 CHAPTER XIX. The cold and damp which ushered in the next day determined Mabel to keep Hilda at home, as she would herself be necessitated to be out. A fresh supply of coal must be gotten, and to pay for this some vests must be taken home, and money procured for them. Mabel herself must do this, and quite early after her early breakfast she prepared to depart on her mission. In some respects Lily did not appear much indisposed today, but soon as Mabel was gone she gave evidence of a restlessness which quite embarrassed Hilda. The latter was particularly awkward in her attempt to give ease to the little sufferer by change of position, and Lily's frequent demands for such change this morning resulted in discomfort to herself as well as to her nurse. The cry of a ragman from the street finally aroused a keen desire upon the part of the child to sit up at the window, and though Hilda combated the idea for some time, she was at length obliged to do her best to place the little girl comfortably in the big chair, which commanded, from its elevation and position, a view of the crowded neighbourhood. It being a chilly day the sash was closed, and a thick shawl had to be thrown around the little invalid. With her face pressed against the glass Lily glanced curiously about her, for this was but the second time she had sat at the window since coming to their new home. Dreary enough was the scene. Not even the ragman was there, with his cart full of coarse bundles, and the little boy, such an odd miniature of himself, who sat behind him among the rags and so curiously echoed his cry. The time taken up by Hilda in endeavouring to dissuade her little charge from a fancy which she believed fraught with risk to her had given the cart time to make it slow progress by the near houses and disappear around a corner. The ragman had probably done small business in such neighbourhoods today. There were plenty of rags to be sure, but there was something in that November morning which suggested to their owners the wisdom of keeping them to wrap about their own wretched limbs. A look of blank disappointment only first showed itself on Lily's face as the result of her survey, but she, after a time, became so interested in watching the erratic wanderings of some half-grown chicks and goslings around and in the pools of muddy water that she quite forgot to make comparisons between the ugly view before her and Mrs. Power's garden. This amusement did not last very long, however. The old restlessness and pains returned to break her quiet, and little Lily was even more urgent to be put back to bed than she had been to be placed at the window. A period of uneasiness and suffering followed which seriously discomposed Hilda, who, in her experience of the little patient, had seen nothing exactly resembling it. Morphine was given, according to directions left by Mabel, but its effect was slow, and Hilda looked more anxiously every minute for the return of Mabel. The cold had sensibly increased since the time of Mabel's leaving, and thoughtful for the well-doing of Lily, whose condition rendered her peculiarly sensitive to cold or damp, the former made all the speed she could to get home to her. It was a great relief to Mabel, upon entering the room, to find that Hilda had been careful to keep up a good fire. Lily was by this time somewhat soothed, though her countenance still gave evidence of distress. Now Mabel's come, I'll be better," said the poor child. Dear Mabel, I'll just lay still, so still, and then I'll be all right. You'll stay by me, and I won't cry. Patient child and devoted nurse. This was but the commencement of a long period of suffering and distress for both. The malaria of the wretched neighborhood was telling upon the enfeebled frame of little Lily, making it yet more difficult for nature to contend with the disease under which she labored. "'This afternoon the coal will be here,' said Mabel to Hilda, and what we have will supply the fire till then. I think this cold turn is a commencement of winter. I'm afraid it is,' replied Hilda, with a very grave look at Mabel. I suppose you only got a little coal, as I heard you say you had so much to do with the money. "'I got four dollars worth,' rejoined Mabel. I recollected that the expense of hauling and putting in would be the same on a smaller quantity as on a larger. Then you have not enough to get the tea and sugar, Mabel, and didn't you say there would be none for breakfast tomorrow unless you got some? There will be some for Lily, dear Hilda, for we will take none ourselves this evening.' This was said in a whisper, for Lily's eyes were fixed on the speaker. The poor child mustn't be worried by knowing it, Mabel proceeded in the same tone. But from this time Hilda, until better days come for us, you and I must give up these expensive luxuries. Everything that we can give up must be given up. You understand, Hilda, given up that she may have all that is needed. Yes, Mabel, I'll give up anything, everything for that. I knew you would, my sister, and Mabel pressed the hand that had been placed upon her shoulder. Mabel, are we going to have a very, very hard time? Don't be afraid to tell me the worst. I trust and believe, dear Hilda, that we shall get through the winter with what, to us now, is comfort. I do not anticipate anything like want. All my efforts will be given to making sure of needful things for dear Lily, and keeping out of debt, which to us would be ruined. We are both in health and strength, both ready to bear and to do all we can. Therefore there is no cause to despond. Mabel, I commence at the sale off to-morrow, and I'll work—oh, I'll work like two girls, but I'll get something worth bringing home to you. We're paid by the peace there, and one can make more than another. There's not a girl or woman of them all shall make more than I do. You will do your best, dear Hilda, I am sure of that. But don't expect too much at first, or you will have cause for disappointment. Remember, the work is new to you, and must be particularly trying on the hands. If you can do no better than keep at it, you will, after a time, work well, I don't doubt. Mabel, I will keep at it, and from this time I make no more complaint of work or prices. All I will think of is doing as much as I can. I must make enough to cover all my expenses to you, and maybe I may even get something over and above to help you along with poor Lily. How proud and happy I'd be to do that. Don't despair of me, Mabel. I never despair of you, my sister. How I wish it were to-morrow, Mabel. I want so to be trying this new work that I hope to make something at. But there are hours before to-morrow, and I have plenty to do in them, too. I must get at my mending, for there'll be no time but after dark for that, when I've once entered at the sale loft. She went to the closet and brought forth various articles of clothing. There's one dress, she said, handling it with care, that needs no stitching it, and won't for many a day to come. It's as fine and good a marino as cousin Algern got for herself, and I'm sure I'm obliged to her for it, more now than the day she gave it to me. That dress and the shawl, got at the same time, will be everything to me this winter. When I have them on, I feel a little more like old times, less like those poor sewing-girls who are almost reduced to their last rag. Mabel, I think it would take all soul out of me to have nothing better than many of those poor girls have. CHAPTER XXI A building of four stories, three rooms of which were sewing-rooms, and two hundred women and girls employed in each room. Six hundred hands in all had Mr. Barr employed, six hundred souls to be raised by the something to be hoped for, so essential to us all, to the better of which they were capable, if he would, six hundred souls to be crushed to the worst of which they were capable, as he chose. Did that one man ever feel the weight of those six hundred souls upon his soul? Did it ever occur to him what a vast field he had there for doing good? And that, just as he did not the good, he did evil, even without limiting, as he did, the wages of those poor women to a pittance on which it was impossible, simply impossible, to live. No, surely no, for had the thought of this presented itself to him, he must have shrunk back, affrighted at the responsibility he took upon himself. Who shall attempt to sum up the evil given birth to and fostered through the wholesale wrongdoing of that one man? Who shall say how many more it shall reach, or how long it shall live? Into another generation, perhaps, perhaps longer. But if no mind of finite power can compute the dread account, there is one who can do the work, and who will do it. He will do it, because he has said so, and the great sum total brought up by him none can dispute. What a heavy reckoning this for one soul, God of might and justice, for one soul. The room into which Debbie Curtis and Hilda Ross were shown was so crowded that for many of the sowers there was no seat. 200 hands were here employed upon the making of wagon covers. These covers were fifteen feet in length, and ten feet in width, with a seam up the middle, and a finishing hem around the sides. Besides this there were ten eyelet holes. The price paid for the making of a wagon cover was twenty cents. The sewing of the heavy sailcloth, of which they were made, necessitated a palm thimble on the hand of the worker. That is, a strap passed around the right hand with a thimble upon the palm. With this instrument the sharp three-sided sail-needle was pressed through the cloth. Before they had been half an hour so employed, Debbie and Hilda found that it was becoming quite impossible for them much longer to continue. Not only was the pain inflicted by pressing through the great needle approaching the point of torture, but the muscles called into play by the effort were so weakened through the unwanted tax upon them that they refused longer to do duty, or did it so ineffectually that the work progressed at a snail's pace. Hours passed by and found the two hundred women and girls still busy at their work, silence upon every tongue, and a look of weariness and hopelessness upon every face. There was not here even the sound of the busy sewing machine to enliven the forced stillness. There was a tradition of a girl, she must have been a new hand, who one day attempted to sing at her work. How long the poor creature might have kept up a divertissement, which through its novelty in the place startled every worker in the room, it is quite impossible to say. For the foreman was not off duty, he never was, and he peremptorily hushed the song before it had progressed to the eighth bar. Still, it was something that a song had been attempted in that room. It was something to think about and to whisper about. Something, too, has a warning to any other, who in momentary forgetfulness of her woes and the iron rule under which she toiled, might be tempted to raise her voice in the stillness of working hours. By and by came round the hour of twelve, and benumbed in stiffened hands resigned the needle, and wearied and stiffened limbs changed their constrained position for an upright one. There was an hour of respite from labour, an hour in which the silence imposed upon speech might be suspended, and in which the exhausted frame might receive such refreshment as the small pay for its labour could procure. Of the two hundred sowers