 CHAPTER 36 The AIDS Society A partial success attended the efforts of both the sisters on the Monday morning, Mabel procuring a small supply of work from one of her old customers, and Hilda from Mrs. Powers, the person with whom they formerly lodged. Mrs. Powers received the young girl so kindly as quite touched Hilda, who had almost expected to be forgotten by her old landlady, and gave her work that she had intended to do herself. In fact, knowing that Mrs. Powers was altogether accustomed to do her own sewing, Hilda had scarcely thought it possible her visit to her would result in procuring the aid she so much needed. It's after all those who have known trouble themselves, who the most feel for others, was the reflection of the young girl as she hurried home with her precious parcel. Before Mrs. Powers, she has the time to give to this work and scarcely the money to pay for it being done. Late on Tuesday afternoon Mabel had completed the task she had allotted herself, and leaving her little lily to the care of Hilda she went to carry at home. The person by whom the work was given her lived a considerable distance from Polk Street, and Mabel was some time on the road though she made all possible speed. Her employer was from home when the young girl arrived there, but being informed she was expected back in a short time, Mabel concluded to await her coming, not wishing to return another time for the pay. The short time named lengthened itself to nearly an hour, and after that a good deal of delay was made through the proprietor looking over the work and demurring about the price to be paid for it. Mabel's demand was for a dollar and three shillings, which her employer thought too much. The latter finally dismissed her with nine shillings, as she might as well have done at first, since she had quite resolved to bring the amount to what satisfied herself. Upon glancing at the timepiece in the hall, as she was about to leave, Mabel was dismayed to find it nearly eight o'clock. Wrapping her cloak closely as possible about her, for it was a particularly cold evening, and she had become warm through her long stay in the house, she hurried along briskly as she could, thinking of little lily disappointed at taking her supper without her, and of her own disappointment at carrying with her two shillings short of the money she had looked for. Only two shillings? Yes, but the comparatively little sum was much to this poor girl, so much that the absence of it from her little port-monnais made the cold air which pierced her scant cloak seem more stinging to her, the good hoping heart within her breast less light. She had proceeded but a few squares, when a gentleman about passing turned and looked in her face, then paused and joined her. It was young Ralph Barrett. Miss Ross, is it possible, he said, so late, and I expect to quite far from your home. In as few words as possible Mabel, who had slackened her pace, explained that she had been detained, then adding that she was in much haste, endeavored to pass on. Young Barrett, however, either did not perceive her desire to avoid him, or chose to disregard it, for he quickened his steps with her own, and remarked that there was no occasion to distress herself by so much haste, as he would certainly accompany her home. There is no need, Mabel coldly rejoined, abruptly pausing. Indeed, Mr. Barrett, I insist that you go no further with me. Ralph began something about her long walk, and the lateness of the hour, but Mabel interrupted him. You forget, Mr. Barrett, she said, that I am but a poor sewing-girl, and that, like others, I must get accustomed to such inconveniences. I beg you will leave me. Pray, let me accompany you! He rejoined quite earnestly. I have been wishing to learn your residence on account of my mother. I believe she wishes to write, to send to you. Mabel stopped once more, and said, in a tone so firm as to admit of no further question, I shall certainly continue my walk alone, Mr. Barrett. I insist, too, that you do not follow me. With these words said she hurried forward, infinitely relieved to perceive no footsteps in her wake. The Thursday week came round, and Mabel went to visit Mrs. Graith. She had been able to procure but very little sewing in the meanwhile, so little that the hope of this lady failing her, she knew not from whence was to come money for the next coal, in a day or two wanting, or to keep herself and Hilda in the bread and potatoes, long their only fare, or worse than all, poor little Lily in the medicine and food necessary for her existence. Hilda had been rather more successful than herself, for through the efforts of Mrs. Powers, she had been kept in a tolerably good supply of coarser work, such as her old landlady could procure from her own humble friends. The lady president was in her library at the time of Mabel's coming, engaged in writing up minutes of the last meeting of the Society of the Ladies of Chicago for promotion of honest industry, the secretary of that society being indisposed. Into that apartment, her name having first been carried to Mrs. Graith by the servant, Mabel was shown. The lady president sat formally at her secretary, her gold pen in her hand, quite a formidable number of business-like-looking blank books before her, and an expression of severity on her countenance that made it appear yet more forbidding than upon the occasion of Mabel's former visit. From the moment her cold, stern eye fell upon the young sewing-girl, all hope of receiving the aid she so much needed deserted poor Mabel. This was crushing enough, but she was unprepared for the more crushing decision to which the judicious committee which had considered her case had come. It had been said that the lady president cast a stern eye upon her young visitor. She accompanied the look with no word, only resting her hand with the gold pen in a way that seemed to promise some words should presently follow, and bracing her form to a yet more rigid formality. Perhaps she was mercifully unwilling that the whole weight of her condemnation should fall at once upon its victim, and thus gave Mabel opportunity to surmise from her look what was to follow. It was Mabel who first spoke. You said I might call again in a couple of weeks, Mrs. Graith. Yes, and I am glad you have come. The sooner so painful a business has gotten through with the better. Mabel Ross, and the voice of the lady president, took a declamatory tone. For two weeks the valuable time of the members of our society has been taken up in investigating the character of yourself and your sister, and in looking into the surroundings of your present position. Fortunately for the prevention of further time being wasted on objects entirely unworthy our humane consideration, a discovery has, at this early stage, been made which settles further question. You were seen on the evening of Tuesday week by two persons of undoubted veracity in company with a young man named Ralph Barrett, and as this young man's character is quite below a questionable one, and he also occupies a position in wealth and society which makes it impossible he should seek your company with any justifiable motive. Your being seen together is quite enough to stigmatize you as entirely unworthy the patronage of the society of the ladies of Chicago for promotion of honest industry. For a moment the unhappy Mabel was so discomposed by this turning to her discredit the annoyance to which she had been subjected by young Barrett that she was without power to speak. Soon