boy, I think we may be considering money too much as the only thing required if we want to do a kindness. If it's not the only thing, it is the chief thing at any rate. No, love, it's not the chief thing. I should think very poorly of that beggar who likes sixpence given with a curse, as I have sometimes heard it, better than the kind and gentle words some people use in refusing to give. The curse sinks deeper into the heart, or if it does not, this is a proof that the poor creature has been made hard before by harsh treatment. And mere money can do little to cheer a sore heart. It is kindness only that can do this. Now we have all of us kindness in our power. The little child of two years old who can only just totter about can show kindness. Can I, mother? To be sure, dear, and you often do, only perhaps not quite so often as you might do, neither do I, but instead of wishing for money, of which I don't think either you or I are ever likely to have much, suppose you try tomorrow how you can make people happier by thinking of little loving actions of help. Let us try and take for our text. Silver and gold I have none, but such as I have, give I unto thee. Aye, mother, we will. Must I tell you about little Tom's tomorrow? I do not know if little Tom dreamed of what his mother and he had been talking about, but I do know that the first thing he thought about when he awoke in the morning was his mother saying that he might try how many kind actions he could do that day without money, and he was so impatient to begin that he jumped up and dressed himself, although it was more than an hour before his usual time of getting up. All the time he kept wondering what a little boy like him, only eight years old, could do for other people, till at last he grew so puzzled with inventing occasions for showing kindness that he very wisely determined to think no more about it, but learn his lessons very perfectly. That was the first thing he had to do, and then he would try, without too much planning beforehand, to keep himself ready to lend a helping hand, or to give a kind word when the right time came. So he screwed himself into a corner, out of the way of his mother's sweeping and dusting, and tucked his feet up on the rail of the chair, turned his face to the wall, and in about half an hour's time, he could turn round with a light heart, feeling he had learnt his lesson well, and might employ his time as he liked till breakfast was ready. He looked round the room, his mother had arranged all neatly, and was now gone to the bedroom, but the cold scuttle and the can for water were empty, and Tom ran away to fill them. As he came back with the latter from the pump, he saw Anne Jones, the scald of the neighbourhood, hanging out to her clothes on a line stretched across from side to side of the little court, and speaking very angrily and loudly to her little girl, who was getting into some mischief in the house-place, as her mother perceived through the open door. There never were such plagues as my children are, to be sure, said Anne Jones as she went into her house, looking very red and passionate. Directly after, Tom heard the sound of a slap, and then a little child's cry of pain. I wonder, thought he, if I durst go and offer to nurse and play with little Hester, and Jones's fearful cross, and just as likely to take me wrong as right, but she won't box me for mother's sake. Mother nursed Jimmy many a day through the fever, so she won't slap me, I think. Any rate, I'll try. But it was with a beating heart, he said, to the fierce-looking Mrs. Jones. Please, may I go and play with Hester? Maybe I could keep her quiet while you're busy hanging out clothes. What? Let you go sloppin' about, I suppose, just what I'd made already for me master's breakfast. Thank you, but my own children's mischief is as much as I reckon on. I'll have none of strange lads in my house. I did not mean to do mischief or slop, said Tom, a little sadly as being misunderstood in his good intentions. I only wanted to help. If you want to help, lift me up those clothes-pegs, and save me stoopin', me back's broken with it. Tom would much rather have gone to play with an amused little Hester, but it was true enough that giving Mrs. Jones the clothes-pegs as she wanted them would help her as much, and perhaps keep her from being so cross with her children if they did anything to hinder her. Besides, little Hester's cry had died away, and she was evidently occupied in some new pursuit. Tom could only hope that it was not in mischief this time. So he began to give Anne the pegs as she wanted them, and she, soothed by his kind help, opened her heart a little to him. I wonder how it is your mother has trained you up to be so andy, Tom? You're as good as a girl, better than many a girl. I don't think Hester in three years' time will be as thoughtful as you. There, as a fresh scream reached them from the little ones inside the house, they'd had some mischief again, but I'll teach them, said she, getting down from her stool in a fresh access of passion. Let me go, said Tom, in a begging voice, for he dreaded the cruel sound of another slap. I'll lift the basket of pegs onto a stool so that you need not stoop, and I'll keep the little ones safe out of mischief till you're done. Do let me go, Mrs. With some grumblings at losing his help, she let him go into the house-place. He found Hester a little girl of five and two younger ones. They'd been fighting for a knife, and in the struggle, the second, Johnny, had cut his finger, not very badly, but he was frightened at the slight of blood, and Hester, who might have helped, and who was really sorry, stood sullenly aloof, dreading the scolding her mother always gave her, if either of the little ones hurt themselves while under her care. Hester, said Tom, will you let me get some cold water, please? It will stop the bleeding better than anything. I dare say you can find me a basin to hold it. Hester trotted off, pleased at Tom's confidence in her power, when the bleeding was partly stopped. He asked her to find him a bit of rag, and she scrambled under the dresser for a little piece he had hidden there the day before. Meanwhile, Johnny ceased crying. He was so interested in all the preparation for dressing his little wound, and so much pleased to find himself an object of so much attention and consequence. The baby, too, sat on the floor, gravely wondering at the commotion, and thus busily occupied. They were quiet and out of mischief, till Anne Jones came in, and having hung out her clothes, and finished that morning's piece of work, she was ready to attend to her children