 Chapter 28 The Visitor of the First Floor Lodger The individual who thus took the sisters by surprise was a woman of some forty-five or fifty years of age, comfortably, though not very well-dressed, in mourning, short of stature, and very spare in face and form. Her thin gray hair was tucked beneath a white cap, the border of which shewed within the roomy face of a bonnet, singularly large, even for the fashion of the day. Indeed, taken in comparison with the proportions of the wearer, this head-covering bordered on the grotesque, and gave to her whole appearance so quaint a character as might very naturally create a smile in the observer. The smile was not likely to be repeated, however, after a glance into the face of the woman, whose pale features, delicate in form, were an expression of melancholy and of patient resignation touching to see. One would say there was there some long ago wakened, but never to be forgotten grief, that had absorbed to itself the inner life of the woman, leaving but a passive and but half-conscious machine to move its remaining time on earth, having no co-mingling with others save in a sympathy with that grief, seeing all things through it, feeling all things through it. Having paused only to close the door behind her, the stranger walked slowly and silently forward, her eyes earnestly fixed upon Mabel, as the latter sat still beside the bed of little Lily. Surprise at the unexpected appearance of their visitor kept both the young girl silent, and it was the former who first spoke. I am a visitor to the first floor lodger, she quietly said, turning from Mabel to Hilda and back, with one or two old-fashioned nods, and I've just come up a moment to see the little sick child. Having thus briefly introduced herself and the purpose of her visit, she glided with noiseless step to the side of the bed opposite Mabel, and fixed her regards on the pale but beautiful features of the little afflicted one. Hilda brought forward a chair, and both she and Mabel desired the stranger to be seated. She took no notice, however, of the proffered attention, but continued to gaze on the touching picture before her, and Mabel and Hilda presently perceived large teardrops to fall from under her lowered lids and over her cheeks. Poor little darling! She half-whispered, as though to herself. Beautiful little sufferer! How, like death, she looks! Only for the pain-lines that tell she has not yet on her angel robe. A little while more to bear the pain, a little while more to grieve yet comfort mother's heart, and she is gone to him who sent her back to light, back to rest and peace. The words fell on Mabel's ear like a requiem, almost like a prophetic warning. She turned her eyes from the face of the strange visitor to the beautiful, fading form so dear to her, then covered her face and silently wept. For Hilda, she looked for a moment as though about to resent the intrusion of the stranger, but sight of the unmistakable emotion on the sad features of the woman recalled her to different feelings. You had better take a seat, she said, putting the before-offered chair a little nearer. You looked too tired and weak to be standing. The stranger looked a grateful acknowledgment, but did not avail herself of the chair. It's a picture I have before me always, she said, absently resuming her own train of thought. A poor fading babe, on its bed of pain, and a sad, heart-crushed mother watching beside it. But God is with them both. He gives the mother a little hope to the last, and when he takes away the babe, he gives her instead a sweetly sad remembrance that is like a shadow of the little oneself. He won't forget the mother in her time, neither, but will surely give her babe to her again. Who can doubt his goodness? I never can. I know my babe will be given back to me. More beautiful, more loving than ever. And when I'm most lonely, it's just then he makes me feel the more the good time coming. And I take comfort, and am able to move on again. And so I'll go moving on, and moving on the best I'm able, till he calls me to himself, and puts back my babe in my arms, and for all time, for all eternity. There was no room for question of the grief which had set its life mark on the sad woman. Her every word and look in presence of the stricken child spoke it. Seeing that Mabel was still in no condition to speak, Hilda thought it incumbent on herself to say something, though the peculiar manner of their visitor embarrassed her as to how she should again address her. The little girl is our sister, she presently said, but Mabel is every bit as tender and loving as a mother to her. Your words have made her feel badly, but she will presently talk to you. You say you came to see the first floor lodger? I suppose she told you about our poor little Lily. The stranger turned her eyes upon the young girl, at first with a look of dreamy semi-consciousness, which caused some misgivings in the mind of Hilda. But this look passed away, and it was only the customary expression of quiet sadness which remained on the features. Yes, I came to see Mrs. Moppet, she said, Mrs. Moppet on the first floor, and she told me about the little one, so I took the liberty of coming up. She turned again to the bed. It's a pretty, but a sad picture, she said after a short silence. But I never turn from it as some do, I know it all so well, I know it from first to last, from the first fear entering the mother's heart to the last hope leaving it. And I know, too, how after that there's much to come that's hardest of all to bear, and that the heart scarcely could bear, but for God's presence in it. Well, well, I'm glad I came up, and if you'll let me, I'll come again, for I shan't forget the pretty, sad picture of the young mother and her suffering babe. The poor little girl and her sister, said Hilda again, our mother has been dead these nearly two years. Ah, well, it's all the same, said the visitor, mother, or