as she could in a manner recover herself, she hastened to make explanation of the facts as they were, her face pale and her voice trembling with agitation. Believe me, the facts are just as I have stated," she said in conclusion, and, had the persons who saw me in company with Mr. Barrett taken the trouble to observe a little more as, oh, surely they should have done when the character of a poor girl was at stake. They would have learned that I considered his joining me an intrusion, and that I positively prohibited his accompanying me further. I am not prepared to say I consider you a positively vicious girl, Mabel Ross, rejoined Mrs. Graith, nor have the committee come to such a conclusion, but you certainly are a particularly imprudent one, and we feel that, being so, you have put an affront upon our society by soliciting its favour as a reliable young person. Like many another, you have been enticed by the notice of a young man of means, like Ralph Barrett, and believed he thought of elevating you to his own position. Vanity, and a wish to get above the cares of a sewing-girl, have induced you to encourage advances positively ruinous to your reputation. Oh, don't, don't judge me so harshly, exclaimed poor Mabel. I assure you, from the hour of my dear mother's death I have had no thought but to make an honest livelihood for myself and those dependent on me, and to set a fair example to my younger sisters. Think this over again, Mrs. Graith, and in mercy give me the work I so much need. You have a daughter of your own. Some chance might impoverish her, as I and my sisters have been impoverished. You would wish strangers to look kindly upon her. Rich or poor, my daughter could never be tempted to make a companion of a young man of the character of Ralph Barrett, proudly rejoined Mrs. Graith. Though unable, through the duties of my office, to personally attend to her training, I have placed her in hands I can confidently rely on. The lady you saw her with is her governess. Madame Jean-voix, and a person of the highest principles and refinement of character, don't speak to me of my daughter Mabel Ross, for there are no circumstances which could place her in a position parallel to the one you occupy at present. Notwithstanding the crushing weight of this reply, Mabel's despair gave her courage to try one more appeal to the obdurate lady. Mrs. Graith, you say you don't think any positive ill of me, she said. Can you not then give me aid, if not for myself, for the poor child, God knows, perhaps dying, who at five years old is helpless as a babe and altogether dependent on my efforts. I see your Bible beside you, ma'am, and you tell me your society is for the encouragement of virtue among the suffering and needy. Only then you are a good woman, and a good woman must feel for those suffering as we are. Think of the little sister left me by a dying mother, that child's suffering in a way terrible to see, and with a near prospect of being without a home and without the necessaries of life. Think of her only, think not of me, and surely, surely, you will see that, even were I the vicious person you acknowledge you do not think me, that child claims your pity as a Christian woman. I have but two shillings for present use, and no immediate prospect of getting more. My rent will soon be due, my little coal is almost exhausted, but two shillings are between us all and want of bread. Give me, oh, give me work, Mrs. Greith, in mercy, and to prevent such misery as you know not of. Give me work!" Mrs. Greith was shaken out of none of her rigidity by this appeal. What more she said was to prove her still inexorable. The committee had considered the case, and the ladies of the society never went back, as the lady president expressed it over a decision. We do nothing in a hurry. She said, we act discreetly, and make sure of our ground before we act, and to change our decision would imply that we have acted with injudicious haste. Yours may be a hard case, Mabel Ross, but not harder than a great many others that come under our notice, and that we have to deal with according to our laws and by-laws. The members of the society of the ladies of Chicago for promotion of honest industry will be firm to their principles whatever individual suffering may be the result. How Mabel got home she scarcely knew, but arrived there she threw her arms about the neck of Hilda, and gave way to the tears until now suppressed. Hilda was almost frightened to see her patiently abiding sister acting in a manner so contrary to her usual habit. Through soothing and questioning she presently drew from the weeping girl the cause of her distress. She's a cruel, hard-hearted, hypocritical, and selfishly absurd woman, Hilda exclaimed, forgetting in her indignation that moderation of speech she had resolved upon. I expected no help from her in her society, but never dreamed of such an affront as this. It makes my blood boil, Mabel, to think of her daring to cast suspicion upon a pure-minded girl like you. What I think so hard, sobbed poor Mabel, is that, though she allowed she doesn't think really ill of me, she wouldn't give me work, even for the sake of our poor Lily. Oh, Hilda, what an unhappy chance was Ralph Barrett's meeting me that Tuesday evening, but for that I should have got plenty of work and all would have gone well with us. Another wrong to lay to the score of the Barrett's, exclaimed Hilda. You look reprovingly, Mabel, but I'm too new and self-disciplined to be always prepared with the right words. Perhaps this Ralph Barrett has meant no harm. Perhaps his mother is not the selfish, hard woman she seems. But appearances are against them, and I can't help but see it and feel it. Mabel had ceased her weeping. She placed her hand gently on that of Hilda. Say or feel nothing, dear Hilda, that looks like bearing malice or ill-will, she said. If they have meant us wrong, there is another than us to take count of it. Oh, my sister, we are so momentarily at God's mercy, looking so anxiously each hour for his help. Let us do nothing that may lessen his pity for us, that may tempt him, for our chastisement, to let the burden press yet harder upon us. CHAPTER 37 The Wolf at the Door Day upon day of anxious care, not knowing from whence the bread of the morrow was to come, a little lessening of the weight at the heart through getting of some little work, which in turn was to bring some little money. The investment of that little money in coal, which, for a time, would keep off the pinching cold, or in bread, which, for a time, would keep off pinching hunger. So sped the days of Mabel and Hilda, each striving in affection to keep up the hope and lessen the burden of the other, both uniting in efforts to relieve the misery of the helpless child, whose hours of pain were rendered more trying through new privations. One morning Mabel had remained from home longer than she now often did. When she returned it was with a bundle of linen under her arm. Work! exclaimed Hilda. Oh, Mabel! How well that is! Just when we want it more, oh, yes, more than ever! We are not the only ones suffering, Hilda! Mabel said, as she put off her hat and cloak, I have been to Cousin Algins. Hilda looked strangely and ran some crooked stitches in a spread she was quilting. You never got work from there! She observed, not raising her eyes from the spread. No, I got it from Mrs. Willis. I didn't go to Cousin Algins for work, but on account of the distress she is in. This time Hilda ceased her quilting to look up. Yes, Hilda, Cousin Algins is in great grief. Two of her darling little girls are dead, Liddy and Rose. I met the nursery girl and she told me, so I went round at once. They died from the effects of scarlet fever. They were taken ill the evening of the day you were there, and Eva and Kate were taken afterward. Eva and Kate are ill now, dangerously ill. Hilda had become deadly pale. She sat staring at her sister, never so much as moving a finger. Her hands spread out on her work, where she had let them fall. Mabel regarded her in surprise. Liddy and Rose were your favourites, Hilda, she said. You thought dear little Rose so like our own Lily. I didn't see Cousin Algins, but Ellen, you remember that good girl, says she never saw even a stricken mother suffer as she does. She never leaves the room where poor little Eva and Kate are lying, and scarcely moves from their bedside. Make God spare these two to her. Poor, poor Cousin Algins. Hilda gave a convulsive sob, then suddenly rising, fell trembling on her sister's neck. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, she said. It was only a coincidence, surely, surely it was nothing more. Mabel, say, it was nothing more, I want to hear you say that. What do you mean, Hilda? And Mabel looked anxiously on the agitated face, raised to her own. Explain to me, my sister. Mabel, I said such things to Cousin Algins that morning. I told her how God might visit on her, through her children, her wrongs to us. I was excited, I was angry, she seemed so cold and cruel. And now, Mabel, I feel, oh, I fear, God has replied to my words in this dreadful, dreadful way. Darling little Rose, sweet little Liddy, dead, both dead, oh, Mabel! Mabel spoke not a word. She folded her arms closer about the trembling Hilda, and solemnly raised her eyes, looking beyond the confines of that little room to the seat of awful might and justice, where sat the ruler of all. Mabel, Mabel, say something, say you don't think it was that. God is just my sister, just and all-seeing, he needs not to be reminded. No, Mabel, and yet the feeling is here still. She paused for a moment, then added. Rose and Liddy are gone, but two are left yet. Mabel, let us pray God to leave her these two. Pretty Eva, little baby Kate! Hilda's voice had sunk to a whisper, and as she ceased speaking, she dropped on her knees and drew Mabel down beside her. The poor little feet are so cold, Hilda. Have you been down again to the first floor? Before Mrs. Moppet at home, I know she would let us have a little coal. I was down three minutes ago, while you were heating up the water, Mabel. Everything is tightly closed as ever. Little Lily opened her eyes. Mrs. Moppet's not come home yet, she said, and her visitors forgotten us too. No, darling, not forgotten us! And Mabel assumed a tone of cheerfulness she did not feel. You know, we heard she was sick, and that's why she's not been again to see us. I was only sorry about Mrs. Moppet, because I wanted to borrow some coal to keep a better fire going. There's such a bitter night come on, or what we had would have lasted us better. I feel it's cold, said the poor child in a plaintive tone. It's my feet are the worst, Mabel. Mabel put her hands under the covers and rubbed the little feet briskly, and after a while the child said they were easier. They shan't get cold again, Lily dear, said Hilda, for I'll lie quite close and keep them warm. She threw herself upon the bed, and, clasping Lily's feet under the covers, pressed them closely to her breast. There's one thing, Mabel, she whispered. The cold kept the wolf off, you know. Yes, was the whispered reply, with an uneasy glance at the child who had again closed her eyes. There is mercy in the change. It is little more than six o'clock to be sure, but early or late he will scarcely want to be abroad such a night. We're clearer of him for this time, Mabel, that little money you've been saving for him will go for coal and bread to-morrow. He'd not have taken it anyway, for he refused twice as much last month. But it would have been something to offer him, replied Mabel, and then we could have let him take the carpet for what it is worth. It's worth the full rent, Mabel, yet no one would give us a dollar for it. He'd not let it stand against a dollar of the rent. But there's one thing I've wondered it you're not parting with, either in pawn or to sell, and Hilda turned her eyes to the sewing machine, which stood carefully covered in the corner of the room. The thought of that has been in my mind a hundred times, Hilda. We cannot part with it. To pawn it would be to part with it forever for the mirrors to trifle. We are too poor to redeem anything, remember the watch. Its sale would but bring us a trifle, too, when compared with the price paid for it, ten, fifteen dollars at most. Then, though out of use at present, it is our stock in trade and an important one. Lily may get better. We may be able to use it. No, Hilda, we cannot part with our sewing machine. Hilda suddenly raised her finger. There was a sound below. It was the street door opening, and it presently closed again, after which all was quiet as before. The sisters had exchanged an anxious glance, but the quiet reassured them. It must be Mrs. Moppet's got back. Whispered Hilda, drawing a long breath, I think I just heard her door unlocking. You will presently go down and see, Hilda. You think she has coal? Oh, I'm quite sure of it. She got in a supply just before I missed her. A minute or two passed, and Hilda was thinking at about time to make a visit below for the coal, when, without preliminary of any sort, there came a faint wrap at the door of the room. Mabel and Hilda started and exchanged another anxious look, while little Lily reopened her eyes and glanced uneasily from one to the other. It was not at all like the wolf, yet thought of him was apparent in the mind of each. Indeed, Mrs. Moppet, if returned, was disabled through her lameness from mounting the steep stairs. Who then could it be but the house agent? No second wrap followed, but the door presently opened and closed again, having given entrance to the quaint little figure of the first-floor visitor. With a warm welcome Mabel hurried forward and took her hand, while Hilda, from her position at Lily's feet, held out hers, and Lily made an effort to do the same. My good little sister-mother! exclaimed the newcomer, pressing Mabel's hand to her breast. You look pleased to see me. I am, we are all pleased, Mabel replied, returning the pressure of the thin, wasted fingers, more thin and wasted than when she had last held them, as was also the pale face that looked mildly out from the old-fashioned bonnet. We have thought of you and talked of you and wished you to come to us again. And how is it with the child, sister-mother? And she drew near the bed and bent over little Lily. The question needed no word of answer. The wasted face and sunken eyes that met the look of the visitor told how it fared with Lily. Gentle and tender as a mother's kiss was the one Lily's good angel pressed on the brow of the little sufferer, and when she raised her head again her cheek was moist with tears. Mabel said, you hadn't forgotten us, whispered Lily, and the ragman told Hilda you were sick. Yes, darling, I was sick. The visitor replied, sick almost from the time I first came to you. She added, turning to Mabel, Mrs. Moppet has been with me. She always comes to me when I am not well. I might have left home any time to-day, but meant to put it off till to-morrow