in her rough, hasty kind of way. Well, I'm sure, Tom, you've tied it up as neatly as I could have done. I wish I'd always such a one as you to see after the children. But you must run off now, lad. Your mother was calling you as I came in, and I said I'd send you. Goodbye, and thank you. As Tom was going away, the baby, sitting in square gravity on the floor, but somehow conscious of Tom's gentle, helpful ways, put up her mouth to be kissed, and he stooped down in answer to the little gesture, feeling very happy and very full of love and kindliness. After breakfast his mother told him it was school time, and he must set off, as she did not like him to run in, out of breath and flurried, just when the schoolmaster was going to begin. But she wished him to come in decently and in order, with quiet decorum and thoughtfulness as to what he was going to do. So Tom got his cap and his bag, and went off with a light heart, which I suppose made his footsteps light, for he found himself above half-weight of school, while it wanted yet a quarter to the time. So he slackened his pace, and looked about him a little more than he had been doing. There was a little girl on the other side of the street, carrying a great big basket, and lugging along a little child just able to walk, but who I suppose was tired, for he was crying pitifully, and sitting down every two or three steps. Tom ran across the street, for, as perhaps you found out, he was very fond of babies, and could not bear to hear them cry. Little girl, what's he crying about? Does he want to be carried? I'll take him up and carry him as far as I go alongside of you. So saying, Tom was going to suit the action to the word, but the baby did not choose that anyone should carry him but his sister, and refused Tom's kindness. Still, he could carry the heavy basket of potatoes for the little girl, which he did as far as their road lay together, when she thanked him and bade him goodbye, and said she could manage very well now, her home was so near. So Tom went into school very happy and peaceful, and had a good character to take home to his mother for that morning's lesson. It happened that this very day was the weekly half holiday, so that Tom had many hours unoccupied that afternoon. Of course, his first employment after dinner was to learn his lessons for the next day, and then, when he had put his books away, he began to wonder what he should do next. He stood lounging against the door, wishing all manner of idle wishes, a habit he was apt to fall into. He wished he were the little boy who lived opposite, who had three brothers ready to play with him on half holidays. He wished he were Sam Harrison, whose father had taken in one day a trip by the railroad. He wished he were the little boy who always went with the omnibuses. It must be so pleasant to go riding about on the steppe, and to see so many people. He wished he were a sailor, to sail away to the countries where grapes grew wild, and monkeys and parrots were to be had for the catching. Just as he was wishing himself the little Prince of Wales, to drive about in a goat carriage, and wondering if he should not feel very shy with the three great ostrich feathers, always niddle-noddling on his head, for people to know him by. His mother came from washing up the dishes, and saw him deep in the reveries, little boys and girls are apt to fall into, when they are the only children in a house. My dear Tom, said she, why don't you go out and meet the most of this fine afternoon? Oh, mother, answered he, suddenly recalled to the fact that he was little Tom Fletcher, instead of the Prince of Wales, and consequently feeling a little bit flat. It is so dull going out by myself. I have no one to play with. Can't you go with me, mother, just this once, into the fields? Poor Mrs. Fletcher heartily wished she could gratify this very natural desire of her little boy, but she had the shop to mind, and a many a little thing besides to do. It was impossible. But however much she might regret a thing, she was too faithful to repine. So, after a moment's thought, she said cheerfully, go into the fields for a walk, and see how many wildflowers you can bring me home, and I'll get down farther's jug for you to put them in when you come back. But, mother, there are so few pretty flowers near a town, said Tom, a little unwillingly. Fritz was a coming down from being Prince of Wales, and he was not yet quite reconciled to it. Oh, dear, there are a great many if you only look for them. I dare say you'll make me up as many as twenty different kinds. Will you reckon, days, his mother? To be sure, they're just as pretty as any. Oh, if you reckon such as them, I dare say I can bring you more than twenty. So off he ran, his mother watching him till he was out of sight, and then she returned to her work. In about two hours he came back, his pale cheeks looking quite rosy, and his eyes quite bright. His country-walk taken with cheerful spirits had done him all the good his mother desired, and had restored his usually even happy temper. Look, mother, here are three and twenty different kinds. You said I might count all, so I've even counted this thing like a nettle with lilac flowers, and this little common blue thing. Robin running their hedge is its name, said his mother. It's very pretty if you look at it close. One, two, three. She counted them all over, and they really were three and twenty. She went to reach down the best jug. Mother, said little Tom, do you like them very much? Yes, very much, said she, not understanding his meaning. He was silent and gave a little sigh. Why, my dear? Oh, only. It does not signify if you like them very much, but I thought how nice it would be to take them to Lame Harry, who can never walk so far as the feels, and can hardly know what summer is like, I think. Oh, that would be very nice. I'm glad you thought of it. Lame Harry was sitting by himself, very patiently, in a neighbouring cellar. He was supported by his daughter's earnings, but as she worked in a factory he was much alone. If the bunch of flowers had looked pretty in the feels, they looked ten times as pretty in the cellar to which they were now carried. Lame Harry's eyes brightened up with pleasure at the sight, and he began to talk of the times long ago, when he was a little boy in the country, and had a corner of his father's garden to call his own, and grow lad's love and wall-flowering. Little Tom put them in water for him, and put the jug on the table by him, on which his daughter had placed the Old Bible, worn with much reading, although treated with careful reverence. It was lying