sister, mother, it's still the tender nurse with the mother's heart, the mother's hope, and the mother's reward. Laying her hand gently on Mabel's shoulder, she added, God be with you, young sister mother, and he will be with you through all. No cup he gives to drink, but has its sweet drop, so that we take it in submission to his will. Something, too, of the sweet joy of the angels must come to those who tend to the angels. It is so in heaven, it is so on earth. From among the roses we carry away the sweet odor of the roses, loving them one learns to love all things pure. She bent down and kissed Mabel's half-covered brow, as the head of the ladder rested on the edge of the bed. May I kiss her, too? she then asked, bending over little Lily. I wouldn't disturb her for the kiss, but it would be sweet to me. Hilda could only nod ascent, for she was now no better able to speak than Mabel herself, and the lips of the first-floor visitor touched those of the slumbering child. Lily's eyes opened and fixed themselves upon the face bent over her, but without the faintest expression of alarm, scarcely one of surprise. Who is it? she asked. Is it a good angel, Mabel? Is it mother? The stranger turned away her face to wipe her eyes. I have not shed a tear for long, she said, but the voice and look of the child recall times when I could weep. Yes, sweet babe, she added, bending again over the pillow, it is a mother, and one that would be an angel to you if she could. For your sake, and she looked to Mabel, I could wish to be an angel of health and life to the little one, for her own? Not so, not so. Oh, that you were, sobbed Mabel. I know what you mean, yet if I had my choice, I could never, never give her up. You're young, and you don't know, said the stranger, turning to leave. I felt so once, but it was long, very long ago. Shall I come again, young sister mother? Looking once more to Mabel. Yes, oh yes, Mabel replied. I have made you shed tears. Yes, but they have done me good. I strive too much against them, perhaps. At least I feel so, at times like this, when they bring me relief. I will come. She gave another wistful glance to the bed, then, with a grave gnaw to Mabel and Hilda, left the room as quietly as she had entered it. Say, who is it, Mabel dear? Again asked Lily, who with her eyes had followed the stranger until the door closed upon her. We don't know, my darling. She didn't tell us her name. But she's good. A good angel, didn't she say? She said she was visitor to the first floor lodger, put in Hilda, who, happening to be in one of her prosaic moods, chose things should be called by their right names. Visitor to the first floor lodger? Oh, said Lily, in a disappointed tone. But I think, Hilda, she's very good. If she is only that, I think she's good enough to be an angel. END of CHAPTER XXIX Before this little talk came to an end, Mabel had arranged her sewing machine and commenced working on her vests. Recently put under the influence of a large dose of morphine, and with her mind diverted through the novel occurrence of The Visit of the Stranger, Lily continued for some hours without return of her more acute suffering, and Mabel was thus little interrupted during the remainder of the evening. Through the long night hours she worked steadily on, having administered another dose to the child, and the gray of morning, rendering dim and rayless her lamp, found her still busily employed. Overtasked nature would then bear no more, and she threw herself on the bed, where she was presently in a sound slumber. When Hilda waked at the customary hour, she found Mabel still sleeping. In opposition to directions given her by the latter, instead of waking her, she took every care to avoid breaking the rest which she knew was so much needed, busying herself, as quietly as possible, in getting ready the simple breakfast. You'll give me some eggs for breakfast, Hilda? whispered Lily, who, contrary to Hilda's expectation, had wakened without complaint. There's not an egg in the basket, darling. Hilda replied, having looked into the receptacle mentioned. But I want some! rejoined the child a little fretfully. I haven't had an egg for ever so long, and tomorrow's Christmas. You haven't been well enough to eat them, dear Lily. Yes, but I'm better now, and I want eggs ever so much. Mabel will send you for some when she wakes, I know. She always does let me have eggs when I want them. Hilda said nothing further. She was thinking of eggs at forty-five cents dozen and wondering whether Mabel would not, for once, deny the child her wish, in consideration of the importance of not shortening yet further the amount laid by for their landlord. The breakfast ready, she passed round to the bed where Mabel lay, intending to waken her. But the worn expression, which, even in sleep, set on the pale features of her sister, arrested her attention, and she stood for a while thoughtfully regarding her. Yielding then to one of those impulses which governed her, Hilda dropped on her knees beside the bed, burying her face in the bed-clothes. But even then she could not shut from view the touching picture before her of her loved sister, the devoted Mabel, who so uncomplainingly toiled to keep in decency their little family. The mute features, stilled in sleep, seemed to reproach her, as waking they had never done, for the small part she took in the day and night toil. She had slumbered on her bed, while the loving sister worked. She was about to commence a day of comparative ease, while poor Mabel struggled to earn that little which, with a little more, was to keep them yet a while from want. How often had Mabel said her sister had done her best, that she had no fault to find with her? But looking in her own heart, as she did now, Hilda found much to contradict the affectionate assurance. The reproaches which had come to her on her homeward root of yesterday were yet more heavy on her now, and through the self-condemning