in the room one only continued to ply her needle, making no preparation for repast like the rest, never even so much as lifting her eyes upon the sounding of the hour or the stir made by her fellow labourers. She was a woman, apparently of some thirty odd years of age, of slight proportions and of peculiarly sad and subdued expression. She very soon attracted the notice of Debbie and Hilda, who, being strangers in the crowd, remained beside each other as they partook of their simple meal. You're wondering why she keeps on at her work? said a young girl near them. Yes, replied Debbie, surely she must be tired and want her dinner like the rest of us. Little doubt of that. But it's Martha Christie, and she's working so steadily to make her two covers a day. That, you see, will be the whole of forty cents to her. Such pay's bad enough for us girls. She added in a whisper, and with a glance around to make sure the foreman did not overhear. And every girl of us knows just how little way it goes. But it's worse still for poor Martha. She's a married woman, and her husband's off to the war, and she left with three small children. She managed to get along while he sent her money, though it was but little. But she's had no tidings of him since the Battle of Pittsburgh landing that he was in. He was down among the missing then, and she don't know to this day if he's dead or taken prisoner. She's entitled to her bounty whether he's dead or alive, but though she's applied for it, through some reason she can't get it. It would be two dollars a week to her, and that would help her a great deal. While as it is, she has to make the whole support herself for the four of them. She had better work than this some time ago, and work she could do at home too, which was well on account of the children, but she got sick and lost it, and now is glad to come to the sale loft. She's only been here a week, but she lives near us, so I knew her before. My mother keeps her children while she's from home, and took care of her too while she was sick. No one could help but want to do what they can for poor Martha Christie, but then we're poor enough ourselves and can't do much. She's only been making three covers in two days till now, but she's trying to day to get along faster. The truth is, she sees starvation staring them in the face, and is desperate. Poor thing, said Debbie and Hilda, in a breath. I wonder she doesn't apply to the parish, added Debbie. Surely a case like hers would be relieved. Perhaps she'd be willing, was the reply, for the spirit is pretty well taken out of her by all she has gone through, but then she made a promise to her husband never to throw herself on the parish while she could possibly make things hang together. He was a good mechanic, making good wages, and they lived quite comfortably only a year back, so though, of course, he didn't think of her getting so down as she is, he had a sort of pride to keep his family from being called poppers. Debbie had a good supply of biscuits with her, and taking some in her hand, she approached the persevering workwoman. Take some of my biscuits, she said. We're all eating, and you need it too. Martha paused and glanced up at the speaker. The look from those dim, hollow eyes haunted Debbie for long after. Thank you. I have something here. And Martha opened, in a quick nervous way, a little basket beside her. Only, I didn't want to take the time to eat it. While speaking, she hurriedly took from the basket an old crust of bread. It contained nothing else, and commenced to eat. Debbie silently laid a couple of her biscuits on the knee of the woman, and put the remainder into the now empty basket. Again Martha lifted her eyes to the girl's face. It was a dim, blank look that said nothing unless it was a little surprise that a stranger should trouble herself about her. Hilda, who stood near, noticed that she only ate the crust, putting the two biscuits Debbie had placed on her knee into the basket along with the others. She was sure she was reserving them for the poor children at home. Hilda also noticed that, having hurried through with her crust, Martha more than once glanced from the work she had resumed in the direction of the water, and believing she was reluctant to interrupt her sewing to go after some, the young girl brought to her a mug of it. She was repaid by such a look as the poor creature had twice bestowed upon Debbie, Martha drinking the contents of the mug so eagerly as to satisfy the donor how much she needed it. The day wore on, and the hour for closing up work came round. One after another the workers presented to the foreman their finished covers, which were severally examined and put aside, the inspector giving for each a ticket which entitled the holder to twenty cents. These tickets could any time be presented at the office, upon which the paying clerk would give for every one the sum named. All looked on with interest as poor Martha moved forward, dragging along her two covers, and we will believe there were few of her companions but rejoiced to see she had succeeded in completing them by the appointed hour. The foreman examined them as he had done the others. These won't do. He then carelessly said, returning them to her. They must be done over again to get you your tickets. Martha stood as though turned to stone. She had evidently not dreamed of such a result for her efforts. She had overlooked the possibility of losing all by attempting to do too much. Her stitches proved too long for the required measure, and the foreman, whose business it was to see that they were of the required measure, in his business-like way, rejected her work. Poor, poor thing! whispered Hilda to Debbie. How quite heartbroken she looks! Stand aside there and let others come up with their work. Said the foreman again, in his business-like way addressing Martha. And Martha took a hasty step, as though startled from a dream, and moved off with her two covers. What will you do? gently asked Debbie, who followed her to the place where she mechanically put them by. Rip them up and do them over again. There was a different tone now in the voice. Neither did the words come in the brisk way of before, but slowly and heavily the speaker's eyes bent not on Debbie, but on the two covers at her feet. More than double your work. What a pity! Yes. More than double. She turned from the covers and moved away. Debbie and Hilda, and not a few others, following with pitying eyes her fragile form, as she slowly left the sale loft. The two or three following days found Martha in her accustomed place, busily engaged in ripping and re-sewing the rejected covers. She spoke to no one, looked at no one, but devoted the midday respite to the accomplishment of her task, as she had done on the day of Debbie and Hilda first seeing her. Each day, however, the good-hearted Debbie slipped some of her biscuits into the little basket, which carried the poor crust designed for the laborer's dinner. The work was concluded at last, the forty cents were earned, and after that Martha's place was vacant in the sale loft. She is sick! replied the young girl who had spoken of her to the newcomers when questioned by them concerning her neighbour. The poor thing just used herself up on those two covers, and indeed she wasn't fit to be working when she was at them. She's in bed now, too ill to raise her head, or to know well what's doing around her, so her pushing for a living for this time's over. The neighbours have been doing the might they could, and they've given notice about her, so most likely tomorrow she'll be moved to the hospital, and the children put into the alms-house. Poor woman! How hard she has struggled against this very thing! She didn't want, with her children, to be paupers, you know. End of CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXI HEART SCALDS Drury indeed were Hilda's experiences at her present place of labour. When she returned home it was with her hands aching and bleeding from the painful pressure of the large three-sided needle and the wounds it otherwise inflicted. How completely were fading out the hopes in which she had sped to her new employment? Debbie gets along better than I do. She, one evening, said in a desponding tone to Mabel, She's a good bit bigger and stronger than I am, and her hands are almost twice the size. My hands are just good at nothing. They ain't big enough for heavy work, yet they can't move fast and neatly as I want them at other sorts. I wish I could find out what they are good for. I'm sure it hasn't turned up yet. Poor dear little hands! said Lily, caressing them with her own. How they're swelled and bruised! Worse, oh yes! Worse than they've been yet! I do wish, Mabel dear, Hilda mightn't go any more to that dreadful sale loft. I wish, too, she might never have to go again, dear Lily! replied Mabel. And really, Hilda, I do not see how you can go to-morrow. By forcing yourself to work with your hands in this condition you will eventually lose time. But I can't bear to give up! replied Hilda. They say, if you only keep steady to it, after a while the hands get hardened to it, and the right hand gets so horny in the palm it can feel nothing. They call it getting the hand palmed. Plenty of girls have their hands in this way. Their heart as can be, and all drawn crooked and gathered up, this way. And she distorted her hand to show the appearance given by the palming. Will you let her do it, Mabel dear? Lily said, will you let poor Hilda get her nice little hands all drawn up and hard like— Hilda checked the remainder by gently placing her left hand over the lips of the little girl. Of course she will, she replied, and of course I'd be only too glad to have it so. But there are many, many days between now and that comfortable condition of things, my little sister, and there's no jumping them neither. I've been looking at hands today that a year or so ago I'd have been foolish enough to cry if mine were like. But you may believe I'd be proud and happy to have these useless things like them now. I'm sure I'm glad they're not. rejoined Lily, ain't you, Mabel? aside as for a moment she paused in her work. I'd be happy, she said, if Hilda were not obliged to do anything hurtful to her hands. But we cannot always choose what we will do, my little Lily. Yes, Mabel dear, I know. Again said the little feeble voice from the bed. I know, only I had forgot. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, what dreadful thing it is to be poor. There are very much worse things, my darling. Yes, Mabel, to be ill and suffering is one of them. Maybe it wouldn't seem so very dreadful to me to know we're poor if I was all right in running about as I once was. But it's so tiresome to be all the time lying here. It makes everything seem the worst, you know. For another moment Mabel paused in her work, and her eyes filled with tears as she fixed them pittingly upon the little sufferer. But never mind, Mabel dear, said the affectionate child. It's not so very, very tiresome and sometimes you know, I feel almost easy and that makes up for the rest. The worst thing is to see you working so hard and to know I'm all the time giving you trouble. But little Lily was not always so thoughtful for her sister. The unfavorable change which had taken place in her condition had, in a measure, warped the evenness of her temper. Constant suffering, of a greater or less degree, had the effect of rendering her, at times, fretful and impatient, uncertain in her wishes, and even a little selfish in her exactions. Mabel understood too well the condition of the poor child to be surprised at this. And when, at moments of comparative ease, Lily would remorsefully reproach herself for her want of consideration for one so kind to her, it became the sister's task to soothe and to forgive. For Lily was not satisfied but to have her say she forgave, and to encourage, as she best could, to future patience. The next morning Hilda found her hands so painfully sensitive to the slightest touch that she was obliged to absent herself from her working place. Some good shall come of my having to give up, she said to Mabel. You must take a walk in this clear morning air, Mabel, while I look to Lily. You're looking so pale and thin as I never saw you yet, and the exercise will do you good. Really, you have had nothing to call a walk for these three or four weeks. Mabel sighed. It was a habit growing on her to sigh, lest it appeared from depression of spirits than from physical fatigue. I scarcely think I can take the time, she replied, with a wistful glance through the window at the bright blue sky. If I keep steady at these vests, I may get the remainder of this second dozen finished by evening, and I am wanting the money so badly. I never heard you say before that you are quite without money, Mabel, and Hilda looked anxiously at the face her sister bent over the buttonholes she was making. I do not consider that I am without it now, said Mabel, since there are some dollars so nearly owing me on the vests. But you can understand, I am anxious to get them done. I am owing for the last tea, and debt you know is a thing I make every effort to avoid. I know, Mabel, for you have deprived yourself of many things I thought essential to avoid it. Well, it has come at last, or rather, I should say it threatens to come. But if I can get my vests finished, I shall be able to pay the debt before night and get more tea, for the last will not last through tomorrow, nor will the sugar. I am glad we have given them up, cried Hilda, at least that I have, for you ought to take tea, Mabel, you sit up working nights, and have scarcely any exercise, and you need it more than at any time yet. I can do without it, was the quiet reply. You and I will go share and share together, dear Hilda. But lightly as she took the resigning of her tea, it was a grave privation to Mabel. It was a refreshment that the over-tasked frame needed, especially when most of the night hours had been passed at the sewing machine, or in some household labour that the day work had left no moment for. There was a feature attending its resigning to, which caused Mabel no small embarrassment. This was the necessity of concealing the fact from Lily. It had been the child's delight to have her dear Mabel take her cup of hot tea at the time she took her own, and she could not understand why her sister should now, as she said, prefer to take it at some other time. You used to say it was sweeter to take it along with your little Lily. She would reproachfully remark, and now you let her take hers all alone, and it don't taste half so good. Mabel had no recourse under such home thrusts but to engage the child's attention on something else. Make God, in his goodness, enable me still to provide such comforts for her. In her own heart the poor girl would say, I can bear up under every trial, but to see her want. That evening, which was Saturday, the vests were completed. Mabel carried them home, and having received the money due her, hastened to liquidate her debt and procure the articles needful for Lily on the coming Sunday. Again she had a few dollars in hand, and again was free from debt. And her sleep that night, and the rest of the next day, were sweeter for the knowledge. The rest of two days for her hands permitted Hilda to recommence work upon Monday, with little inconvenience but what she had suffered upon the first day. With every day after that she found herself getting more accustomed to the necessary exertion, and proudly said to Mabel, she believed her hands were growing larger and stronger, and would, by and by, be all she wished them. One morning, not more than three hours after leaving home, she suddenly presented herself before Mabel again, her left hand wrapped in bandages, and a look of intense distress upon her countenance. Home so soon, Hilda? exclaimed Mabel, and hurt I fear my poor sister. Yes, hurt again, Mabel! With her free hand, Hilda pulled off and threw aside her hat, in the impatient way she was apt to do when out of spirits and out of humor. One of those great, spiky, three-sided needles ran into my palm, and made such a dreadful hurt I nearly fainted. She continued. Debbie Curtis was so kind, but then she always is. She stopped her own work, and took me round to a doctor, and he dressed it for me. He says it's a serious hurt, and he can't say yet exactly how bad it will be, and that I must keep it quiet as possible, and come to him every morning to have it looked to. It hurts me so, you can't think, Mabel, and yet it has a strange numb feeling too. I am sorry for you, my poor sister. It must indeed be very painful. Oh, I'm not thinking about the hurt a bit. Quickly rejoined, Hilda. It's the loss of time and money goes so hard with me. I've been earning a mere drop in the bucket anyway, and now I'm forced to give up that little help to you. I've got sixty cents somewhere in my pocket, she added, fumbling for it, and that's the last, maybe, I shall be able to earn for a week or more. There it is, laying the money on the sewing machine before her sister. If it were sixty dollars, Mabel, I'd be the happiest girl this day in Chicago, but it's only a mean sixty cents, and I'm—I'm the most miserable. Thank you, dear Hilda, kindly said Mabel, as she took up the money. Sixty cents is a good deal to us, you know, much more than sixty dollars to many another. And what, after all, is sixty dollars or sixty dollars sixty times told? To what is really ours, if we could get it? Suddenly exclaimed Hilda. If justice were justice and right, right, there'd be no need for your toiling this day, Mabel, or for poor little Lily being kept to her injury in this neighborhood of stagnant ponds and pig-sties. Mabel gave a glance to the bed, where her little patient lay under partial effective morphine, then a cautioning look at Hilda. Don't let us trouble ourselves about justice or right, Hilda, she said. The law gives us no more than we have, and we must be content. You think I mean the business of the endorsement. Hastily rejoined Hilda, but you don't know. I meant—she paused a moment, then added, in a different tone. Well, anyway, we didn't make the law any more than we did people's notions of justice and right, and we can't change one or the other. But I have news for you, Mabel. Something we haven't looked for. Bad news, of course. I never have any other sort. Debbie Curtis is going to leave Chicago. Going to live with her aunt in St. Louis. Mabel expressed her regret. Yes, to-morrow's her last day in the sale loft. Continued Hilda. A sister of her aunt has died in St. Louis, and the husband wants someone to look after the house and children and to help in his dry-good store. Debbie and her aunt will take charge of all between them. It's a good thing for Debbie, for she's almost worked to death at bars. But a mighty bad thing for me. It's nothing but Debbie has kept up my spirits at that horrid sale loft, and I don't know what I shall do without her. Be self-reliant, Hilda. You know you made strong resolutions on this point some time since. The hurt turned out a very ugly affair, and gave no promise of permitting Hilda very soon to return to her work. She made herself useful in such ways as she could to Mabel. But, with the use of one hand only, her services were not of the sort to reconcile her to the temporary abandonment of her sewing. Had Mabel been able to procure as many vests as she now found time to make, she would have been less anxious concerning the future. But though Hilda exerted herself to the utmost to keep her in a good supply, she frequently had to give her time and labour to work which did not compensate her so well. One certain fact was ever before Mabel. Money, at times, went out so much faster than it came in that there was prospect of her being, before a very great while, reduced to that dreaded last dollar of which Hilda talked so much. Still her heart clung, in its strong faith, to a hope of better things for them, and many were the fervid prayers she sent up to him whose ear is never closed to the cry of the orphan and friendless. One thing only had power to move the devoted girl from the steady, though subdued cheerfulness which was her customary tone, and this was the suffering of her little lily. The poor child's spells of pain had not only increased in violence, but were more frequent and of longer duration. It was plain to be seen, too, that her frame, enfeebled by disease, was daily becoming less able to bear up under the exhausting effect of suffering. There were seasons when Hilda did not need to be reminded by a glance or a word, that it was no time for repining or impatience, or for that free expression of foreboding fears, in which she not unfrequently indulged. Past and future must needs be forgotten in the present, when the delicate form of the scarcely more than infant sister writhed on its bed of agony, and when the pale lips sent forth cries for that relief that the loving ones could not give. One afternoon Hilda returned dispirited from a search after work for Mabel. I am sorry you could get nothing but these shirts, Mabel said. A good supply of vests, like that of two weeks since, would have kept off some difficulties which are on us now. Her tongue was one that Hilda seldom heard from her, and a look in her face proved that she had been weeping. I see, I know it all, replied Hilda. You have come to the last dollar at last, Mabel, and we are beggars. Oh, poor, poor Lily! Thank God, not beggars, Hilda, but I have indeed come to the last dollar so long talked of. Indeed, the one I have remaining is due our grocer and baker, and we are again without tea and sugar for Lily, and bread for us all. Poor Lily's medicines are nearly exhausted too, and this terrible cold has been so expensive on fires that a new supply of coal will be needed in a few days. In another week our third month's rent falls due, as you know, and that is a matter that admits of no delay. Hilda was looking very pale. And you have but one dollar, Mabel. Only one dollar. And you have seen it coming to this, Mabel, and you wouldn't even talk about it. You wouldn't let me know how near it was. And why should I? Would it have done you any good to know how near it was, my sister? But now has come the time to act, and that is why I speak to you. How act, Mabel, what can you do? I will get money on the watch, Hilda. Yes, yes, the thing that poor Mini saved us from months ago, but how dreadful to have to sell it. I shall not sell it, Hilda, though that too might have become a very possible thing with us. I only propose to get some money by putting it in pawn. Hilda's ideas of putting in pawn were very vague, and it is likely Mabel's were scarcely less so. But it was a plan the latter had long thought of, and that she saw was now the only one to get her through her