when I'd feel stronger. But this evening I got tidings of the child being worse. Both the child and the sister-mother they told me were doing ill. So I thought I must come, though it was late and cold. I seemed to feel I must be here this night, that no put off till to-morrow would do. And so, well, and so I came, and Mrs. Moppet came with me. She thought it best for me to stay, but since I must come she came along. Hilda here gave a questioning glance to Mabel, then explained that they were without coal, and that they had thought of borrowing some from their neighbor below. Their visitor had taken the chair by Lily's pillow, presented by Mabel, and appeared to have subsided into a dreamy state, her eyes fixed on the face of the child, whose hand she held in her own. She didn't seem immediately to gather Hilda's meaning, but presently turned round, and with a hasty glance at the two sisters, passed her hand several times over her brow. I am wrong, so wrong, she said, with a touch of energy such as they had not yet seen in her. I dream and don't act. You mustn't think me unkind. It's the one thought, you know, always here, touching her forehead again, the failing babe and its mother. I know it all so well. It doesn't seem to give me time to do what I want, what I've thought of. I came out to-night because something seemed to say to me, the child and its sister mother were sorely wanting me, yet here I am, and I don't. She got up, and walked quite briskly the length of the room, her hand on her brow. Go to her, she then said, stopping suddenly before Hilda. Go to Mrs. Moppet, and she will give you coal. Tell her I bid her let you have it. Get as much as you want. I shall get but little, Hilda replied, with an embarrassed glance at Mabel, only enough to keep poor little Lily from suffering this cold night. We're very poor. Our last money will go for coal tomorrow, but Mrs. Moppet shall be paid back. Don't think about that. Rejoined the little woman rather quickly. You must warm the room. Oh yes, the poor child is cold, you're all cold, and that mustn't be. You're poor? Yes, to be sure. They told me that, yet I forgot. Everything said to me, Go to the child and its sister-mother to-night, and I came. She resumed the place she had left beside the bed, and again took the little wasted hand in her own. Lily opened her eyes, murmured something about good angels, and closed them again. Hilda looked at Mabel. A suspicion had been gaining ground with the former concerning their friendly visitor, and she read in the countenance of her sister, confirmation of the thought. The little woman was certainly not in her right mind. Hilda then took an old basket from a corner, and left the room with it to procure the proposed loan of coal from the first floor lodger. She had not proceeded half-way down the stairs, however, Mabel meanwhile supplying the languishing fire from the little that remained of their coal, when the house-door was heard to open and close violently, so violently that Mabel heard it through the rattling she was making at the stove, and suddenly ceased her labours. As she turned to the door of the room, poor Hilda hurried in again, having hastened back at the first sound of the front door opening. Throwing the basket from her into the corner, the terrified girl, for this coming of the house-agent it could be no other than he, when her mind had been relieved of present thought of him, had put poor Hilda into a paroxysm of alarm, caught Mabel by the hand, and with her hurried to the bed-side. What is it? questioned their visitor, looking up in a half-dreamy way. Who is coming? The wolf cried Hilda, and she threw herself across the feet of little Lily. This unexpected reply seemed considerably to arouse the visitor. Glancing from the feeble little figure on the bed to Mabel, she said, Tell me what this means. Is it someone you're afraid of? Oh, yes, yes, Mabel replied. It is our cruel landlord, David Brumbly. We haven't the rent for him. He has threatened to turn us out. He'll take my bed, he'll put me out in the cold, shrieked poor little Lily. Meanwhile the shuffling tread of the house-agent could distinctly be heard ascending the stairs, with now and then a smothered oath as he tripped or stumbled in the dark. Having risen from her place by Lily, the visitor whispered some soothing words to the terrified child, and then, with a look of resolution and composure, put out a hand reassuringly to each of the young girls. Don't be alarmed, sister mother! She said, Don't be alarmed, my poor girl! Turning to Hilda, I will stand between this man and you, between him and the darling babe. My head is not very clear for business, she added, passing her hand again over her brow, but when I see it must be done, I can even drive this wolf from your door. He comes now. Stand back, both of you, and let me face him. As she spoke the door opened, and the ugly countenance and warped form of the house-agent appeared on the threshold. Barbara Strand David Brumbly walked in, with a look on his face that said everything for the ugly feelings with which he had come, glared hurriedly around, then brought up with his eyes upon the little odd-looking woman who had so readily come forward to meet him. Sudden and complete was the change which followed in the whole appearance of the man, the look of fierceness faded from his eye, the smile of malice from his lip, and abject and deprecatory submission expressed itself in the whole of the outer Brumbly, from the old pinched hat, which he hurriedly removed from his head, to the termination of the turned-in nether limbs, every inch seemed to say he was really too humble an individual to be severely dealt with. What are you here for, David Brumbly? Were the first words addressed to him by the eccentric visitor, very calmly, yet in a tone that must have assured the sisters that the speaker had the power to call him to an account, and was quite resolved to do it? Only doing my duty, Mrs. Strand, abjectly replied the man, really a most distressing duty, I for one. And who has made it your duty to molest sick babies and suffering girls? On the contrary, have I not often cautioned you to deal with such leniently and mercifully? David Brumbly, you have deceived me. You are a hard, cruel man. You stand convicted at last. You came here to threaten poor young creatures with power you didn't possess. With a course you had no law to sustain you in, and that if you had, you well knew I would never sanction. You have threatened to turn this poor, crippled babe from her home to take the very bed she lay upon. You have agonized two poor, struggling girls with fear of seeing a dying sister molested. David Brumbly, did you dare do this and not believe in all ruling God must avenge on you the crime? Rather hard language that, Mrs. Strand, for a man simply in performance of his duty, observed Brumbly, rallying somewhat. I tell you, if one in my position don't hold a tight reign sometimes, he's likely to come out short in his accounts at the end of the year. When was I so strict in your accounts as to force you to acts of oppression? inquired Barbara. When have I ceased to say to you, above all others, be gentle with poor young women and babes? No, no, David Brumbly, you have made cruel threats, and you would have done the cruel things you threatened, thinking Barbara Strand was weak and forgetful and would take no count of your misdeeds? That all power and right had centered in your own hands, and you might abuse it as your bad heart bade you. But