spirit which filled her, she seemed to see enough in her own want of humble looking to a higher power to thwart the beautiful submission of the loving Mabel. Even the baby Lily is wiser in those things than I, was her thought. Even she has gone forward on the road dear mother tried to lead us to. I alone of all have held back. How cold were my prayers of last night, though after the bitter lesson taught me of the morning. How cold to what they ought to have been, and how proud and stubborn my heart! Oh, how am I to become what I want to be? How am I to get to feel that happy confidence dear Mabel feels that God is surely working all things well for us? Yes, even at a time like this, when trouble seems coming on every side. The answer was in the heart to which the question was put, and Hilda was presently addressing to her God such earnest petitions for his grace as she had never yet sent forth. The murmured words alone would scarcely have reached the ears of the sleeping Mabel, but the smothered sobs which accompanied them effectively roused her. One glance at the kneeling form beside her sufficed to explain all. But she refrained from even laying her hand on the bowed head of the young girl, though her heart dictated the movement. When Hilda, at length, whispered to her that it was time to arise, Mabel gave no intimation that she had witnessed the little scene beside her, though her heart was overflowing with joy at thought of it. Little Lily presently put in her plea for eggs, and Hilda looked anxiously at Mabel. She must have them, said the latter in reply to the look, and I'm happy to know she is so much better as to want them. Poor child! Did they cost twice as much I would not deny her? It took Hilda full twenty minutes to go to the nearest grocery store and back. On her return she burst into the room in an excitement which startled both her sisters. Oh, Mabel! she exclaimed, I'm to hurry through with the shirts quickly as possible, for there's the finest chance I've ever had waiting for me. Mary Griffin just left me at the corner, and she says there's a standing advertisement in one of the daily papers for a hundred girls to work on vests and pants at pinching companies on Lake Street. But for the shirts I'd apply for the place this very morning. Mary Griffin herself is going today, and there are plenty of girls leaving other places to go, for it's a large store, and they know they'll be good pay and everything right. Mabel expressed her delight at this good news, and little Lily, too, clapped her hands, though it was evidently with a great effort she did so. You may clap your hands, Lily dear, cried Hilda, for my meeting with Mary has turned out something for you. Only it must be a secret for a little while. I've been dreadfully extravagant, Mabel. She added in and aside to her sister, for see I got this a whole dime it cost for Lily stalking. She must have some Christmas, you know. But then, in a few days, I'll be in this place at pinches, and Mary Griffin says she wouldn't wonder if he pays from four to six dollars a week just to think as it's such a respectable firm and has out such a big advertisement. And so excited was Hilda at prospect of being employed by this Mr. Pinchin company that she came very near turning over on herself the kettle of boiling water while extracting from it the eggs destined for little Lily's breakfast. It was with a happy heart Mabel placed before the latter the small tray, with the eggs, biscuit, and good hot tea. During the past few days the child had been too ill to have even the slight appetite ordinary with her, and Mabel hailed with joy the present appearance of a favourable change. But short time indeed could the devoted girl indulge in the pleasing thought. Lily turned from her breakfast with a look of distress. I can't eat the eggs, she said, tears forcing themselves to her eyes. I think they'll make me bad again. They may do you good, my darling, just try this one, Lily. Lily shook her head, with a grieved glance at her sister. I can't even try, she replied. Take away the tray, Mabel. What? With the nice hot tea and crackers? Won't you even take the tea, Lily? No, no, oh, Mabel, take it all away. Mabel did so, then returned to the bed, where she found Lily with the spread over her face to conceal that she wept. Are you in pain, my dear Lily? No, no, sobbed the child, giving way to more violent weeping. But I'm unhappy, because, because I've been naughty. You have not been naughty, my darling. Don't cry, but uncover your face and look up. Oh, but I was naughty! cried the little penitent. I knew you had money to spare for the eggs, yet I let you get them, and now I can't eat them, and I'm so sorry. No good angel will come to me. No good angel will love me! It required considerable effort on the part of Mabel to tranquilize her patient, whose condition, as she now saw, was by no means the improved one she had believed. At length Lily lay once more quiescent, if not at ease. Mabel then hastened to her sewing machine, for some time in the hands of Hilda, who worked in a sort of frenzied way at her shirts, that she might the sooner be at leisure to accept one of those hundred positions offered Chicago sewing girls by the respectable firm of Pinch and Company. Before night came, little Lily was again in the suffering condition she had labored under during the several past days, and again was everything forgotten by her faithful nurse, save ministering as far as was in her power to the little one's relief. That night it was Hilda who worked and Mabel who rested, the former having persisted in persuasions to her sister until this arrangement was affected. Bravely the young girl struggled through that long night against the inclination to sleep which must otherwise have overpowered her. But she nerved herself by the thought of the many weary nights Mabel had done but what she was doing now, and of the courageous Peggy Bonner who toiled through