difficulty. Pawning is a very different thing from selling, of course, Mabel, said Hilda, looking considerably encouraged. If a thing sold you can never get it again, while if it's only pawned, why? If only pawned, it can at any time be redeemed. I'm grieved to have to do this, Hilda. I feel no better reconciled to it for all these months I've been thinking of it. But how much worse it would be to have to part with the watch altogether. I shall put on my things, and go about it at once. The hat and cloak were soon put on, and then Mabel took from its place above Lily's pillow, being careful not to attract the attention of the child, the valued watch, and carefully wrapping it up, deposited it in a small box. She looked so composed as she did this, that anyone might have believed it was a matter in which she felt but ordinary concern. But Hilda knew better, and as she looked from the pale cheek of her sister to the little box she still held uncovered in her hand, she felt no less for her than for herself. Lifting the watch from the box, as Mabel was about to put on the cover, Hilda pressed it to her lips and then burst into tears. Don't take it so hard, my sister, whispered Mabel, in a voice scarcely so calm as her looks. We shall see it again, you know. We shall have it our own again. But when, oh Mabel, if I could only bear up under things as you do. She returned the watch to the box, and Mabel presently covered it from view. Lily is so nearly sleeping, said the latter, after a look at the still form of the child, that if you are perfectly quiet she will not be roused before I get back. I shall bring with me the medicine, for she will need it through the night. Denying herself the gratification of a kiss for fear of waking her, Mabel left the room for her visit to the pawnbrokers. End of Chapter XXII. Mabel had sometimes since decided upon the place to which she would go when the hour arrived for disposing of her watch. The store of her selection was upon Clark Street, and at such times as she found herself in its neighbourhood she had passed by it and gazed with interest into the window or door, perhaps even halting a while at the former, comforting herself with the belief that by making herself so well acquainted with the place there would be little embarrassment in visiting it on business. Notwithstanding all these preludes, however, when the hour of positive action arrived she found herself timid and agitated in the extreme, and when she actually got to the store such a trembling came over her that she saw she should never accomplish her object in the confidence and composure she believed necessary. Passing slowly by the door she looked in. Through the glass she perceived the proprietor of the store engaged with a customer, and seeing it was no time for her to enter she passed on. Having gone the length of a square or two she turned and began to retrace her steps. A young gentleman was approaching at no great distance, and it appeared to her he was regarding her with more than ordinary attention. As they neared and passed each other she became satisfied this was the case and she was both annoyed and embarrassed by the scrutiny he bestowed upon her. Her mind was too deeply set on the business she had at hand however to retain thought of this after the stranger had gone by, and she proceeded again to the pawnbrokers, taking a look through the glass in passing as she had done before. The visitor was still there, and she passed on to the window thinking to remain there awhile or even to stay till she should find the proprietor alone. But few persons were passing and she therefore felt comparatively little concern as to attracting attention. With her heart painfully beating she gazed abstractedly upon the various articles of jewellery and other matters on exhibition feeling so little disposition to move away that she believed she would remain were at a half hour till she should see the wished four coming forth of the persevering visitor. How long she waited she could not tell, it seemed to her a very long time, but still he did not come, and, discomposed by several persons who ranged themselves beside her at the window, Mabel moved off and turned the corner to while away a longer time. About fifty feet around the other street she found herself face to face with the young gentleman she had before met. This time he not only attentively regarded her but touched his hat as to an acquaintance. Mabel slightly returned the salutation with a faint remembrance of his features as she hurried past. The next moment she found him again at her side and accosting her. I see, Miss Ross, you scarcely recognize me. He said, my name is Barrett, Ralph Barrett. Mabel bowed again. She now remembered this young Ralph Barrett, though she had been in his company but a very few times. His father was the man, by endorsing for whom, Mr. Ross had brought to poverty his wife and children. I knew you in a moment, Miss Ross, continued young Ralph. Though it has been over two years since we met. I have no right to expect you to remember me, however, with a side long glance at the beautiful face beside him. Since, in remembering me, you must remember so much which it would be well had never happened. Mabel was surprised both at the words and the tone in which they were spoken. Such entire wantive feeling for the affliction of her family had been shown by the parents of the young man that she was unprepared for this evidence of it in himself. Her few words of reply were so constrained, however, that her companion could not but perceive that his presence was unwelcome and embarrassing. Mabel's eyes were upon her own well-worn boots and coarse dress, and these formed so strong a contrast to the shining apparel of young Ralph that she felt herself strangely out of place beside him. A consciousness, too, of the errand on which she was bent made her feel yet more uncomfortably than she otherwise would have done. A very few words more passed between them, and Mabel then bade him a hurried adieu and turned back to the pawnbrokers. The store was now, to all appearance, empty, and Mabel unhesitatingly went in. She had glanced once or twice about her and taken her stand at the counter, before she perceived a man sitting behind it. The seat on which he rested being so low that the top of his head and his eyes only were above the counter. The appearance of the man was not one to inspire confidence or ease, and Mabel felt embarrassed as to how she should open her business with him. She produced her little box and, having opened it, laid it upon the counter, her heart beating so violently that she could scarcely breathe. The man gave a sharp look at her, then arose and took the watch from the box and examined it carefully both within and without. How much you want on this watch? he asked, fixing his sharp eye a second time upon the young girl. As much as I can get. I am in great need of the money, or I wouldn't think of parting with my watch. Another sharp look. I will give fifteen dollar on it. Mabel's heart seemed suddenly to have ceased beating and became a weight in her breast. The amount named was less by a half than she had looked to get, and as in the brief moment of her silence her thoughts summed up the various present necessities to be covered and the early future ones unprovided for, she arrived at the terrible conclusion that, could she make no better bargain than the one offered her, she would in a very few weeks be again at her last dollar. Oh, give me more than that. In a sort of desperation she cried. It is a valuable watch. I know my father gave more than one hundred dollars for it, and I need money so much. Can't you let me have twenty, twenty-five? The man smiled, or rather distorted his features in a manner intended for a smile, then rejoined. That too much entirely. Fifteen is all I can say. The watch is an old watch and need repair. Fifteen is very much for it. Mabel was about assuring him that it was not five years since the watch was purchased, and that it must be in good condition, as it kept excellent time, when a voice beside her interrupted it to say, Let me speak to you one minute, Miss Ross. It was Mr. Ralph Barrett, who had entered the store very soon after herself, and heard what passed between her and the pawnbroker. Mabel looked for a moment upon the face that expressed so much kindly interest, then took up the watch and retired with young Ralph to the step of the store. Excuse me, Miss Ross, I followed you in. He hastily said, I thought there was something like this, and knowing you must be quite inexperienced, I wished to guard you from imposition. Your father's watch. And a look of deep pity came over the speaker's handsome features. If I could but persuade you to let me be the holder of it. Twenty-five dollars was the sum you named. I would be happy to place it at your disposal. The watch is as safe with me as with this man. May I not say safer? Mabel's heart gave a great bound. The sound of twenty-five dollars was sweet to her. She was almost overpowered to find it so unexpectedly within her reach, after her crushing disappointment of a few minutes before. While he spoke, her eyes had been fixed upon those of young Barrett, and she felt that a grateful look had come into her own. A look which expressed her happy relief and her faith in his kindly feeling. Still she hesitated. Young Ralph was so much a stranger to her. Was it altogether right to accept this service at his hands? He evidently read her thought, for he hastened to say, Remember the peculiar circumstances of the case, Miss Ross, the indebtedness of our family, your own misfortunes. Mabel looked up again. You are kind, she said, and my necessities are great. She was about to place the box with the watch in his hand, when a trifling circumstance caused her to pause. It was a very trifling circumstance, merely a suspicion of a smile which turned the corners of Mr. Ralph's lip. But, slight as it was, it changed the whole current of Mabel's thoughts and feelings. I thank you, she said rather coldly. She feared too much so. But since I must part with the watch, I prefer to do it in the way I proposed. She moved to re-enter the store. Pray reflect again, Miss Ross. This man takes undue advantage of you. You suffer yourself to be imposed upon. To be open to imposition is one of the misfortune's attending poverty, Mr. Barrett. Mabel rejoined a little bitterness in her tone, and with these words she returned to the store. She did not know if young Ralph had departed. She only knew he did not again follow her in, and she laid the box once more open upon the counter. You will take the fifteen dollar, said the pawnbroker, again taking out the watch and again examining it. Yes, if you will give me no more. But I know it is very little for a watch like that. It is good deal, more nor another would give. And he began to count out the money. I can't tell. I have no time to inquire further, said Mabel. I will take your offer. The sum named was given her, and also a little red ticket, with a number on it corresponding with one he fastened upon the watch, and Mabel left the store. She left it with such different feelings than she had gone in. She was no longer agitated and trembling, but calmly self-possessed. She was indeed carrying home with her but half the sum she had expected to receive. But she was grateful for this, little as it was. Grateful because she had gotten it in a way that laid her open to no unlooked for embarrassment. Grateful that she escaped what might have been a great evil. Poverty was bitter. To part with the watch, so precious to her as the legacy of her mother, was one of the bitter parts of her poverty. But she seemed to recognize at this minute, more fully than she had ever yet done, how much bitterer evils there were to contend with than these. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Of Mabel Ross, The Sewing Girl. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 24 Domestic Accounts Taking her tone from Mabel, who returned in considerably better spirits than she had left, Hilda concluded to be satisfied with the result of her sister's visit. Fifteen dollars is something, even for a hundred dollar watch, when it's only advanced on it, she remarked, and it's a good deal for us to have nowadays. What will it do, Mabel? I mean, how long will it last? Well, to begin with, it will pay for Lily's medicines. See, I have brought them along with me. Then it will buy us four dollars worth of coal, and pay for the hauling and putting in. Get half a pound of tea and a pound of sugar for Lily, and then, by paying half our bill to the grocer and baker, they will be satisfied with that for a while. It leaves us enough for bread and potatoes for us all, for a week ahead, and still seven dollars for the coming month's rent, and a few shillings over. Is that doing pretty well, Mabel? Hilda asked, with some doubt in her voice. It is doing the best we can, Hilda. I went over it all two or three times as I was coming home, and it doesn't seem to me I can do better. The coal will last over four weeks, won't it? Quite four weeks, even if this intense cold continues. Then there will be tea and sugar for Lily for that long. And the rent won't be due for a week, and after that we have a whole month's respite. Yes, and that, after all, is the great thing. And Mabel drew a long breath. The thought of our landlord having to come to us has been a sort of nightmare to me, Hilda. And no wonder, the old skin-flint. I'd rather face a mad dog almost than have that old brumbly come here and the money not ready for him. Anyhow, that's a trouble we haven't had yet. And we will trust in God we never shall have, Hilda. Then Lily's medicines will last some time, Mabel? Yes, two weeks if she gets no worse, poor darling. And bread and potatoes for us all for—for how long did you say? For a week. I shall not count on the few shillings left us either for bread or potatoes, as they will be wanted for something for Lily. Only one week, Mabel? And Hilda looked pale. That is all my sister. And after that, where are we, Mabel? You scarcely able to get work and eye not earning a penny? After that, Hilda, we are in the hands of God as we are now. Yes, of course, but still we must look to ourselves or else we shall starve. We will look to ourselves the best we are able, and leave the rest to him who provided manna in the wilderness for his people and sent ravens to feed his prophets. Yes, Mabel, I know all about that, but in these days miracles ain't performed for the best believers, and I'd rather not depend on the chances. All we need can be furnished us without intervention of miracles, Hilda, and I trust it will be. Have more faith, my sister. Faith is all very well, Mabel, but I do so crave to feel certain of things. Oliver Cromwell didn't have much faith when he said to his soldiers, Trust in God and keep your powder dry. He had faith and proved it by those words. He meant that God would only help those who exerted themselves to use the means of aid he placed in their way. We keep our powder dry, Hilda, when we strive our best to get work, and getting it do it speedily and well and when we take the best care of the little means that come to our hands. Meanwhile, our trust must be in God, and the firmer our trust, the more he will love and aid us. I haven't done all that I can to keep our powder dry, suddenly exclaimed Hilda. What have I been about? I've been a dunce. Here I've been stupidly putting off and putting off and dreaming about it, when there's a good turn I might make that would set us all right in a day, in an hour. Mabel looked in surprise at her sister, who had now risen, and was moving uneasily about the room. I can do it, cried Hilda, I can, and I will. A good, bold stroke is the thing needed, and I'll make it. Yes, I've made up my mind, she added, suddenly confronting Mabel. I'll go, to-morrow, to Cousin Algin. Mabel gravely shook her head. If that be what you propose, Hilda, you may save yourself the trouble, she said. Cousin Algin will do nothing for us. How do you know, Hilda quickly asked, you haven't tried her? Yes, I have. Knowing that you had not gone to her when you went elsewhere for work, I went a short time since myself. I took the watch along, thinking she might be willing to lend me something on it, as it was mother's. She misunderstood. Before I could get time to explain clearly my purpose, she conceived the impression I had come to, to beg. She said it was against her principles to give money, and that if she had happened to have work it would have been another thing, but she hadn't any. Of course I explained everything, and then she said she was very sorry. So that is the result of my visit. Just like her, petulantly exclaimed Hilda, she's a mean, selfish, niggly woman and hasn't the soul of a flea. But I'm not going to beg of her, Mabel, the thought of my begging of Cousin Algin. No, Mabel, I'm going to demand of her. I'm going to face her out in a way that, if she has the least spark of conscience left her, will carry my point for me. What will you demand, Hilda, and what is the point you would carry? Mabel put the question with considerable uneasiness, regarding the while the excited countenance of her sister. I can't tell you, Mabel, it's my secret, the same I've had so long, and that I told you once I'd say no more about till the time had come for acting. It hasn't come in the way I hoped yet. I've not been able to make it come, but it's full time to try something in the business, and I'm going to begin to-morrow. I would rather you wouldn't, Hilda, Mabel said. You may offend Cousin Algin. What harm would it do us if she were offended? Rather sharply asked, Hilda, is she any help to us, or does she feel a snap of her finger for us? For my part, I'd rather have her offended than pleased, though it's not my thought to offend her, and you'll find she's not offended a bit. No, no, that ain't Cousin Algin. She'll be soft as a cat with her claws covered, and she'll try to fight me off in her sly, cat-like way. But I wouldn't wonder if I were too much for her, for all that, and if I am, oh, Mabel, what bright, bright days will be coming for us! Mabel gravely regarded the speaker. Hilda was the one of her sisters whom she could never wholly understand, and she was at a loss to conjecture now whether she was only giving way to some fanciful whim, or whether she had ground on which to build such expectations as she hinted at. For a moment, Hilda met the look as gravely as it was given, then burst into such a merry laugh as Mabel had not heard from her for long. Catching the latter round the waist, she imprinted a kiss upon either cheek. Keep up, Mabel dear, keep up! she cried. I'm not the crazy girl you think, but a righty-ditey sane one, and I tell you, it's all going to come right now. We'll have back the watch. We'll have all we need, and we'll know how to enjoy all good things as we never did before. She kissed her sister again, then took a dancing step or two across the floor, clapping her hands in great delight. Kiss me too, Hilda dear! said a little voice from the bed. I love so to hear you laugh. I love to see you kiss Mabel. Yes, darling, I didn't know you were awake, and Hilda hurried to the side of the bed. Bending over the little pale face, she pressed kiss after kiss upon it. I've been awake ever so long, said the child. I heard you telling Mabel about good days coming for us, and about getting back the watch. I didn't mean to tell Mabel I knew it was gone, and how it was gone, but now you say it's coming back again. I'm so glad. I'll miss its tick tick over the bed like anything tonight. For when I'm awake, it's such nice company for me, and it seems to be saying all the time, mother's watch, mother's watch. I love it a good bit better than the sewing machine, because it's so much quieter in its going, and never makes me feel a throbbing at my back like the sewing machine does now. Mabel's eyes filled with tears. She had not thought of the little monitor being missed in this way, and it saddened her. We will all be happy to have dear mother's watch back again, Lily, she said, and we will have it back. Only we mustn't look for it very, very soon, but it is safe where it is, and we can talk about it till it comes back again. Then it won't be tomorrow, Mabel? In a disappointed tone. No, my darling, I fear not possibly so soon as tomorrow. Lily sighed. A little patient sigh it was, and eloquent in expressing how very much to her was the comparatively small matter of the absence of the watch from its accustomed place. But it will tick all the same, won't it? she presently asked. Yes, darling, it will tick in its little box, just the same as when it hung over your head. I'm glad to hear that, returned the child. I'm so glad to know it won't be still like a dead thing, because it's away from us. And maybe I can fancy I hear it too, and that will be the next thing to having it here. How like you she is, Mabel, said Hilda, making the best of everything. Dear child, if it were only to get back the watch for her little fancies, I'd face cousin Algen tomorrow with a lion's heart. But it's for more than that, a good deal more, and I'll never flinch from it. You'll see how I'll keep my powder dry, Mabel, you'll see. Chapter 25 How Hilda Keeps Her Powder Dry At an early hour of the following morning, Hilda presented herself at the residence of Mrs. Kingsley. That lady was in her sitting-room, and at her request, Hilda was shown into her. I knew you'd come to see me at last, Hilda. She said, coming forward pleasantly to meet her. I was telling Mabel the other day, that with all your odd freakishness, you're such a good girl at heart, that I was sure you wouldn't be ugly with me long. I'm a straight up-and-down girl, cousin Algen, if I'm nothing else, gravely replied Hilda. And so I think it's but right to say that, coming in the way I do, I don't feel I ought to take your hand. If you'd give it to me after a bit, I mean, when I'm going, and in the way I'd like, I'll be right pleased to take it. There is but one way I know of to give and take a hand, Hilda. Mildly rejoined the lady, and that is in kindness and good understanding. I can't be a hypocrite, cousin Algen. Said the young girl, I've come to you on business that will be anything but pleasant to you, and I must say so. Mrs. Kingsley opened wide her pale gray eyes, with no look of offence, however, at the plain spoken manner of her visitor. And what prey may this business be? she asked. Can you not guess, cousin Algen? I might guess it is on the errand Mabel came the other day. Was the reply? Only it's not like you, you're so high-spirited. No more is it like Mabel, quickly returned Hilda. She told you you were mistaken, that she didn't come to beg, she wanted work, cousin Algen, work, that she'd have toiled