there is an end to all this, now. God, forgive me that I have let it go on so long. I have aroused myself a second time. You remember the first, and how you begged off with solemn promises never again to slight my injunctions to mercy? And this arousing shall be to the good of many, it can be to the disappointment of one only. You wouldn't do it, Barbara Strand, you wouldn't. Yes, I would. I would take from the hands of a bad man power to do evil. David Brumbly, to-morrow you will make out your accounts, and the next day hand them over to me. From that time all business matters between us are at an end. And is this the reward for my long services? wind the deposed house agent. I have been a faithful servant to you, Barbara Strand. I, for one, have looked more closely to my employer's interests than my own. Barbara waved her hand for him to leave. The wine suddenly changed to a growl. Because I wouldn't let beggarly sewing-girls and their brats live rent-free in your houses, you turn me off without a day's notice. There's no right or justice in this. I, for one, say it's a cruelly unjust act. Again Barbara waved her hand. Till Wednesday morning there is nothing further between us, she said. You have breathed too long the atmosphere of innocence that is around these poor orphan children. Go! and she pointed peremptorily to the door. Only another quirk of an addled brain, sneered Brumbly in a loud aside as he shuffled to the door. The moon is at its full to-night. Most likely daylight will dispel the fancy. Barbara vouchsafed no reply, but remained quite silent until the door had closed upon the unwelcome visitor. Then, turning to Mabel, who, with her sisters, had witnessed with mingled feelings the singular interview, she said. Little sister mother, you will see your wolf no more. Compose your babe with promise of this. Tell her that old Barbara Strand will try, so God wills it, to be the good angel to her and hers that she has so sweetly called her. And now, she added, interrupting the thanks of both the sisters, you must tell me more about that story of wrong I heard from Mrs. Moppet. I heard it before I first came to you, and meant to speak of it then, for, if I mistake not, I know a way to aid you. I forgot it. Forgot it because my thoughts were all on the babe, but it's not too late for it yet. Not too late to write the poor and the fatherless? Tonight I shall remain with Mrs. Moppet, and early to-morrow you must come down and tell me the story. Mabel glanced at Hilda. She had herself no clue to this story Barbara spoke of, but Hilda might have. Of course she was right, Hilda had. It was I spoke about it to Mrs. Moppet, said the latter, a sudden glow on her cheek. I will come down to you to-morrow, Mrs. Strand. I will tell you everything. Then I will leave you, rejoined Barbara. Too much depends on my head being clear to-morrow to allow me more time out of my bed. That man was partly right, though not in the way he meant. Tomorrow may bring back my dreamy way, for it's not often I can shake it off as now, but there was a time when Barbara's head was good at business matters as many a man's. And even now may be, when she rouses herself, she can cope with a David Brumbly or a Hugh Kingsley, little sister-mother, and she gently took Mabel's hand. Brighter days may be dawning for you. If God does not see fit to leave you, your sweet babe, he may at least so ordain it that the little light shall flicker its last in a home of comfort and peace. Weep no more. It is a merciful one has you in his hand, and he has tried you and not found you wanting. What more he calls on you to bear. He will give you strength to bear. She pressed the hand of Mabel and Hilda, bent for a moment dreamily over the pillow of little Lily, then slipped quietly from the room. When Hilda went down, next morning, to the first floor, it was with her story, her long withheld mystery, confided to the ear of Mabel. She could tell it to her sister now, for it was now not only unexpectedly brought forward again, and in her presence, but under circumstances which seemed to promise the age she had one time vainly looked for. Her faith was strong in Barbara Strand. The eccentricities of the little woman were plain to all, and the discomforted brumbly had hinted at something more than eccentricities. Yet there was that about her which inspired confidence, and Hilda felt assured some good would result from the interview to which she was invited. Upon entering the room of Mrs. Moppet, the young girl found Barbara rocking herself in the big chair of her hostess, and undoubtedly under partial influence of that dreaminess which at most times obscured her powers of observation and action. The appearing of Hilda, however, served considerably to arouse her, and it was not long before she was giving evidence of all the interest and energy she had exhibited the evening before. The story Hilda related to her shall be given in the young girl's own words, but without the remarks and questions with which Barbara occasionally interrupted it. The fourth of July last I was living with my cousin Kingsley. It was warm in the evening and I sat in the summer-house. Cousin Hugh and Cousin Algin walked in the garden, back and forth by the summer-house, and before I could think whether they cared to have me hear them talk, they had said things I knew they never meant me to hear, but those things were much to me and my sisters, and I couldn't do less than hear all I could. They were talking about a paper, a paper that Cousin Algin was wanting Cousin Hugh to destroy, but that he said he never could destroy. He said it had existed years without discovery and was just as safe from discovery now as though it had been put in the flames or torn into a thousand pieces, and that while it was still in existence he felt less reproached to himself. She might not quite understand this, he said, but he did. It was a matter of feeling and he couldn't get over it. Little by little, as the talk went on, I came to understand all about this paper, and that is what I must explain now. My great-uncle, Godfrey Foreman, brought up Father and Cousin Hugh, who were both his nephews. Father was the oldest and his favourite. He was away when Uncle Godfrey died. Uncle died suddenly from the effect of an accident. And didn't know that, through some cause, Uncle was much displeased with him. After Uncle's death there was found a will leaving all his fortune to Cousin Hugh. Cousin Hugh sought to the settlement of the estate, and when Father came home, a while after, he gave him some books that had been Uncle's and that he believed Father would think much of. The books had been put by in a box, and among them Father found a bundle of letters written by himself to his Uncle when a boy at school. Father was so much pleased that Uncle had preserved these letters that he wouldn't himself destroy them, but put them by, as they were, in his desk. He mentioned to Cousin Hugh how pleased he was to have them, and Cousin said he had not himself come across them, but he was glad they had, by some chance, gotten into the box, and come to Father's hand. Cousin Hugh would never have said that if he had known. Now Uncle Godfrey had written a paper to say how. Having discovered that misrepresentations had been made him about Father, he returned to his first intention of dividing his property equally between his two nephews according to an old will, the signers and witnesses of which were all living. I heard Cousin Hugh myself say, that evening of