that night of terrible cold until overtaken by death himself at her task. There were other thoughts than these making Brave Hilda's heart. She was striving to imitate Mabel in Christian virtues as well as in her persevering industry, and she already experienced some of the reward sure to follow such efforts. A something of the inspiring hope which had long sustained Mabel was now her own, and it lightened her heart and lightened her toil, and mourning at length peeped in at the window finding her still busy over her work. Weary she was indeed, weary and aching in every limb, but neither desponding as of old, nor harboring harsh thoughts of those who seemed to stand in the way of her own and her sister's prosperity. She could only think with pity rather than anger of her cousin Algern who so boldly as Hilda had said to her clung to a falsehood and who seemed by her wrong to her cousin's orphaned girls to dare the hand of an avenging providence. Hilda thought of herself as she had stood before her cousin a morning or two before. She thought of her words touching her cousin's children, the four corresponding in number with those left by her own mother, and remembering the paling cheek and trembling hand of her listener, she felt assured the words had sunk deep. Not for all cousin Algern's wealth, she thought, would I have in my heart the sting those words must have left? No, no, if we are poor, we have at least no such wrongdoing to burden our consciences. God has been merciful to us, far, far more merciful than to her. It was Christmas morning that looked in at the little window, a Christmas day sun which presently followed, touching with its first pale rays the head of the young girl as she sat bending over her work. Yes, Christmas day had dawned, but it brought no holiday, no recreation to the little family in that humble room, no gay mingling of friends, no cheering gifts, no Christmas, as Hilda had said to her cousin. Yet even thought of this caused no bitter feeling to Hilda, as she looked up and saw that it was indeed sunlight that gleamed upon her, that she had worked the whole night through and was still waking to meet the dawn. She rose noiselessly as possible, Mabel should sleep yet a while longer, she needed more rest after the previous night's loss, and besides, wasn't it Christmas? A little murmur from Lily's bed drew her attention as she was about to throw herself beside Mabel, and she perceived in the little hands just unclosed from their night's rest the stalking with that solitary toy which was to make Lily's all of Christmas. But Lily's enjoyment of this pleasant surprise was but momentary. She was too ill to play with or handle her toy, too ill to care long even to look at it, when Hilda placed it on the little table beside her. When Mabel wakened, a few minutes after, it was to see with grief that the child appeared more restlessly uncomfortable than she had yet been. Breakfast over, the two sisters busied themselves in advancing their several tasks, the morrow being Saturday, the day on which they hoped to have them finished. Lily had for some time then under the influence of that only medicine which brought her relief, and Mabel, engaged with her sewing machine, did not perceive that she had wakened, and lay with her head covered completely with the bed-clothes. When at length Mabel approached and drew them down, it was a look of intense distress she saw on the face of her little charge. Please cover my ears, Mabel. She pleaded. Put something in them, do. Cover them ever so close. Is it the sewing machine worries you, my darling? Yes, Mabel, dear. I can't bear its whir-whir. Try as I might. It goes all the time to my back, sharp and throbbing. Mabel did her best to deaden the hearing of the little sufferer, then returned once more to her work. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed, then a sharp cry rang from the bed. I can't—oh, I can't bear it, Mabel! cried the child, as her sister hastened again to her side. Maybe I don't hear it, with all these things in my ears, but I feel it, and that's worse. I heard it all night long in my sleep. It brought on such dreadful throbbing, and now it's making me worse than ever. My darling shall be troubled no more. Don't be distressed, dear Lily. It is all over now. Mabel spoke very firmly, for she meant what she said—cost what it might. She meant it. Mabel, is it naughty not to love the sewing machine? No, my darling. You are ill and cannot help its worrying you. Oh, but I used to love it so. You were better than, my darling Lily. And I used to love the mountain ash, and the mignonette, and now I don't. I'm not sorry the mountain ash is all withered up, and I don't want the mignonette near me. Although it smells so sweet, dear Lily, it only worries me, Mabel. I love nothing now, but you and Minnie and Hilda, and the good angels. Only I'm all the time thinking the angels ain't pleased with me. But they certainly are, Lily. You are a good, suffering child, and they must love you. And will that one come soon again, the visitor of the first-floor lodger? I hope so, dearest. She said she would come. I wish she would. I love to hear her talk to you about angels and sick children, and then she called you sister-mother, and I loved that, too. Lily sunk into another slumper, but Mabel did not again start the wheel of the sewing machine. You will really give it up, Mabel? whispered Hilda. Yes, Hilda. The poor child shall be tortured no more. I will do handwork altogether, and you will get this place at pinches. None of these men will have handwork, Mabel. Then I will get custom work. I must get it, Hilda. I will try for it again tomorrow. The condition of this poor child will embolden me to make efforts that cannot fail of success. I have been thinking of one place you ought to go to, Mabel. Said Hilda, after a pause. I know where you mean, and we'll go there tomorrow. Surely. Surely they owe us some sympathy, if