open, with Harry's horned spectacles put in to mark the place. I reckon my spectacles are getting worn out, they're not so clear as they used to be, they're dim like before my eyes, and it hurts me to read long together, said Harry. It's a sad miss to me. I never thought the time long when I could read, but now I keep wearying for the day to be over, though the nights, when I cannot sleep for my legs paining me, they're almost as bad. However, it's the Lord's will. Would you like me? I cannot read very well aloud, but I'd do my best if you'd like me to read a bit to you. I'll just run home and get me tea, and be back directly. And off Tom ran. He found it very pleasant reading aloud to Lame Harry, for the old man had much to say that was worth listening to, and was so glad of a listener, that I think there was as much talking as reading done that evening. But the Bible served as a textbook to their conversation, for in a long life old Harry had seen and heard so much, which he had connected with events or promises or precepts contained in the Scriptures, that it was quite curious to find how everything was brought in and dovetailed as an illustration of what they were reading. When Tom got up to go away, Lame Harry gave him many thanks, and told him he would not sleep the worst for having made an old man's evening so pleasant. Tom came home in high self-satisfaction. Mother, said he, it's all very true what you said about the good that may be done without money. I've done many pieces of good today without a farthing. First, said he, taking hold of his little finger, I helped Anne Jones with hanging out her clothes when she was, his mother had been listening while she turned over the pages of the New Testament, which lay by her, and now having found what she wanted, she put her arm gently round his waist, and drew him fondly towards her. He saw her finger put under one passage, and read, Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth. He was silent in a moment, then his mother spoke in her soft low voice, dearest Tom, though I don't want us to talk about it, as if you have been doing more than just what you ought. I'm glad you've seen the truth of what I said, how far more may be done by the loving heart than by mere money-giving, and everyone may have the loving heart. I have told you of one day of little Tom's life, when he was eight years old and lived with his mother. I must now pass over a year, and tell you of a very different kind of life he had then to lead. His mother had never been very strong, and had had a good deal of anxiety. At last she was taken ill, and soon felt there was no hope for her recovery. For a long time the thought of leaving her little boy was a great distress to her, and a great trial to her faith, but God strengthened her, and sent his peace into her soul, and before her death she was content to leave her precious child in his hands, who is a father to the fatherless, and defendeth the cause of the widow. When she felt that she had not many more days to live, she sent for her husband's brother, who lived in a town not many miles off, and gave her little Tom in charge to him to bring up. There are a few pounds in the savings bank, I don't know how many exactly, and the furniture, and bits of stock in the shop. Perhaps there would be enough to bring him up to be a joiner like his father before him. She spoke feebly, and with many pauses. Her brother-in-law, though a rough kind of man, wished to do all he could to make her feel easy in her last moments, and touched with the reference to his dead brother, promised all she required. I'll take him back with me after. The funeral, he was going to say, but he stopped. She smiled gently, fully understanding his meaning. We shall, maybe, not be so tender with him as you have been, but I'll see he comes to no harm. It will be a good thing for him to rough it a bit with other children. He's too nesh for a boy, but I'll pay them if they aren't kind to him in the long run. Never fear. Though this speech was not exactly what she liked, there was quite enough of good feeling in it, to make her thankful for such a protector and friend for her boy. And so, thankful for the joys she had had, and thankful for the sorrows which had taught her meekness, thankful for life, and thankful for death, she died. Her brother-in-law arranged all as she had wished. After the quiet simple funeral was over, he took Tom by the hand, and set off on the six-mile walk to his home. Tom had cried till he could cry no more, but sobs came quivering up from his heart every now and then, as he passed some well-remembered cottage or thorn-bush or tree on the road. His uncle was very sorry for him, but he did not know what to say or how to comfort him. No mind, lad, thou comes to me if thy cousins row hard upon thee. Let me hear if they misuse thee, and I'll give it them. Tom shrunk from the idea that this gave him of the cousins, whose companionship he had until then been looking forward to as a pleasure. He was not reassured when, after threading several streets and byways, they came into a court of dingy-looking houses, and his uncle opened the door of one from which the noise of loud, if not angry, voices was heard. A tall large-woven was whirling one child out of her way, with a rough movement of her arm, while she was scolding a boy a little older than Tom, who stood listening sullenly to her angry words. I'll tell father of thee, I will, said she, and turning to uncle John, she began to pour out her complaints against Jack, without taking any notice of little Tom, who clung to his uncle's hand, as to a protector in the scene of violence into which he had entered. Well, well, wife, I'll leather Jack the next time I catch him letting the water out of the pipe, but now get this lad and me some tea, for we're weary and tired. His aunt seemed to wish Jack might be leathered now, and to be angry with her husband for not revenging her injuries. For an injury it was that the boy had done her in letting the water all run off, and that on the very eve of the washing day. The mother grumbled as she left off, mopping the wet floor, and went to the fire to stir it up, ready for the kettle, without a word of greeting to her little nephew, or of welcome to her husband. On the contrary, she complained of the trouble of getting tea ready afresh, just when she had put slack on the fire, and had no water in the house to fill the kettle with. Her husband grew angry, and Tom was frightened to hear his uncle speaking sharply, if I can't have a cup of tea in my own house without all this ado, I'll go to the spread eagle, and take Tom