the fourth, that this paper did away with the new will, though it wasn't gotten out in form, because of poor Uncle's meeting with the accident so soon after. I mean the accident that caused his death. He never was himself after the hurt, and that is the reason he didn't do anything to set the matter of the will's right. This very paper was tied up with the bundle of letters Father had found, but as he never came across it, it is plain he only looked at the first letter or two of the package to make sure what they were. But after poor Father's death, Mother untied the package. Cousin Algin was by when she did it, and heard her say she would never part with them. She said this as she tied up the parcel again, and we all heard her say it. There was the paper among the letters, but she didn't notice it. Maybe because she was crying so hard. Cousin Algin noticed it, though, but it seems she didn't think anything of it at the time. Afterward she mentioned it to Cousin Hugh, and they got uneasy about it, because Cousin Algin fancied, even at the distance across the table where she sat from Mother, she recognized Uncle Godfrey's handwriting. Well, they never forgot that paper, and Cousin Algin took care to get hold of it with the letters at the time of Dear Mother's death. When I learned from their talk how it had never been destroyed, I looked for it in Cousin Hugh's secretary. But neither paper nor letters were there. Ever after that it was my wonder what Cousin Hugh could have done with them, and I always seemed to feel as if I was to find them out and bring the papers to light. One day, when things had got almost at their worst with us, I became sort of desperate, and went to Cousin Algin herself, and told her all I knew. Here Hilda followed with the relation of her visit to Mrs. Kingsley, her disappointment, and her after-visit to her father's old friend, the lawyer. My hopes died out after that, she continued. I felt that law and justice were in this matter so very far apart that they could never come together. If I have had a hope in all this time, it has been that, at some future day, my cousins would feel remorseful for what they had done, and make willing restitution to us. But there is no thought of that now. God has brought terrible affliction upon them, in the loss of the dear little children they were so wrapped up in. Yet, far as I can learn, it has in no way softened their hearts. They know of our poverty and our suffering, yet they do nothing for us. The better way, for all, would be that this willing restitution shall be made. Very gravely said Barbara, as Hilda came to a termination of her story. But with poor young creatures suffering as you are all suffering now, it must be left to no slow working of good in the hearts of those too to bring it about. Knowledge that our sin is discovered is a strong spur to remorse, and with remorse comes the wish to return upon the past. I know something of your cousin Hugh Kingsley, and believe a plan I have thought of, may bring all right, without the delay or distress of a course of law, and I must be seeing about it now. She added, rising briskly, too much depends on the doings of this morning to permit Barbara Strand to sit idly in the warmth of this fire, though good Dorothy Moppet has piled on the coal to make it tempting. She put on her quaint old bonnet and wrapped her cloak about her, then stood hesitating her eye upon Hilda. No, I won't, she then said. I'll not venture, as I would wish, to take a look before I go at the poor babe upstairs. It's a thing that sets me dreaming, and when I have acting to do I must put dreaming far from me. Tell them, she added, I go to do all I can for them, and that when I come back I will see them. Then the work will be put into other hands, and if a touch of her weakness comes over old Barbara it can do no one hurt. End of Chapter thirty-eight. Chapter thirty-nine of Mabel Ross The Sewing Girl. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter thirty-nine. Law and Justice As Mr. Theodore Trowbridge sat in his office that morning, Barbara Strand presented herself before him. If a visit from the little woman was unlooked for on that particular day, the manner of her reception proved her no stranger to the lawyer. In fact, Mr. Trowbridge was the person to whom were entrusted all Barbara's business matters, and consequently an acquaintance was tolerably well established on both sides. But a little matter of surprise presented itself soon after her coming for all that. A little matter of surprise to the gentleman, for in this manner quite new in his experience of his client, that is, new for its liveliness and energy, Barbara made request for a private interview. Mr. Trowbridge readily granted the request, and they having entered together the former's sanctum sanctorum, a conference took place between them, the particulars of which will be known in due season. Before Barbara left, a note was written by the lawyer, and entrusted by him to his briscus clerk for immediate delivery. That will bring Kingsley to me within the hour. Then very gravely observe Mr. Trowbridge, and I will proceed in the business exactly as you have suggested, Mrs. Strand. Whatever the result may be, I will write you fully concerning it before the day closes. In less than an hour after Barbara left the office, Mr. Kingsley entered it. The task Barbara's friend had undertaken was a peculiarly delicate one, and he entered upon it in a manner that showed him duly sensible of this fact, and also that it was one that must be accomplished with firmness and decision. Not only had Mr. Kingsley been his friend and client for many years, but the late Mr. Godfrey Foreman, the uncle alluded to by Hilda, had been so likewise. The will, which left the entire property of this gentleman to his younger nephew, had been drawn up and witnessed by Mr. Trowbridge, as was also the one of anterior date, which made an equal division of the uncle's fortune between his two young relatives. In as concise a manner as possible Mr. Trowbridge opened the business of his summons to his client, by informing him of the discovery made, or supposed to be made, by Hilda Ross. Mr. Kingsley exhibited a great deal of agitation from the moment of the subject being touched upon. My wife said something to me about a visit of this deluded girl on the matter you mention, he said in reply. But my mind has been in no condition to think of it, nor has Mrs. Kingsley's. I am an afflicted man, Mr. Trowbridge. I have left at home ill, the last of my four cherished darlings, my little girls, who were my pride and hope and their mothers. I am in no condition for a business of this sort. I did not suppose it was for a matter to add to my discomfort you sent for me. It must wait another time. It cannot wait, calmly rejoined the lawyer. If you have sorrow in your home, Kingsley, so have your young cousins and theirs. They have poverty, they have illness, they have loss. I have undertaken to look into this matter for those orphaned children and must do it. The whole thing is the vagary of a foolish girl, said Mr. Kingsley quickly. You would only waste your time upon it. It may be so, only a vagary, as you say, but you owe it to yourself to prove it. Prove it to whom? asked Mr. Kingsley with an effort to rally. Can one reason with, or prove to, a poor, demented girl? Prove it to me, Kingsley. In my possession I believe is the very package of letters referred to. You remember, you entrusted to my keeping, early after the period of