no other does. Yes, Hilda. I will try, Mrs. Barrett. In the meanwhile, what is to be done about the rent? Neither the vests nor the shirts are finished, and with three dollars short it is needless to go to Old Brumbly. I'm pretty brave, but not brave enough for that. I will try and get something more on the watch. I've been thinking of it for some days past. Then we have part of our work finished, and that will bring us something. Hilda gravely shook her head. Unless quite finished it is the same as nothing, she said. I've heard of just such cases, and the employers always refuse to pay for the unfinished work. And as to the watch, I don't believe that man will give you another shilling on it. Still I can try, Hilda. Early tomorrow I will go take home the vests and shirts. I will ask for the money on them, and if they will not give it to me I cannot help it. Then I will go about the watch and do the best I can there. After that I will visit Mrs. Barrett, and may succeed in getting from her a supply of work, or a promise of a supply, which will give me courage to meet our landlord, even with the three dollars short. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 of Mabel Ross The Sewing Girl This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 30 Aristocracy At an early hour of the next morning, Mabel, as she had proposed, carried her own and her sister's work to their several employers. The result was, as Hilda had predicted, the employers declined paying anything whatever on the unfinished takes. From the second of these places Mabel proceeded to the Clark Street palm brokers. Hilda was right again. The man refused to give another shilling on the watch. The place to which Mabel next directed her steps was a large white marble residence on Wabash Avenue. The door was open to her by a servant, who announced that Mrs. Barrett had not yet taken breakfast. Upon the applicant saying, however, that she had called on business and could not well come again, the woman concluded to let her wait at the door, until she carried this message to her mistress. Presently she returned, saying that Mabel might come into the library until Mrs. Barrett was ready to see her. The door of a near room was opened by the woman and Mabel walked in. It was a handsomely furnished apartment, with showy oaken bookcases on one side and a large grate burning on the other. Before the grate sat, or rather lounged, in a comfortable armchair, a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, a tasseled cap on his head and a mirsham in his hand. He was engaged in reading the morning papers, several of which lay about him on the floor in careless confusion. The sound of the door opening and closing caused him to look up, and Mabel recognized the features of young Ralph Barrett. However unwelcome the recognition may have been to her, young Ralph himself appeared well pleased at the meeting, and notwithstanding Mabel's reserve and constraint of manner, he made efforts at conversation until his mother appeared at the door when he immediately retired. Mrs. Barrett was a person of particularly unprepossessing manner. There was a cold, suspicious look in her eye and an ungraciousness in her deportment, particularly when brought in contact with those she considered her inferiors, by which she meant persons without pretensions to such means as were enjoyed by herself. Mabel had not seen her since some time before the death of her mother, and with all the brave heart she had brought with her, she felt a cold sickness come over her upon finding herself in her presence. Perhaps Mrs. Barrett's eye was more than unusually suspicious as it fell upon her. Mabel had risen to meet her, and as Mrs. Barrett did not take a seat herself, she remained standing. No hand was offered her, no smile vouchsafed her, simply a good morning and a fixing of the cold eye in a questioning way upon her. Mabel, briefly as possible, stated the purpose of her visit. Oh, you have called for work, said Mrs. Barrett, letting her eye fall on Mabel's face to the shabby dress she wore. I thought maybe it was to ask assistance. The last words were added after a moment's hesitation. She could not, dared not, soulless as she was, say, to beg. I simply want to work, repeated Mabel, never dropping her eyes, though a faint flush tingled in her cheeks, and a tide of thought rushed over her mind regarding the time when the husband of the lady was clerk in her father's store and the lady herself, then unmarried, a seamstress in her mother's family. I am obliged to seek custom work, she added, as the extremely nervous condition of my little sister does not permit me to use the sewing machine. I heard about the child, rejoined Mrs. Barrett coldly. Why can't your other sister see to her and let you be free to work out? Everybody knows sewing girls do a good business, and if they keep steady to the employment given to them by the stores, have no need to run round to people's houses hunting up help. No one can properly attend to my little sister but myself, Mrs. Barrett. Of course not, as long as you indulge her, but you want work, you say, and I really have none to give you. I have a sewing girl in the house, and I find that cheaper than putting my work out. But Mabel must have work, she thought of the ruin staring them in the face, and would not be discouraged by the present rebuff. Could not you recommend me to some of your friends, Mrs. Barrett? She asked. I am a neat worker. Well, perhaps I might. At least I could send you to someone who would employ you if you suited them. I never recommend anyone that I don't know something about. Mabel knew that these words referred to her capacity as a workwoman only, yet the words fell on her harshly and crushingly. Mrs. Hague's is a very worthy lady, remarked Mrs. Barrett, as she gave a card with directions to Mabel. In fact, her husband has recently become rich, and as she's not at all proud, not having been