over day and night, thinking nothing of the sacrifice of rest and health, mind you? Thinking of nothing but the making of a little money to keep off starvation from us all, but mostly from our poor suffering Lily, who is this day as helpless as when a babe in the arms. Then she thought maybe you'd give her a little money on mother's watch, so she needn't take it to a stranger. For it was needful money should come somehow. Yes, poor girl, she explained to me about the watch, said Mrs. Kingsley, and it really made me feel extremely sad, but since it had to be done, it was as well it should be done in the hands of a stranger as in mine. With me it could have been no matter of business but of charity, no, not charity, but assistance, and when I do anything of that sort, I like it to stand under its own name. There would have been nothing like charity about it, cousin Algen, said Hilda warmly, had the money lent not been returned, the watch would have been yours. It wouldn't have done, my dear, mildly returned Mrs. Kingsley, and for reasons that I will not hurt your feelings by mentioning, and to be frank with you, Hilda, which I know is what you like. I was much surprised at learning Mabel was in such difficulty. It appears to me, even with all possible allowances made for her youth and inexperience, that there must be some unhappy leaning to extravagance, since she has not done better with the fair start she had. Your poor father had somewhat this leaning in his youth, and it doesn't seem impossible it may have descended to his children. Mabel, extravagant, exclaimed Hilda, surely cousin Algen, you cannot think it. There are few, even years older than she is, who could have made out so well under such difficulties. I don't mean anything unkind of Mabel, rejoined the cousin, for I think her a most estimable young woman. Still, it can't be denied she has made little of the advantages she has had. That place at the sewing machine rooms, for instance, with eight and nine dollars a week. That place would have enabled her to keep herself and little Lily in decent comforts, cousin Algen, but you know how she lost it. Through that terrible accident to poor Lily, she had to give up everything for a time but attending to her. And even after that, Mabel could have done well if she'd have been able to get plenty of work and at decent prices. But poor girl, it's been a hard struggle for her all the time. The struggle wasn't helped by your adding one to the family, Hilda. As far as I can learn, you have not been making your expenses to Mabel. But I've tried my best and Mabel knows it, said Hilda, her face flushing. And she never said anything like you've said cousin Algen, for it's not like her. She didn't say it. I merely gathered it from her answers to my questions. I referred to the fact simply to remind you how much better it would have been to keep a good home when you had it, Hilda. I did my best to keep my promise made to your dear mother. And you cannot justly say you had cause to leave me. I can justly say it, cousin Algen, and it is to talk about that very thing I've come to-day. Only what you said about Mabel being extravagant put me off of it for a time. I've been thinking a good deal about little Lily since Mabel's telling me how poorly she is, interrupted Mrs. Kingsley, looking across Hilda's shoulder to the clock on the mantel. And as I've been wanting to come and see her I'd return with you now, only I have an engagement with a friend which I cannot possibly put off. It is very near eleven now, and she will be looking for me. Hilda made not the slightest movement to go, though she well understood the lady's hint. I thought to have been through with all I had to say by this time, she remarked, but cannot leave cousin Algen till it is said. I want to tell you why I went away from you three months ago. Do you remember the evening of the Fourth of July when you walked with cousin Hugh in the garden? I was in the summer house, you didn't know, and I heard every word that you said. Hilda watched Mrs. Kingsley's countenance closely as she said these words. She believed she saw a paling of her features and a trembling of the hand which rested on the back of the lounge where her cousin sat. But the room was shaded by heavy window curtains, and the flickering of the firelight might readily have deceived her. Indeed, as the young girl had positively made up her mind that her communication must cause considerable emotion to her auditor, it was not surprising if her fancy misled her to any point. And what did you hear, child? asked her cousin, in a tone that portrayed no agitation, whatever she might have felt. So far as I remember there was nothing said which you or anyone else might not have heard. You talked about the paper, cousin Algen, so I know the whole story. I know enough to demand right and justice at your hand and at cousin Hugh's for father's children almost starving for food, his baby Lily, needing even the pure air which is life and the only chance of life for her. Before I left home, cousin Algen, I said I would demand this justice of you. But I now humbly ask it only, giving you a chance to do this good and sensible thing of your own free will. Oh, cousin, cousin, think of us, three poor girls this cold dreary day, suffering and friendless. Think of the bright Christmas time coming, yet no Christmas for us. Think of the unhappy time poor Mabel has gone through since dear mother's death, toiling her young life away, losing health and strength and for what. Why, far as herself goes, for merely the crust to eat, the poor roof over her head, a little fire to keep from freezing and almost rags to cover her. Think of our little Lily, confined to a bed of suffering, with scarcely the comforts necessary to keep body and soul together. Think what agony to dear Mabel, to have no power to give her such things as would, in part at least, make her time less weary some and less miserable. Think, I say, of all this cousin Algen, and knowing what you know, how, if things were as they should be, we would this day have plenty and to spare. Do a simple act of right to those so nearly connected with you. The past shall be forgotten, cousin. We will receive at your hands almost as a gift, what has been so long withheld, and what you can so well spare. We will receive it thankfully, gratefully. Hilda had risen while speaking, and stood before her cousin, tears streaming over her cheeks, and that pleading in her gestures which expressed itself in her words and tone. A strange contrast to the excitement of the young girl was presented by the appearance and bearing of the lady, as she sat in the corner of her lounge, an expression of surprise on her features, nothing more. Strange infatuated girl! she said, looking with something like pity upon her young cousin. How completely have fancy and your strange temper carried you away. What quirk has taken possession of you, I cannot even imagine. But if you do not quickly become more rational, you are likely to pass for one bereft of reason. Hilda, my dear, I am your friend, much as you seem to doubt it, and my advice to you is good. Go home quietly to Mabel, and keep yourself composed as possible for the remainder of the day. See no one else, talk to no one else, while you are in this strange condition. Mabel is sensible, she is rational, she would never encourage an outbreak like this. While Mrs. Kingsley spoke, Hilda had made a great effort for composure, and it was in a voice almost as calm as her cousin's own, she now said. Then cousin, you refuse to do us this act of justice. You will see us struggling on as in the past. You will look quietly on while worse days than we have yet known come for us. You have put it out of my power to aid you in any way, Hilda. I will not have it said I was threatened into charity by a crazy girl. Hilda's forced composure was at an end. It was with flashing eyes she now confronted her cousin. You don't think me crazy, she said. You know this minute I'm sane as girl ever was. And cousin Algen, since you will not give us what is our own, it shall be given to us by the hand of the law. Go home, you say, and see no one but patient, enduring Mabel. On the contrary, I leave you to make my statement to one of the first lawyers of this city, and before night the first step will probably be taken toward obliging you to a simple act of decency and right. You will be stigmatized as a mad woman, miserable girl, returned Mrs. Kingsley. What lawyer in his senses will credit so absurd a statement as you seem to hint at? Any will all must, replied Hilda. Oh yes they must, it is the truth and truth will speak for itself. And cousin Algen, how have you courage to stand boldly by falsehood, a falsehood that robs poor orphans of their heritage? You have four little children, the same number that, with us, God has seen fit to leave without parents and friends. Do you not fear that in his retributive justice he may put a blight upon your children, that he may deprive them of father and mother and throw them friendless and penniless upon a cold world? Or do you not fear he may take them from you, one by one, leaving you to see, when too late, that you have parted with them for gold? God has said he will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, cousin Algen, and so surely, as you persevere in this great wrong, he will visit it upon those you prize most dearly. Oh yes, he will do it! Mrs. Kingsley had risen, and her manner denoted an impatience which was surely to put an end to this strange interview. But her cheek was very pale, and there was no longer doubt that she trembled. You must leave me, Hilda, she said. I have strong nerves, but I really cannot bear more of this excited language. Most persons would be unforgivingly incensed at a young girl taking with them such a tone as this. But I can only pity you. Pity you sincerely. Go home, my poor girl. A little reflection will I trust bring you to reason. I am not at all angry with you, Hilda. Not at all. I only pity you. Pity you from my heart. Hilda walked to the door. With her hand upon the knob she turned once more to her cousin. I have made up my mind what to do, cousin Algen, she said, but only if I'm driven to it. Will you take a day to talk over the matter with cousin Hugh? He may think differently about it from what you do. Mrs. Kingsley smiled, as she might have smiled on the folly of a little child. I would willingly take a day to consult with my husband, she replied, but not in the way you propose. And to let you think so will be to fix you more unhappily in your strange hallucinations. If you are bent on rushing madly to your own exposure, you must do so. I cannot stay you. The exposure won't touch me, cousin Algen, and besides I'm only a poor sewing girl that goes through a good deal. When it touches persons of the high respectability of cousin Hugh Kingsley and his wife, why, of course, it is quite another thing. With these words, delivered with an odd mixture of humility and dignity, Hilda closed herself out in the hall, and in a minute after had quitted her cousin's house. End of Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI A legal friend. Hilda had no thought of returning home until her purpose of the morning was accomplished. It was no vain threat she had made to her cousin, and she proceeded forthwith to put it into execution, well satisfied that this second visit would accomplish