with me. They have a bright fire there at all times, choose how they manage it, and no scolding wives. Come, Tom, let's be off. Jack had been trying to scrape acquaintance with his cousin, by winks and grimaces behind his mother's back, and now made a sign of drinking out of an imaginary glass. But Tom clung to his uncle, and softly pulled him down again on his chair, from which he had risen to go to the public house. If you please, ma'am, said he, sadly frightened of his aunt, I think I could find the pump if you let me try. She muttered something like an acquiescence, so Tom took up the kettle, and tired as he was, went out to the pump. Jack, who had done nothing but mischief all day, stood amazed, but at last settled that his cousin was a softie. When Tom came back, he tried to blow the fire with the broken bellows, and at last the water boiled, and the tea was made. Thou art a real lad, Tom, said his uncle. I wonder when our Jack will be of as much use. The comparison did not please either Jack or his mother, who liked to keep to herself the privilege of directing their father's dissatisfaction with his children. Tom felt their want of kindliness towards him, and now that he had nothing to do but rest and eat, he began to feel very sad, and his eyes kept filling with tears, which he brushed away with the back of his hand, not wishing to have them seen. But his uncle noticed him. Thou had better have had a glass at the spread eagle, said he, compassionately. No, I only am rather tired. May I go to bed? said he, longing for a good cry, unobserved under the bed-clothes. Where's he to sleep? asked the husband of the wife. Nay, said she, still offended on Jack's account, that's thy lookout, his thy flesh and blood, not mine. Come, wife, said uncle John, he's an orphan poor chap, an orphan his kin to everyone. She was softened directly, for she had much kindness in her, although this evening she had been so much put out. There's no place for him but with Jack and Dick, with the baby, and the other three are packed close enough. She took Tom up to the little back room, and stopped to talk with him for a minute or two, for her husband's words had smitten her heart, and she was sorry for the ungracious reception she had given Tom at first. Jack and Dick are never in bed till we come, and it's work enough to catch them then on fine evenings, said she, as she took the candle away. Tom tried to speak to God as his mother had taught him, out of the fullness of his little heart, which was heavy enough that night. He tried to think how she would have wished him to speak and to do, and when he felt puzzled with the remembrance of the scene of disorder and anger which he had seen, he earnestly prayed God would make and keep clear his path before him, and then he fell asleep. He had a long dream of other and happier days, and had thought he was once more taking a Sunday evening walk with his mother, when he was roughly wakened up by his cousins. I say, lad, you're lying right across the bed, you must get up and let Dick and me come in, and then creep into the space that's left. Tom got up, dizzy and half awake. His cousins got into bed, and then squabbled about the largest share. It ended in a kicking match, during which Tom stood shivering by the bedside. I'm sure we pinched enough as it is, said Dick at last, and why they put Tom in with us I can't think, but I'll not stand it. Tom shan't sleep with us, he may lie on the floor if he likes, I'll not hinder him. He expected an opposition from Tom, and was rather surprised when he heard the little fellow quietly lie down and cover himself as well as he could with his clothes. After some more quarrelling, Jack and Dick fell asleep, but in the middle of the night, Dick awoke, and heard by Tom's breathing that he was still awake, and was crying gently. What, molly-cuddle, crying for us off the bed, asked Dick. Oh, no, I don't care for that, if—oh, if mother were but alive, little Tom subbed aloud. I say, said Dick after a pause, there's room at my back if you're creeping. There, don't be afraid. Why, how cold you are, lad! Dick was sorry for his cousin's loss, but could not speak about it. However, his kind tone sank into Tom's heart, and he fell asleep once more. The three boys all got up at the same time in the morning, but were not inclined to talk. Jack and Dick put on their clothes as fast as possible, and ran downstairs, but this was quite a different way of going on to what Tom had been accustomed. He looked about for some kind of basin or mug to wash in, there was none, not even a jug of water in the room. He slipped on a few necessary clothes, and went downstairs, found a picture, and went off to the pump. His cousins, who were playing in the court, laughed at him, and would not tell him where the soap was kept. He had to look some minutes before he could find it. Then he went back to the bedroom, but on entering it from the fresh air, the smell was so oppressive that he could not endure it. Three people had been breathing the air all night, and had used up every particle many times over and over again, and each time that it had been sent out from the lungs, it was less fit than before to be breathed again. They had not felt how poisonous it was while they stayed in it. They had only felt tired and unrefreshed with a dull headache. But now that Tom came back into it, he could not mistake its oppressive nature. He went to the window to try and open it. It was what people call a Yorkshire light, where you know one half has to be pushed on one side. It was very stiff, for it had not been opened for a long time. Tom pushed against it with all his might. At length, it gave way with a jerk, and the shake sent out a cracked pain which fell on the floor in a hundred little bits. Tom was sadly frightened when he saw what he had done. He would have been sorry to have done mischief at any time, but he had seen enough of his aunt the evening before to find out that she was sharp and hasty and cross, and it was hard to have to begin the first day in his new home by getting into a scrape. He sat down on the bedside and began to cry. But the morning air, blowing in upon him, refreshed him, and made him feel stronger. He grew braver as he washed himself in the pure cold water. She can't be cross with me longer than a day. By tonight it will be all over. I can bear it for a day. Dick came running upstairs for something he had forgotten. My word, Tom, but you'll catch it! exclaimed he when he saw the broken window. He was half pleased at the event, and half sorry for Tom. Mother did so beat Jack last week for throwing a stone right