long in the aristocracy. I don't think I could do better than send you to her. You may, in fact, use my name in asking to see her, and as she knows my position in society, it will be everything to you. Mrs. Barrett was, no doubt, pleased to get off with serving the reduced daughter of her own and husband's old employer at so cheaper rate. It was a sort of second-hand service which put her to little trouble. Mrs. Hague lived but a few squares from Mrs. Barrett, and a minute or two found Mabel at the door. Almost at the moment she rang the bell, the door was opened by a young lady, of whose age Mabel could not even form a guess. Judging from her face and height, she would have taken her for twelve or so. But her dress, she was in full promenade costume, four, five, or six years older. She stared in a childlike way at Mabel, who, taken by surprise by the showy little figure, did not immediately speak. I don't know if Ma's in, she replied, when Mabel at length, stated her errand, I was sleeping out with a friend, and have only just got home. What do you want with Ma? I wished to see her on business. I was sent by Mrs. Barrett three squares below, who said I might use her name. Oh, Ma, you were sent by Mrs. Barrett? And at the talismatic name, little Miss Hague's eyes fairly danced with pleasure. Oh, I know Ma'll see you if she's home. Please step into the— a pause, and a glance at Mabel's shabby dress— into the hall, and I'll send the girl to see. Mabel did as she was directed, and the little doll danced off into one of the near rooms, and presently Mabel heard the sound of the bell. A tidily dressed young woman replied to the summons, and stated to the young lady that Mrs. Hague's was at home. Then go directly to Ma's room, rejoined her little mistress, and tell her a—another glance at Mabel's face to her overworn dress. A young woman wants to see her on business, and was sent by Mrs. Barrett. The woman paused to take a survey of Mabel, beginning at her face, ascending to her plain hat, then gradually descending to the faded hem of her old dress and her rubbed shoes, after which, with the faintest suspicion of a smile, she departed on her errand. Meanwhile, from her position in the hall, Mabel saw the pretty doll walk up to a large mirror, lay aside her jockey hat with its plume and bugled veil, and begin, with much apparent satisfaction, to smooth and arrange her curls and the ribbons confining them. What a pretty little creature! thought Mabel. I wonder if she's a child or a young woman. The servant reappeared, saying that Mrs. Hague's was at home, and would presently be down, and that she desired the young woman to be shown into the study. The little girl had now come out of the room, and while the servant spoke, both she and the latter took a deliberate survey of the visitor, making, as it would seem, a mental inventory of her outward appearance. This satisfactorily concluded the woman opened the door of the room opposite that from which her young mistress had come, and Mabel gladly availed herself of the invitation to enter. The door was closed on her, and not opened again until Mrs. Hague's herself appeared. Mrs. Hague's was in all respects a very different woman for Mrs. Barrett. Her face expressed good feeling and good humor in every feature, and her manner a warmth and kindliness altogether in keeping with it. This was the natural woman, but a curious uncertainty of speech and deportment, not calculated to impress others favorably, and as could well be seen, particularly distressing to the lady herself, had characterized Mrs. Hague's since the period of her own and family's exultation. She looked warm and flushed just now, and received Mabel with an ill-assured air, as though uncertain whether to act naturally or assume that appearance and tone of consequence which accorded best with her ideas of an aristocratic lady. It may, to her credit, be stated, that through the interview which followed the unpretending, whole-sold woman continually cropped out, despite the efforts of the lady to keep it down, and also that it impressed Mabel to the full amount of its worth, notwithstanding the mountains of absurdity which at times covered it up. They say you were sent by Mrs. Barrett? Were her first words, delivered in the uncertain manner referred to, then after an honest confiding look into the young face, with its eyes half running with tears, she put forth her hand and shook Mabel's warmly. Sit down, sit down, she said, you look weakish and tired and oughtn't to be standing. Mabel thanked her and willingly took the proffered seat. Then followed an explanation from Mabel concerning the purpose of her visit, and a good deal of talk upon the part of Mrs. Higgs, both relevant and irrelevant to the occasion. She particularly questioned Mabel regarding little Lily, in whose unhappy condition she expressed much interest, and a case similar to whose had been, she said, in the family of her own brother-in-law's half-sister. Then she proceeded to inform her visitor that the young lady she had seen was her only child, christened Jane Eliza, and formally called Jane Lies, though now altogether Lizzie, the Jane being dropped as too common. Lizzie was just turned of sixteen, and had recently come home, graduated, from a New York boarding school. Mrs. Higgs said the sending of her daughter away to school was opposed to her own wishes entirely, but that Mr. Higgs had insisted on the measure, and she had then washed her hands of it, and felt no responsibility of her daughter since, that they took the responsibility of girls professionally, her husband said, at such places, and as they were all the time bringing up girls and graduating them, why they had their hands in, and knew what they were about. For herself, since her husband had become rich, she was well pleased she had let him have his way about Lizzie, for though she would have made her a good enough girl at home, there were other things