Mrs. Ross's death, a parcel sealed up, which you told me were simply old letters which you wished preserved. In your presence, let this parcel be examined. It will speak for itself. If no such paper be there, the matter must drop, and I have done my duty. If, on the contrary, the paper spoken of be found among the letters, you will do yours. Mr. Kingsley crossed the room with an agitated step. Give me ten minutes to speak to my wife, Mr. Trowbridge. He then said, pausing before the other. Mr. Trowbridge gravely shook his head. Take no counsel, he replied, but from your own heart. Act as you would do if to-morrow, in place of bringing you every promise of life and health, we're surely bringing you but a few hours in which to end your worldly accounts. In face of such a to-morrow, how would you act to-day? Mr. Kingsley looked away from his companion, his lips trembling, and his features ashy pale. Then, sinking on the sofa where he had sat before, he buried his hand in his folded arms. Mr. Trowbridge said not a word. He left the aroused conscience to work its own way. Five or ten minutes thus past, the heavy respirations of the suffering man being all the sound that broke the quiet of the room. Then, raising his head, Mr. Kingsley looked firmly and regretfully in the eyes of his old friend. Mr. Trowbridge, he said, if I have been brought to the determination I have now made through a voluntary motion of my own, I would be an easier-minded man at this minute than I have been from the evil hour I was tempted to conceal the existence of that paper. God knows that I have suffered for the wrong. He knows, too, whether it was for that he has brought upon me the crushing grief I bear this day, even as it is, forced by necessity to make reparation to these poor girls. I feel already relief of a dead weight here, striking his breast. Bring out the letters, and we will look them over. Mr. Trowbridge silently brought them to the table where together they seated themselves. Let me have them, said Mr. Kingsley, taking up the still-sealed package. You need not fear to trust me now, Mr. Trowbridge, if all could again be as it was, I would bring forth the paper. The seals were broken, and then appeared a bundle of time-stained letters tied together with a tape. With trembling fingers Mr. Kingsley turned over some half-dozen of the letters and produced from among them a written paper, one half only of a sheet of letter paper. He looked at it for a moment, then placed it in the hand of Mr. Trowbridge. I might have defied you, he said, as he did so. I might have denied the autography of that paper, were it produced against me, and made trouble for the poor girls whose rights it proves. But if I thought to do so, it was but for a moment, and that moment I regret. I have long felt it would come to this, have almost wished it. It is all right, as it is. One thing I will say for myself, he added, and you may believe it is the truth. If that paper had come into my hands at the time of my uncle's death, it would never have been concealed. But possession blinded me to the rights of others. I had owned all so long. I was too greedy to be content with half. Take the paper, and the whole management of it into your own hands, Mr. Trowbridge. I make no reserve of interest on the twenty thousand. All shall be exactly as a court would adjudge it. He paused for a moment, and then added, I might any time have destroyed the paper, but I don't regret I did not. I say it expecting you to believe me, Mr. Trowbridge. And I do, earnestly replied the latter. You are kind, sir, after all this. How will you have it done? inquired the other, after a silence upon the part of each. As a gift to your cousins? No, emphatically replied Mr. Kingsley. I would sink under that. Tell the truth, far as may be. Tell that a will has been discovered setting aside the former one, and sharing my uncle Godfrey's property. I have prospered in my business, as you know, and can well afford this. But had it been that it must ruin me? Would I have dared to complain? I have prospered? No. God has prospered me. Perhaps he has meant to smooth the way for me to make reparation. But I have been stubborn and blind. I have tempted him. His friend made no reply. He was tying up the bundle of letters, having carefully put aside the paper. The person who injured the writer of those letters in the eyes of my uncle believed he was doing me a service. Thoughtfully observed Mr. Kingsley. How short-sighted we are. He was planning for me the temptation and the sorrow of my life. He hesitated, in evident embarrassment, then added, I owe it to my wife to say that, though at one time satisfied to persuade herself, as I did, that my uncle's real wishes were expressed in his second will, she has latterly. Since the visit of poor Hilda Ross, which affected her strangely, more than once suggested that we should, nearly as we could, undo what we had done. Had I listened to her, how much might have been spared me? Spared us both. Tears sown, tears reaped. It was a few weeks after this that, returning from a visit to the good Barbara Strand, Mabel met her friend, Mrs. Higgs. I'm so glad to see you, exclaimed Mrs. Higgs. I've heard all that's happened to you and often thought of you. So a new will was found giving you and your sisters half the Kingsley estate? Mrs. Kingsley herself told a friend of mine about it, and said it was really no matter of distress to her to part with those thousands, as you were all such good girls, and had gone through much trouble. Poor woman. She's had such a time in her family. Only one living out of her four little girls. She told this friend of mine that she holds this one child in fear and trembling. Yes, those were the words in fear and trembling. And how is your little sick sister? I heard, too, that you had your other sister home with you, the one from the New York school that was taken by Mrs. Lemming. Is she going to stay with you all together now? In reply to these two questions, Mabel said that little Lily was no better, and that many would remain with them at least until the return of Mrs. Lemming. Mrs. Higgs still held her hand. She gave it another pressure, and with a sigh abruptly said, I suppose you've heard my daughter Lizzie's married. Mabel replied that she had not heard it, adding some words of congratulation, though she somehow divined from the look and tone of her companion that the latter did not altogether regard the circumstance as one of congratulation. Mrs. Higgs sighed again. Yes, dearie. She continued, our poor little Lizzie's married. It's altogether a most uncomfortable thing, and it's made me and her father miserable as can be. Mr. Thaddeus Ponskiewski. I can run off his name easy enough now, but when he first came about, it was a regular poser to me. Mr. Ponskiewski's a foreigner from Russia, and he made dear little Lizzie's acquaintance at New York, and got her to engage herself to him while she was at school. You know, things ain't in the old-fashioned way now. But girls make plenty of gentlemen acquaintances at boarding schools. Well, well, far as I can see the old-fashioned way was the best one. Soon after I first saw you, Mr. Ponskiewski came to Chicago after Lizzie. He's a splendid looking fellow, no one can deny that. And he made us all believe he was a great somebody or other—a prince or a baron, I believe—and we thought, of course, it was all right, as he'd come from New York City, and the principal of the school let him visit Lizzie there. He stuck to Lizzie's elbow