all she had so far failed in. She had no difficulty in determining what legal gentleman to consult, a certain Mr. Dunfield, an old friend of her father's, being the person she considered most suitable, Mr. Dunfield was home and received her in his private office. He remembered her well and spoke to her kindly, so much so that Hilda, encouraged to speak freely, had, in a few minutes, poured forth her tale to his ear. The gentleman listened with much apparent interest, not offering interruption by a word even of question. I know nothing about lawyer's fees, Mr. Dunfield, said Hilda in conclusion, and have nothing to pay you with now, but when the matter of this paper is settled, you may name what you choose and it will be thankfully given you. So far as that is concerned, my dear young lady, very gravely replied Mr. Dunfield, there is no need of a word. I held your lamented father in high esteem, and would be pleased to do something for his children. But I fear in this matter you bring to me? You entertain hopes that can never be realized. There are certain points in your relation which we will go over quietly together, for your better understanding of my meaning. In the first place, your ear may have deceived you concerning the conversation between your cousins. In the second, if any such conversation took place, and they see fit to deny it, there is nothing but your bare assertion against theirs, and that will avail you nothing. We have no right in law to look into your cousin Kingsley's private papers, and without doing so, it is quite impossible to prove whether any such paper, as you speak of, exists. As the matter now stands therefore, I am sorry to say my young friend, we can do nothing, positively nothing. A shade of disappointment had fallen on the countenance of poor Hilda. I am quite sure my ears did not deceive me. She said, I heard every word that passed, just as I heard you speaking just now, Mr. Dunfield. When I heard cousin Algin say the paper was still with the package of letters, I made up my mind to have it. One night I managed by close watching to get the key of his secretary, and when all were in bed I slipped down to the library where the secretary was. I got it open, and looked well for the letters. I knew the appearance of them well enough, for I had often seen them in my father's own desk. But they were not there. If they had been, by daybreak next morning the paper would have been in your hands. Poor child, and so you really tried for it. In Mr. Dunfield's look of pity, Hilda believed she read confirmation of her cousin's assurance concerning the exposure of her suspicions laying her open to the charge of insanity. I certainly did try for it, sir, she rejoined, meeting his eye with a look in her own which she believed must reassure him. It was a great venture for a young girl to make, but then I had much to embolden me. It was a rightful inheritance of which we were deprived by those who should have been our best friends. Beside that we were poor. The worst thing I saw in our poverty then was our being separated, when we could all have been so much happier together. My eldest sister was working hard for herself and little Lily. Many was not happy with Mrs. Lemming and I, well, I was anything but happy with cousin Algen Kingsley. Your want of content at your cousin's was probably the origin of your strange fancy, observed Mr. Dunfield. He had here spoken his thoughts, forgetting their probable impression on his young visitor, but was quickly brought to a consciousness of his mistake by the look in Hilda's eye. It expressed not so much mortification at his entire doubt of her statement as it did the rebellious and readily excited temper peculiar to her. Mr. Dunfield, she said, so surely as you sit before me this thing is exactly as I have stated it to you. It is a very strange affair certainly. It is strange that persons like my cousins would act the part they have done, and toward four unoffending girls. And I suppose too hearing it in this way and from me the most natural conclusion for you to come to is that I am mad, but it is a great mistake for all that. And if we both live, we will see the time when all is made clear. Then, Mr. Dunfield, you will remember this day and my coming to you with a strange story and, and my going away, the brokenhearted girl I am. While speaking Hilda had risen to go, and at the concluding words, scarcely less to her own surprise than that of Mr. Dunfield, she burst into a passion of tears. Her trial of a while back with Mrs. Kingsley had left her nervous and irritable, and this unlooked-for disappointment quite upset her little remaining self-possession. Now Mr. Dunfield was a kind-hearted man, with daughters too of his own, and his concern was sincere upon witnessing the distress of his young visitor. In the kindest manner possible he endeavored to soothe her. But Hilda was in no mood to be soothed. Though still less was she disposed to continue giving way to feelings as she had done. By a great effort she checked her tears, as suddenly as she had yielded to them. And in a manner different from any she had yet shown, she said, I'm sorry, very sorry, Mr. Dunfield, that I have taken up so much of your time, and to so little purpose. No girl could be more ignorant than I was of everything connected with law, and that is the only excuse I have to make. I'm sure I'm very much indebted for your hearing of my story and acting so kindly. So now I will bid you good morning. Mr. Dunfield gently took both her hands in his own. I wish I could do something for you, my child, he said, and if any opportunity occurs, in which a legal friend may find room to work, come to me, and I will aid you. I had great regard for your father and would be happy to do something for you. The tone in which these words were spoken touched Hilda, notwithstanding the little spirit of resentment which had so unreasonably come over her, and it was all she could do to control her feelings, as she replied in a few words of thanks and left the office. It was misery to the poor girl to know that she had not in store even the consolation for her disappointment of Mabel's sympathy, for she did not intend yet to take to her confidence her elder sister. She did not despair of final success regarding what she considered the writing of herself and her sister's, though after her double disappointment of the morning no plan for the furthering of it suggested itself to her. It was rather a vague belief in all some time coming right, which upheld her, and she strove to give this belief as much as possible the colouring of that faith in the working of a wise providence which she thought so beautiful in Mabel. If Mabel knew all I know, she said to herself as she wended her way home, she'd say, God will surely bring all round in his own time. He will not let the doers of a great wrong go unpunished, nor the innocent suffer forever. And she'd say, too, that God may the sooner bring about a thing which will shorten the time of our suffering, let us petition him for his kindness, he will hear us, he will pity us. Well, there's the mistake I've made. Have I had God in my mind when I've thought of this business of cousin Algern? Have I prayed to him night and morning to bring about a discovery of that paper, or to soften cousin Algern's or cousin Hugh's heart, so that they'd do justice to us poor girls even now? No. I've been thinking all the time of some great thing I'd do, yet never asked him to help me. I've overlooked, like a wicked and silly girl, as I am, how completely everything great and little is in his hands, and obeys his ordering only. He can do it, and without the intervention of a miracle, as Mabel says, and I'll set my heart to the humbly asking of him. It was a very cold day, and the changes Hilda had experienced from her stay in the warm room of her cousin Algern and the office of Mr. Dunfield to the street had chilled her considerably. She hurried along, therefore, fast as she could, urged to rapid motion also by the fact that a fall of snow, which had commenced during her stay in Mr. Dunfield's office, made her uneasy for her dress, that excellent marino, the gift of her cousin, which she had put on for the occasion of her visit. Still, with all this hurry, it was full twenty minutes before she found herself in the neighborhood of her home. At about a hundred yards from the house was a carpenter's shop, and before the door of this shop she perceived, as she approached, the figure of a woman, her black dress and bonnet quite covered with snow. An old basket stood on the ground beside her, and from among the heaps of half-buried shavings about the front of the shop she was busily engaged in picking up chips. CHAPTER 27 The first floor lodger. As Hilda was about to pass this woman, the latter glanced up at her, and within the old black bonnet the young girl recognized the face of the first floor lodger of the house in which she and her sisters had the upper room. This woman had only occupied the apartment referred to for a short time back, it having previously been the work room of a humble bootmaker. Until the present moment, no chance had brought the first and second floor lodgers in contact. Though the person of the old woman was not unknown to Hilda and her sister, they having several times observed her from their window, going from and returning to her home. Pausing in her occupation the woman gave a nod of recognition and a good morning to Hilda, both of which the latter returned in the same friendly way they were bestowed. Hilda would then have passed on, but that her new acquaintance followed up her salutation with a request that she should give her the aid of her arm to the house, saying that her lameness, she was something of a cripple, troubled her more than common this morning. The young arm was readily placed at her disposal, and in this way the two arrived at the house together, the old woman's tongue running quite briskly during their short walk. We must get better acquainted, said the latter, as they reached and entered the door. Why can't you come in a bit and talk with me now? I like young girls, and I'm all alone, you know. Hilda felt a little put out at the proposal, for she was in no humour for a visit, especially to a stranger, but a glance at the pale withered face of her companion stayed the refusal on her lips. I will come in for a very little bit, she replied, but I've been from home some time and I must return to my sisters. Ah, don't I want to hear all about you and your sisters? Rejoined the woman, who had now led the way into her room. Here a good fire was burning, contrary to the expectation of Hilda, who had received the impression that the newly gathered chips were for the purpose of starting one. The first floor lodger seemed to understand the thought of her visitor, as the eye of the latter fell upon the bright fire-light, for as she set her basket aside in a corner, she remarked, I'm not so silly, you see, as to wait, like some, to gather my chips till I want them. If I did, where would be the good fire to warm me when I come in from the gathering? But not wanting them, I wonder you went out in the snow to gather them. Returned Hilda, accepting the seat by the fire offered her by her hostess. It don't differ much now, snow, rain, or dry. Was the rejoinder? It comes all one to a body, toughened up as I am. Besides this, I saw the snow was likely to be a long