very important to her now, which she was sure she would have made blunder upon blunder about. But then there's the sewing! abruptly added Mrs. Higgs, it's that you want to be seeing about, and I mustn't take up your time with other things. Now the truth is, I haven't a rag to be made up, such a getting of new things as there's been since Mr. Higgs' luck in the oil, but then it makes no difference if I get more. She continued, reading the disappointment expressed on her visitor's countenance. It'll do no harm to have plenty over and above to lay by, so I'll get in some stuffs, and have you call again to get the work? At that moment the door abruptly opened, and Mrs. Lizzie Higgs entered, sweeping after her two feet of rich silk train. She gave a brief and not over-pleased look at Mabel, notwithstanding she had come from Mrs. Barrett, then deliberately turning her back on her, took a step toward Mrs. Higgs, who, as Mabel perceived, looked considerably embarrassed. Ma, she said, you're forgetting the carriage is ordered for twelve, and you have your toilet to make, we have shopping to do, and numbers of visits to return, and after that to dress again for dinner, for Pa told me that he invited several gentlemen to dine with him today. Mrs. Hague made some incoherent acknowledgement of these several forgotten duties, then hurriedly rising, said to Mabel. You can call again next Tuesday, young woman. Not Tuesday, Ma, interrupted Mrs. Lizzie, for it's the day of our ball, the young woman mustn't come on Tuesday. Oh well, Wednesday'll do as well, said poor flustered Mrs. Higgs. I'm sure she can come Wednesday. Wednesday, Ma, what can you be thinking of? You'll not be up before twelve on Wednesday, and after that you can't attend to business. I will call at ten on Thursday morning, ma'am, said Mabel, who had stood waiting to depart. This time Mrs. Hague looked at her daughter for answer, and the latter, without so much as a glance at Mabel, suckly replied, yes, she can come on Thursday. Mabel bid good-bye to Mrs. Hague's and left the room. As she went to the front door, she saw mother and daughter passing the hall to the stairs, the latter sweeping along at a swift pace, the former following more leisurely. Just as Mrs. Hague's had her hand on the balusters, she looked round and perceived that Mabel was making fruitless attempts to master the intricacies of the door latch. In an instant the good woman was hurrying, with a speed no one would have thought possible from her proportions, to the dining-room near at hand. Here she disappeared for a moment, then again came forth, and sped across the hall, not forgetting to give a hurried glance up the stairway to make sure the doll was not observing her. Here, dearie! she whispered, just as Mabel had succeeded in opening the door. Take this to the little sick child! And she thrust under the young girl's cloak a jar of preserved peaches, just brought for the dining-room. Then, while Mabel was in the act of thanking her, she put her out of the door and shut the latter to, saying hurriedly, Don't you be frightened out of coming Thursday, mind! End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Will you walk into my parlor, etc. Mabel had just turned into Twelfth Street, when, to her surprise, she was joined by young Ralph Barrett. I tried to see you before you got to Mrs. Hague's. Were the words with which he followed his salutation? After you left my mother, she regretted she had not brought your interview to a different conclusion. She had not, in fact, taken time to reflect upon the true circumstances of the case. Here Mr. Ralph paused, glanced at his companion, who had stopped from the moment of his joining her, then resumed in these words. It is a delicate matter, Miss Ross, that I have undertaken for my mother, but it must be arranged agreeably to her wish. She has desired me to beg your acceptance of this, as a mark of her friendship. And he proffered Mabel a bank-bill. The young girl drew back a flush on her cheek. I cannot think of it, she said. I called on Mrs. Barrett with no such object. She perfectly understood my wish was to procure work. Of course, certainly it is clearly understood, rejoined the young gentleman, recovering himself from visible embarrassment. Yet still, my mother regretted having let you go without begging your acceptance of this. You will hurt her much by refusing. Our relative positions, you know, that is, my mother feels that she really owes to your family a debt which twenty times this wouldn't cover. It would not indeed, thought Mabel, and she paused before again speaking. In that pause she saw before her the little lily and all the trials of that home to which she was returning. She thought of the rent day, with the rent not ready, and the dreaded visit of the unfeeling brumbly. I am obliged to Mrs. Barrett, she then said. I will return and accept this gift at her own hands. She expressly desired you would not do so, rejoined young Ralph. My mother is peculiar in this respect, and then to be thanked, you know, for such a trifle and under the circumstances. Then I will write and thank her, said Mabel. That would be more agreeable to us both. Certainly. If you will entrust your note to me, I will call any time you say to-morrow. You live. How had Mabel forgotten the watch? For for the time she had forgotten it. How had she forgotten the uneasy thoughts which made her breathe freely only after she had quite gotten from the presence of young Barrett the afternoon of her visit to the pawnbrokers? Upon reflection, I cannot accept your mother's offer, Mr. Barrett. She said, in a particularly firm tone, she is kind, you may thank her for me, but I shall stand by my first thought, only to receive remuneration for services. Adding a hasty good morning, Mabel was hurrying off, when Mr. Ralph followed a step to say, at least give me your direction, Miss Ross, in case my mother should desire to write to you. There is