through the window downstairs. He kept out of the way till night, but she was on the lookout for him, and as soon as she saw him she caught hold of him and gave it to him. Hey, Tom, I would not be you for a deal. Tom began to cry again at this account of his aunt's anger. Dick became more and more sorry for him. I'll tell thee what. We'll go down and say it was a lad in yon backyard throwing stones, and the one went smack through the window. I've got one in my pocket that we'll just do to show. No, said Tom, suddenly stopping crying. I dare not do that. Dead? Why, you'll have to dare much more if you go down and face Mother without some such story. No, I shan't. I shan't have to dare, God's anger. Mother taught me to fear that. She said, and he'd never be really afraid of hotels. Just be quiet, Dick, while I say me prayers. Dick watched his little cousin kneel down by the bed and bury his face in the clothes. He did not say any set prayer, which Dick was accustomed to thinking was the only way of praying, but Tom seemed by the low murmuring which Dick heard to be talking to a dear friend. Although at first he sobbed and cried as he asked for help and strength, yet when he got up his face looked calm and bright, and he spoke quietly as he said to Dick, now I'm ready to go and tell Aunt. Aunt, meanwhile, had missed her picture and her soap, and was in no good tempered mood when Tom came to make his confession. She had been hindered in her morning's work by his taking her things away, and now he was come to tell her of the pain being broken, and that it must be mended, and money must go all for a child's nonsense. She gave him, as he had been led to expect, one or two very sharp blows. Jack and Dick looked on with curiosity to see how he would take it. Jack at any rate, expecting a hearty crying from softy. Jack himself had cried loudly at his last beating, but Tom never shed a tear, though his face did go very red, and his mouth did grow set with the pain. But what struck the boys more, even than his being hard in bearing such blows, was his quietness afterwards. He did not grumble loudly, as Jack would have done, nor did he turn sullen, as was Dick's custom. But the minute afterwards he was ready to run an errand for his aunt, nor did he make any mention of the hard blows when his uncle came into breakfast, as his aunt had rather expected he would. She was glad he did not, for she knew her husband would have been displeased to know how early she had begun to beat his orphan nephew. So she felt almost grateful to Tom for his silence, and certainly began to be sorry she had struck him so hard. Poor Tom! He did not know that his cousins were beginning to respect him, nor that his aunt was learning to like him, and he felt very lonely and desolate that first morning. He had nothing to do. Jack went to work at the factory, and Dick went grumbling to school. Tom wondered if he was to go to school again, but he did not like to ask. He sat on a little stool, as much out of his terrible aunt's way as he could. She had a youngest child, a little girl of about a year and a half old, crawling about on the floor. Tom longed to play with her, but he was not sure how far his aunt would like it. But he kept smiling at her, and doing every little thing he could to attract her attention and make her come to him. At last she was coaxed to come upon his knee. His aunt saw it, and though she did not speak, she did not look displeased. He did everything he could think of to amuse little Annie, and her mother was very glad to have her attended to. When Annie grew sleepy, she still kept fast hold of one of Tom's fingers in her little round soft hand, and he began to know the happy feeling of loving somebody again. Only the nights before, when his cousins had made him get out of bed, he had wondered if he should live to be an old man, and never have anybody to love all that long time. But now his heart felt quite warm to the little thing that lay on his lap. She'll tire you, Tom, said her mother. You'd better let me put her down in the cot. Oh no, said he. Please don't. I like so much to have her here. He never moved, though she lay very heavy on his arm, for fear of wakening her. When she did rouse up, his aunt said, Thank you, Tom. I've got me worked on rarely with you for a nurse. Now, take a run in the yard and play yourself a bit. His aunt was learning something, and Tom was teaching, though they would both have been very much surprised to hear it. Whenever in a family, everyone is selfish, and, as it is called, stands up for his own rights, there are no feelings of gratitude. The gracefulness of thanks is never called for, nor can there be any occasion for thoughtfulness for others, when those others are sure to get the start in thinking for themselves and taking care of number one. Tom's aunt had never had to remind Jack or Dick to go out to play. They were ready enough to see after their own pleasures. Well, dinner time came, and all the family gathered to the meal. It seemed to be a scramble who should be helped first, and cry out for the best pieces. Tom looked very red. His aunt in her newborn liking for him, helped him early to what she thought he would like. But he did not begin to eat. It had been his mother's custom to teach her little son to say a simple grace with her before they began their dinner. He expected his uncle to follow the same observance and waited. Then he felt very hot and shy. But thinking that it was right to say it, he put away his shyness and very quietly, but very solemnly said the old accustomed sentence of thanksgiving. Jack burst out laughing when he had done, for which Jack's father gave him a sharp rap and a sharp word, which made him silent through the rest of the dinner. But accepting Jack, who was angry, I think all the family were happier for having listened reverently, if with some surprise, to Tom's thanksgiving. They were not an ill-disposed set of people, but wanted thoughtfulness in their everyday life. That sort of thoughtfulness, which gives order to a home, and makes a wise and holy spirit of love the groundwork of order. From that first day, Tom never went back in the regard he began then to win. He was useful to his aunt and patiently bore her hasty ways, until, for very shame, she left off being hasty with one who was always so meek and mild. His uncle sometimes said he was more like a girl than a boy, as was to be looked for from being brought up for so many years by a woman. But that was the greatest fault he ever had to find with him, and in spite of it, he really respected him for the very qualities which are most truly manly. For