one, and the chips would be getting deeper covered up every hour. But that's not what I want to talk about. She added, But about you and your sisters. I've been watching you two pretty sharp, for it's a sort of company to me, living so all alone, to be noticing the ways of them about me. Now I saw you when you went out this morning. I saw you turn back after you got off from the door and give a look up at the window. Then I knew your sister was there looking after you. I felt bad too for a while, thinking of how there was no one to look after me, and how there hadn't been for years, and how, for all that, I came from a bigger family of sisters than one often meets with. But changes you see, and growing poor and old. But it's you and your sisters I want to talk about. She said, a second time checking the disposition to ramble in her discourse. When you looked up at the window, you had such a look on your face, as made me sure you were after something that seemed big and hopeful to you. And I thought to myself, that black-haired ones got pluck enough in her for two grown women. She's more in her, and can bear a sight more than the pale-faced one. But how then's this? You came back looking almost as pale as her, for all your bright looks a while ago. Now thinks I, when I see you. She's met with some trouble, this black-haired one, and I'd like more than a little to know what it is. And why shouldn't I, dearie? It's sometimes a comfort, just the telling what's on one's mind. And if you tell me what's wrong, right up and down, you'll find I have a heart to feel for you, though I am but a miserable old woman. Hilda would have found it difficult to explain what there was about her new acquaintance which awakened her confidence. And, perhaps indeed, she was influenced by nothing more than the wish to talk freely to someone. But before she had well thought what she was doing, the story of her visits of the morning were poured forth to the ear of her listener. Whether the latter clearly understood who was, cousin Algen, and who the Mr. Dunfield, who played such important parts in the relation, it is impossible to say. But her ready sympathy was awakened for the young girl, who told her story with such impetuosity of feeling, and upon its conclusion she expressed her conviction that these parties had severally acted very badly, especially regarding the point of the young narrator's sanity, which she, Mrs. Moppet, declared to be untouched beyond shadow of doubt. In the progress of the story there naturally came out the peculiar trials under which the upper room lodgers were suffering, the difficulty of procuring work, the unhappy condition of poor little Lily, and the loss of time incurred by Hilda herself through the injury to her hand. This loss of time being a particular matter of regret, because it had resulted in the loss of her place in the sale loft. Hilda spoke of the patient and cheerful submission of Mabel to the hard tasks imposed on her through poverty and the afflictions of the little Lily. You think I have so much in me, and that I can bear more than my sister? She said. But that is because you don't know, Mabel. She looks as delicate as though a strong wind might blow her away, but she's so stout of heart, and so steady in her faith in all good things, that she can stand up bravely to a thing that knocks me off my feet. Where I complain or cry or get angry, she sits quietly down and thinks the trouble over, and though her face grows paler and her eyes get to have more and more that look of being fixed on something far off, something she's not a bit afraid to look at, though, she grows with every day, stronger to bear and forebear. She's a good girl, returned the first floor lodger, and I warn to you, she's happier this minute than many a one that gets plenty of what's called the good things of this life. In return for the communication made herself, Mrs. Moppet confided to her young visitor some particulars of her past and present life. She had had many friends in her younger days, she said, but one only remained to her now. This was a person in whose family she had been nurse, and whose interest in her continued unshaken through the lapse of years. I nursed her baby, she said, and I helped nurse her husband in his last illness. Well, from the time he was gone, she settled her heart on the child in a way I never yet saw even a mother do. If that child had lived, Barbara Strand would have been most like a different woman than she is at this day, for though her heart's all right as heart can be, and she's always wanting to do good, there's such a running of her head on past times and past troubles that the good she wants to do slips away from her. Though it's not me ought to say that neither, for come what may, she stands to helping me. If it wasn't for her, I'd have no roof over my head, or a bit to eat and put on me this day. But then I nursed her child, and she can't forget that, because it's the point she's always turning on. That poor little girl was the best part of three years dying, and all the time, the mother a-hoping it would yet be up again. But the bad turn came at last, and after that, there was no more hope in this life for Barbara Strand. Hilda heard the story to its conclusion, though certainly not with her mind upon it. For an ugly, remorseful feeling was at her heart, reminding her how long had been her stay from the presence of her sisters. Soon as, with good feeling to her hostess, she could do so. She hurried to leave her. Come, see me again? said Mrs. Moppet, as the door was about to close on her. I'd like to come up and see you and your sister in the sick child, only I can't, because of the steepness of the stairs for my lame foot. Hilda made the best she could of her disappointments of the morning to Mabel. As the latter had looked for nothing favourable as the result of her sister's visit to Mrs. Kingsley, she was neither surprised nor chagrined that it had ended in nothing satisfactory. As regarded her visit to Mr. Dunfield, Hilda made no communication whatever. That visit touched on her secret, and might possibly prove a clue to it. She did tell, however, how she had made the acquaintance of their first-floor lodger, and how the visit to her, which followed, had delayed her return to her sister's room. It is needless to say, Hilda saw fit to withhold the confidence regarding her cousin Algin's affair, which she had thoughtlessly reposed in Mrs. Moppet. She was too far from approving her conduct in that particular herself to believe it possible it could meet the approbation of the more prudent Mabel. Desirous to hide from Mabel how much she was impressed by her ill success of the morning, she affected a cheerfulness she did not feel. Speaking hopefully of the new efforts she was to make on the morrow to procure work for them both. Now that the doctor says I can use my hand freely, I don't feel so badly about how things are going with us, Mabel, she said. If I can get any work at all, I shall do as well as I did at the old sale loft. And if I had got a place there again, it might only have ended in my getting another hurt. I somehow feel as though tomorrow we're going to bring it all right. Whatever ground Hildon may have had for her hopes, it did not prove fallacious, for by early the next afternoon she had a tolerably good supply of vests for Mabel and a still better one of shirts for herself. At the latter she designed to work on such occasions as Mabel was not in use of the sewing machine. She found more opportunity so to employ herself than she had expected, Mabel being at little leisure for sewing on account of Lily becoming alarmingly worse. Except while under the influence of soothing drugs, the child was for several days in constant pain. The doctor had given Mabel to understand that such changes as these were to be looked for. Yet her distress was so great that she could not rest satisfied till Hilda had brought him to the little sufferer. To her question whether he could think of no new remedy, he replied that there was no relief to be found but in morphine, and that she must considerably enlarge the doses. Under his direction too she found that by watching the symptoms of her little patient she could in a measure anticipate the spells of more acute suffering and retard them by the medicine. At such times as soothed by this little Lily lay in a condition of comparative ease, Mabel would repair to her sewing machine and make what progress she could at her work. It was becoming more particularly needful she should soon accomplish something like this, as the increased indisposition of the child was making inroads upon the seven dollars laid by for the coming rent day. Poor girl! In making up her account for the expenditure of the fifteen dollars procured upon her watch, she had not foreseen this unhappy change in the condition of her little charge. Though, as she said to herself now, had she foreseen it, what difference could she have made? Except in not parting with quite so much at the one time for her coal. It was the afternoon of the fourth day of little Lily's attack, and the child lay in partial relief from suffering, the hand of Mabel clasped in her own. But for this affectionate hold Mabel would have been at her work. For, in getting some of her vests completed by the afternoon of the following Monday, lay all her hope of making up, even in part, the deficit of her rent money in time to prevent the house agent coming after it. Mabel had for some time looked upon the closed eyes of the little Lily, with the half formed resolve to slip away her hand and repair to her sewing machine before she finally made the move to do so. At the first attempt, however, to disengage herself, the child's eyes partly unclosed and a little murmur of complaint issued from the pale lips. Then Mabel knew that Lily was not so soundly asleep, but that she was quite conscious of having her hand in her own, and would not renew the attempt to leave her. I shall get some time yet at my shirts, remarked Hilda, who, from her place before the sewing machine, had been observant of what was passing. And, though it don't tell nearly so well as your work, Mabel, I shall make just seven cents a piece on these shirts. It's better than nothing being done. It is time I should take your place, returned her sister. Yet I can't bear to leave the poor child, dear little Lily. If it be a comfort to her to have me by her, I cannot deprive her of it. Faintly as the words were spoken, they were evidently heard by the little girl. For half opening her eyes, she fixed them lovingly upon her faithful nurse. Then, reclosing them, gave a slight pressure of her sister's hand and released it. How kind and good is my little Lily! whispered Mabel, and she bent to press a kiss upon the child's lips before leaving her. At that moment there came a slight knock at the door of the room. So unusual a circumstance startled the two girls, and in place of rising to open to the applicant, they retained their seats, exchanging a rather uneasy glance. It certainly was not the doctor, for he had left them not very long before. Neither could it be that dreaded person, the landlord, for happily his rent was not yet due. There was little time for conjecture who else it might possibly be, for very soon upon the knock followed the opening of the door, and slowly upon this the entrance of a person quite unknown to the inhabitants of the room.