wherever she went, and made a great show of his love for her. And so we gave our consent, and the wedding came off. A grand affair it was, why, you might have seen all about it in the papers. They called it The Great Golden Marriage in High Life—or something of the sort. But all the gold that got it up came from our side of the house, for we've never seen the first yet from our Russian prince. Well, my dear, it's all ended and our finding out he's no prince or baron, but only a New York gambler. To think of our dear little Lizzie being married to such a character. Mr. Higgs is just broken-hearted about it, and so am I, though it's some comfort to know all responsibility about Lizzie was put off my shoulders when her father sent her a little thing to the New York school, where they bring up girls professionally. Well, the only hope we have is that, as Mr. Ponskiewski was plainly dead set on Mr. Higgs's money, when he finds, after a while, that he can't get any of it as his son-in-law, we'll be able to buy him off, as Mr. Higgs calls it, and get poor little Lizzie to ourselves again. Between you and me, I don't believe she'll be a bit sorry, but anyone can see she's not at all happy with him, since the trick he played on us is found out. And besides that, we don't think over well of his habits and his treatment of her. Poor dear little Lizzie. Well, well, I never did like his having that whiskey in his name. Mabel expressed her regret, adhering this sad fate of the pretty doll. Well, our troubles ain't the only ones, remarked Mrs. Higgs, having given the third sigh. Maybe you know all about Mrs. Gray's daughter? Again Mabel replied in the negative. No? Why, Miss Belinda has run away with young Ralph Barrett. It was all through fault of a French governess that Mrs. Gray thought the world of, but that's turned out no better than she should be. She aided and abetted the whole thing and run off with the young couple herself, taking care to get a quarter salary in advance just the evening before she left. But one of the worst things about the matter is that young Barrett forged a check on his father for a large amount and got it cashed and carried off the money with him. The whole party's gone down south somewhere, where the French governess has a sessesh lover, or husband, or something. Well, well, with our sons and our daughters we have a sad time to be sure. Mothers ain't good enough to bring up their daughters, you see, so to boarding school they must go. While, as the big fortunes made in oil, puts into the heads of all the young people to be rich right off, they try for it one way or another. And if the trying brings disgrace on them, and all belonging to them, why, it's no more than is to be looked for. End of CHAPTER XXI under the mountain ash. The little light was flickering feebly indeed, but not in privation and want, but surrounded by every comfort that means could furnish the little sufferer. Again, in the still night, was the delicate ear of the child soothed by the low tick of the old watch, redeemed from the hands of the pawnbroker. Again was— MOTHER'S WATCH, MOTHER'S WATCH! The music she heard in it. With the cheerful spirit natural to her days of health, little Lily appeared to have forgotten the trials and troubles of latter months, or only to remember them to find greater comfort in the blessings now around her. It's come only for a little while to me, she whispered one day to Mabel, but then I'm so happy to know it's put an end to all the trouble for you and dear Hilda and Minnie. With a tender glance into the tearful eyes turned wistfully upon her, Lily presently added, I'd like to say something more, Mabel dear, only I don't think you like me to talk about it. Say anything you wish, darling. And Mabel wound her arms lovingly about the frail, wasted form of the child, as though to make sure she held now, at least, the thing so dear to her. Well, Mabel, I was going to say that, since you've got plenty of money, you'll be able to put the pretty white stone you and Hilda used to talk about at Mother's and Father's grave. And maybe you'll put a little one for me too, will you, maybe? Then there'll be a beautiful mountain ash for us all. I've been a good deal troubled all along about the mountain ash, because I knew it must cost a good deal of money to put it there, and you didn't have any at all. And I used to dream that some of the good angels we know, maybe the good Barbara, would come of themselves, knowing I wanted it so much, and put it just in the right place over the grass. But you're crying, darling, and I won't talk so any more. The crying mustn't stop you, dearest Lily. I want to know just what you wish, and it shall be as you say. Well, Mabel, won't it be pleasant, when you and Hilda and Mini see the tree there in the summer time and the fall, with its beautiful red berries, and know your little Lily loved it above every other tree, and begged you to have it just there? It will, my precious. And instead of feeling sorrowful and unhappy, you'll be thinking, all of you, how Lily was taken out of her pain to a kind Jesus who loves little children, and how she's with dear father and mother again, and the other good angels gone before, Mabel, only gone before. We'll think of all that, dear Lily. God will give us the consolation. Mabel, after a pause, do you know? Do you suspect? What, my darling? Why I'm wanting to say all this to you now? Yes, dear Lily, that we may know you were not troubled at thought of what must some time come, that we may be comforted when it does come. Yes, that, Mabel, but something more, too. It's because I think, I feel, it will only be a little while now. A sob came near bursting from the loving Mabel, but was checked at the thought of the suffering it would cause the little one. But Hilda, who with many had listened to all from the foot of the bed where they stood, buried her face in her hands, and gave way to the tears she could no longer restrain. Poor, poor Hilda! The little voice was full of pity, and only caused the tears to flow faster. Oh, Lily, if I were but good, like the rest of you, I could bear it better. Dear Hilda, you are good! Hilda uncovered her face, and choked back her tears. If I'm not all bad, Lily, dear, she said, it's because of my having you good ones by me. But I'm going to be better, Lily. I'm going to be more like Mabel. I want you to take a little minute and think of this, Lily, just a little minute. I'm praying always now for a good, strong faith like Mabel, so that when the time comes for me to go to you and mother, I may be worthy. You understand, Lily? I mean those words of mothers that Mabel has often told you to be worthy the home to which we all are going. And, Lily, I tell you this now for the same reason you've been telling so much to Mabel. You know, Lily? Yes, dear Hilda, because I shall go from you all so soon. And it was soon she went, sooner perhaps than the little one herself thought, for Lily never wakened from the sleep into which she fell an hour or so after this talk with her sisters. Two white stones mark the spot where sleep three of the household, gone before, three taken and three left, and over them blooms the beautiful mountain ash with its glory of scarlet berries, reminding the three who remain of the angel child, who tarried with them here awhile, making purer and better their hearts, than sped to the world of light from sorrow from pain. End of Chapter 41 End of Mabel Ross, The Sewing Girl Recording by Jennifer Fornier, Marshall, Virginia