the courage with which he dared to do what was right, and the quiet firmness with which he bore many kinds of pain. As for little Annie, her friendship and favour and love were the delight of Tom's heart. He did not know how much the others were growing to like him, but Annie showed it in every way, and he loved her in return most dearly. Dick soon found out how useful Tom could be to him in his lessons. For though older than his cousin, Master Dick was a regular dance, and had never even wished to learn till Tom came, and long before Jack could be brought to acknowledge it, Dick maintained that Tom had a great deal of pluck in him, though it was not of Jack's kind. Now I shall jump another year, and tell you a very little about the household, twelve months after Tom had entered it. I said above that his aunt had learned to speak less crossly to one who was always gentle after her scoldings. By and by, her ways to all became less hasty and passionate, for she grew ashamed of speaking to anyone in an angry way before Tom. He always looked so sad and sorry to hear her. She has also spoken to him sometimes about his mother, at first because she thought he would like it, but latterly because she became really interested to hear of her ways, and Tom being an only child, and his mother's friend and companion has been able to tell her of many household arts of comfort, which come in quite unconscious of any purpose, from the lips of a child, have taught her many things which he would have been too proud to learn from an older person. Her husband is softened by the additional cleanliness and peace of his home. He does not now occasionally take refuge in a public house to get out of the way of noisy children, an unswept hearth, and a scolding wife. Once when Tom was ill for a day or two, his uncle missed the accustomed grace, and began to say it himself. He is now the person to say, Silence boys, and then to ask the blessing on the meal. It makes them gather round the table, instead of sitting down here and there in the comfortless, unsociable way they used to do. Tom and Dick go to school together now, and Dick is getting on famously, and will soon be able to help his next brother over his lessons, as Tom has helped him. Even Jack has been heard to acknowledge that Tom has plucked in him, and as pluck in Jack's mind is a short way of summing up all the virtues, he has lately become very fond of his cousin. Tom does not think about happiness, but is happy, and I think we may hope that he and the household among whom he has adopted will go from strength to strength. Now, do you not see how much happier this family are from the one circumstance of a little child's coming among them? Good money have made one-tenth part of this real and increasing happiness. I think you will all say no, and yet Tom was no powerful person, he was not clever, he was very friendless at first, but he was loving and good, and on those two qualities, which any of us may have if we try, the blessing of God lies in rich abundance. End of Hand and Heart by Elizabeth Gaskell The Last Generation in England by Elizabeth Gaskell This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. First published in Satan's Union magazine, July 1849 I have just taken up by chance an old number of the Edinburgh Review, April 1848, in which it is said that Southie has proposed to himself to write a history of English domestic life. I will not enlarge upon the infinite loss we have had in the non-fulfillment of this plan. Everyone must in some degree feel its extent who has read those charming glimpses of home scenes contained in the early volumes of the Doctor etc. This quarter of an hour's chance reading has created a wish in me to put upon record some of the details of country-town life either observed by myself or handed down to me by older relations. But even in small towns, scarcely removed from villages, the phases of society are rapidly changing, and much will appear strange which occurred only in the generation immediately preceding ours. I must however say before going on that although I choose to disguise my own identity and to conceal the name of the town to which I refer, every circumstance and occurrence which I shall relate is strictly and truthfully told without exaggeration. As for classing the details with which I am acquainted under any heads, that will be impossible from their heterogeneous nature. I must write them down as they arise in my memory. The town in which I once resided is situated in a district inhabited by large landed proprietors of very old family. The daughters of these families, if unmarried, retired to live in on their annuities and gave the tones of the society there, stately ladies they were, remembering etiquettes and precedence in every occurrence of life, and having their genealogy at their tongue's end. Then there were the widows of the cadets of these same families, also poor and also proud, as I think more genial and less given to recounting their pedigrees than the former. Then came the professional men and their wives, who were more wealthy than the ladies I have named, but who always treated them with deference and respect, sometimes even amounting to obsequiousness. For was there not my brother Sir John and my uncle Mr.—to give employment and patronage to the doctor or the attorney? A grade lower came a class of single or widow ladies, and again it was possible, not to say probable, that their pecuniary circumstances were in better condition than those of the aristocratic dames, who nevertheless refused to meet in general society the seed of o' housekeepers or widows of stewards, who had been employed by their fathers and brothers. They would occasionally condescend to ask Mason, or that good Bentley, to a private tea-drinking, at which I doubt not much gossip relating to former days at the Hall would pass. But that was patronage. To associate with them at another person's house would have been an acknowledgement of equality. Below again came the shopkeepers, who dared to be original, who gave comfortable suppers after the very early dinners of that day, not checked by the honourable Mr. D's precedent of a seven o'clock tea on the most elegant and economical principles, and a suppolous turnout at nine. There were the usual respectable and disrespectable poor, and hanging on the outskirts of society were a set of young men, ready for mischief and brutality, and every now and then, dropping off the pit's brink into crime. The habits of this class, about forty years ago, were much such as those of the Mohawks a century before. They would stop ladies returning from the card-parties, which were the staple gaiety of the place, and who were only attended by a maid-servant bearing a lantern, and whip them, literally whip them, as you whip a little child, until administering such chastisement to a good, precise old lady of a high family. My brother, the magistrate, came forward and put down such proceedings with a high hand. Certainly there was more individuality of character in those days than now. No one, even in a little town of two thousand inhabitants, would now be found to drive out with a carriage full of dogs, each dressed in the male or female fashion of the day, as the case might be. Each dog provided with a pair of house shoes, for which his carriage boots were changed on his return. No old lady would be so oblivious of Mrs. Grundy's existence, now as to dare to invest her favourite cow, after its unlucky fall into a limpet, in flannel waistcoat and drawers, in which the said cow paraded the streets of to the day of its death. There were many regulations which were strictly attended to in the society of, which probably checked more manifestations of eccentricity. Before a certain hour in the morning, calls were never paid, nor yet after a certain hour in the afternoon. The consequence was that everybody was out, calling on everybody at the same time, for it was de rigueur that morning calls should be returned within three days. And accordingly, making due allowance for our proportion of rain in England, every fine morning was given up to this employment. A quarter of an hour was the limit of a morning call. Before the appointed hour of reception, I fancied the employment of many of the ladies was fitting up their laces and muslins, which, for the information of all those whom it may concern, were never ironed but carefully stretched and pinned, thread by thread, with most lilliputian pieces on a board covered with flannel. Most of these scions of quality had many pounds worth of valuable laces descended to them from mothers and grandmothers, which must be got up by no hands, as you may guess, but those are fairly fair. Indeed, when muslin and net were a guinea yard, this was not to be wondered at. The lace was washed in buttermilk, which gave rise to an odd little circumstance. One lady left her lace, basted up in some not very sour buttermilk, and unluckily the cat lapped it up, lace and all. One would have thought the lace would have choked her, but so it was. The lace was too valuable to be lost, so a small dose of tartar emetic was administered to the poor cat. The lace returned to view was carefully darned and decked the good lady's best cap for many a year after. At many a time did she tell the story, gracefully bridling up in a prim sort of way, and giving a little cough, as if preliminary to a rather improper story. The first sentence of it was always, I remember, I do not think you can guess where the lace on my cap has been, dropping her voice, in pussies inside, my dear. The dinner hour was three o'clock in all houses of any pretensions to gentility, and a very late hour it was considered to be. Soon after four, one or two inveterate card-players might be seen in calloush and patterns, picking their way along the streets to the house where the party of the evening was to be held. As soon as they arrived and had unpacked themselves, an operation of a good half-hour's duration in the dining-parlor, they were ushered into the drawing-room, where, unless in the very height of summer, it was considered a delicate attention to have the shutters closed, the curtains drawn, and the candles lighted. The card-tables were set out, each with two new packs of cards, for which it was customary to pay, each person placing a shilling under one of the candle sticks. The ladies settled down to preference, and allowed of no interruption, even the tea-trays were placed on the middle of the card-tables, and tea hastily gulped down with a few remarks on the good or ill fortune of the evening. New arrivals were greeted with nods in the intervals of the game, and as people entered the room, they were pounced upon by the lady of the house to form another table. Cards were a business in those days, not a recreation. Their very names were to be treated with reverence. Someone came to, from a place where flippancy was in good fashion, he called the nave lack, and everybody looked grave and voted him vulgar. But when he was overheard calling preference, the decorous, highly respectable game of preference —pref — why, what course remained for us but to cut him, and cut him we did. About half-pastate, notices of servants having arrived for their respective mistresses were given. The games were concluded, a count settled, a few parting squibs and crackers let off at careless or unlucky partners, and the party separated. By ten o'clock all was in bed and asleep. I have made no mention of gentlemen at these parties, because if ever there was an Amazonian town in England it was mmm. Eleven widows of respectability at one time kept house there, besides spinsters innumerable. The doctor preferred his armchair and slippers to the forms of society such as I have described, and so did the attorney, who was besides not insensible to the charms of a hot supper. Indeed, I suppose it was because of the small incomes of the more aristocratic portion of our little society, not sufficing both for style and luxury, but it was a fact that as gentility decreased, good living increased in proportion. We had the honour and glory of looking at old plates and delicate china at the Commiele Forte parties, but the slices of bread and butter were like wafers, and the sugar for coffee was rather of the brownest. Still there was much gracious kindness among our people. In those times, good Mr. Rigmarole, carriages were carriages, and there were not the infinite variety of brooms, droskies, etc., etc., down to a wheelbarrow which now make locomotion easy. Nor yet were there cars and cabs and flies ready for hire in our little town. Our post shares was the only conveyance besides the sedan chair, of which more are none. So the widow of an earl's son, who possessed a proper old-fashioned coach and pair, would, on rainy nights, send her carriage, the only private carriage of round the town, picking up all the dowagers and invalids, and conveying them dry and safe to and from their evening engagements. The various other ladies who, in virtue of their relations, holding manners and maintaining gamekeepers, had frequent presence during the season of partridges, pheasants, etc., etc., would daintily carve off the tidbits, and putting them carefully into a hot basin, bid Betty or Molly cover it up quickly and carry it to Mrs. or Miss so-and-so, whose appetite was but weakly, and who required dainties to temper it, which she could not afford to purchase. These poorer ladies had also their parties in turn. They were too proud to accept invitations if they might not return them, although various and amusing were their innocent make-shifts and imitations. To give you only one instance, I remember a card-party at one of these good-ladies lodgings, where, when tea-time arrived, the ladies sitting on the sofa had to be displaced for a minute in order that the tea trays, plates of cake, bread and butter and all, might be extricated from their concealment under the valances of the couch. You may imagine the subjects of conversation amongst these ladies, cards, servants, relations, pedigrees, and last and best, much mutual interest about the poor of the town, to whom they were one and all kind and indefatigable benefactresses, cooking, sewing for, advising, doctoring, doing everything but educating them. One or two old ladies dwelt on the glories of former days, when boasted of two Earl's daughters as residents. Though it must be sixty years since they died, there are traces of their characters yet lingering about the place. Proud, precise, and generous, bitter Tories they were. Their sister had married a general, more distinguished for a successful comedy than for his mode of conducting the war in America, and consequently his sisters-in-law held the name of Washington in deeper borrance. I can fancy the way in which they must have spoken of him from the shudder of abomination with which their devoted admirers spoke years afterwards of that man Washington. Lady Jane was moreover a benefactress too. Before her day the pavement of the footpath was composed of loose round stones, placed so far apart that a delicate ankle might receive a severe wrench from slipping between, but she left a sum of money in her will to make and keep in repair a flag pavement, on condition that it should only be broad enough for one to walk abreast, in order to put a stop to the indecent custom coming into vogue of ladies linking with gentlemen, linking being the old-fashioned word for walking arm in arm. Lady Jane also left her sedan and money to pay the bearers for the use of the ladies who were frequently like Adam and Eve in the weather-glassing consequence, the first arrival at a party having to commence the order of returning when the last lady was only just entering upon the gayities of the evening. The old ladies were living hordes of family tradition and old custom. One of them, a shropshire woman, had been to school in London about the middle of the last century. The journey from shropshire took her a week. At the school to which she was sent, besides fine work of innumerable descriptions, pastry and the art of confectionery were taught to those whose parents desired it. The dancing master gave his pupils instructions in the art of using a fan properly. Although an only child, she had never sat down in her parents' presence without leave until she was married, and spoke with infinite disgust of the modern familiarity with which children treated their parents. In my days, said she, when we wrote to our fathers and mothers, we began honoured sir or honoured madam. None of your dear mamars or dear papars would have been permitted, and we ruled off our margin before beginning our letters, instead of cramming writing into every corner of the paper. And when we ended our letters, we asked our parents' blessing if we were writing to them. And if we wrote to a friend, we were content to remain your affectionate friend, instead of hunting up some newfangled expression, such as, you're attached, you're loving, etc. Fanny, my dear, I got a letter today signed, yours cordially, like a drum shop. What will this world come to? Then she would tell how a gentleman, having asked her to dance in her youth, never thought of such familiarity as offering her his arm to conduct her to her place. But taking up the flap of his silk-lined coat, he placed it over his open palm, and on it the lady daintily rested the tips of her fingers. To be sure, my dear old lady once confessed to a story neither so pretty nor so proper, namely that one of the amusements of her youth was measuring noses with some gentleman, not an uncommon thing in those days, and, as lips lie below noses, such measurements frequently ended in kisses. At her house there was a little silver basket strainer, and once remarking on this, she showed me a silver saucer pierced through with holes, and told me it was a relic of the times when tea was first introduced into England. After it had been infused and the beverage drank, the leaves were taken out of the teapot, and placed on this strainer, and then eaten by those who liked, with sugar and butter, and very good they were, she added. Another relic which she possessed was an old receipt-book, dating back to the middle of the sixteenth century. Our grandmothers must have been strong-headed women, but there were numerous receipts for ladies' beverages, etc., generally beginning with Take a gallon of brandy or any other spirit. The puddings, too, were no light matters. One receipt, which I copied for the curiosity of the thing, begins with Take thirty eggs, two quarts of cream, etc. These brob dignagium puddings she explained by saying that the afternoon meal before the introduction of tea generally consisted of cakes and cold puddings, together with a glass of what we should now call liqueur, but which was then denominated bitters. The same old lady advocated strongly the manner in which marriages were formally often brought about. A young man went up to London to study for the bar, to become a merchant or what-not, and arrived at middle age without having thought about matrimony. When, finding himself rich and desirous of being married, he would frequently write to some college friend or to the clergyman of his native place, asking him to recommend a wife. Whereupon the friend would send a list of suitable ladies, the bachelor would make his selection and empower his friend to wait upon the parents of the chosen one, who accepted or refused without much consultation of their daughter's wishes. Often the first intelligence she had of the affair was by being told by her mother to adorn herself in her best, as the gentleman her parents proposed for her husband was expected by the night-goach to supper. And very happy marriages they turned out, my dear, very, my venerably informant would add, sighing. I always suspected that her own had been of this description.