no occasion, Mabel coldly replied, and very determinedly walked on. With an uneasy thought that young Barrett might endeavor to discover her home by following her, she took a circuitous route, though anxious to be back with her little charge. She had, taking altogether, a fair report to give at home of her morning's efforts, since the promise of work from Mrs. Hague's made up for the disappointment of her visit to Mrs. Barrett. Great was the surprise of little Lily when her sister produced from under her cloak the jar of peaches sent by the kind Mrs. Hague's. How kind and good of her, she said, as, having explained concerning it, Mabel brought it to the bed. Beautiful, clear peaches, what a nice lady, a good angel, Mabel. Yes, my darling, kind and good. The other good angel, the visitor to the first floor lodger, maybe won't come any more, said Lily sorrowfully. Hilda's been down to the first floor two or three times this morning, and Mrs. Moppet's away, all shut up still, so Hilda thinks maybe she's gone for good. But we mustn't be concerned till we know, Lily. Besides, even if Mrs. Moppet is gone, her visitor may come to us. You know, she said she would come, and I believe she meant to keep her word. Meanwhile, Hilda was putting on her hat and shawl to go proffer her services to Mr. Pinch of Lake Street. She was in a most hopeful mood, and could see nothing but the most favourable termination of her new undertaking. Mabel strove to temper her expectations with some of her own moderation, but Hilda was not to be impressed. I'm going to hope for the very best, she said, as she kissed first Mabel, then Lily, at parting. And you'll see what fine reports I'll bring you from Pinch and companies. Cheer up, both of you, for it's now come my turn to take the burden, and I don't care how heavy it be, so I only get good pay at Mr. Pinch's. When she returned, it was in no less good spirits than she had gone forth. She was to go on Monday morning to begin working for her new employer. Mr. Pinch couldn't say exactly yet what would be her weekly wages, but she was quite sure, from his manner altogether, and from the number of girls who were ready to go to him, that it would be something well worth having. Mary Griffin had said between four and six dollars. She believed herself that it would be every shilling of the six. She wasn't going to be a bit frightened about Monday and old Brumbly. They'd just let him alone, and if, finding they didn't come to him, he came to them, they could face him boldly with such work promised as that of Mrs. Hague's and Pinch and companies. Certainly their prospects were appearing brighter and more certain than they had done that morning, and Mabel was not one to be backward in hopefulness. Little Lily was doing more comfortably, too, and that was enough in itself to cheer her. The sabbath morning broke on them clear, though very cold, and Lily still continuing better. It was a day enjoyed by the little family, as few had lately been. CHAPTER 32 Another visitor. When Hilda returned from her first day's work at Mr. Pinch's, it was with her hopes a little dampened. She had seen nothing of Mary Griffin, or Mary Griffin's friends, who had, she supposed, gone to work on Friday. Neither did the character of the work prove what she had been led to look for from the advertisement. She had been set to sew at overalls. All the girls in the room were working at overalls. They were every one strangest to her and strangest to the store, having only commenced that morning, like herself. Still, Mr. Pinch spoke fair, and she was sure all was right. He could not yet name the wages, but told her she might make sure of being paid according to her work, and a good fair price. And as she had made up her mind to keep up to the mark, a favourite expression of Hilda's, she didn't fear but that she would come out with the best of them. According to the plan proposed, Mabel had not gone to offer her partial rent to the landlord. A visit from Brumbly was then to be looked for that evening, if he concluded to be good at his word. It is possible that Hilda was more discouraged through her day's experience of her new place than she was willing to acknowledge, for she no longer spoke within difference of the probable visit of the house agent. All her old terror of this man revived. Nor was Mabel without sympathy in it, though she made every effort to preserve her customary composure. It is possible he won't come, don't you think so? questioned Hilda, with a look which a good deal contradicted her own belief in this possible. I think he will, was the reply. From all I have seen of the man, I believe him won to act up to his threat. Mabel, suppose he turns us out! Think of Lily! I have thought of it all. Still, I hope. I trust to get one week's grace out of him. All there is left us is to try for it. Lily was more feeble today than Mabel had yet seen her, though not suffering so intensely as she had laterally done, and she lay in a quiet state as the shades of evening closed around, noticing little of what passed about her. Her eyes were fixed in a half-dreamy way upon Mabel as the latter busied herself at her ironing table, but they did not glance from one to the other of her sisters as they whispered, in the way customary with her. Minutes passed on minutes, and the hour of seven sounded. Hilda looked up to Mabel from the old dress she was repairing, and the latter paused in her ironing. Full seven! said Hilda, in an emphatic whisper. I begin to breathe, Mabel. Somehow, I've said to myself from the first, when it comes to seven, I'll believe we're clear for this time of the bugbear. Mabel had, perhaps, said to herself something of the same sort, for her eyes were looking brighter now, and an expression of infinite relief was on her countenance as she glanced in the direction of Lily's bed. With every moment I shall be better satisfied, she said. There is no reason, I can see, why, if the visit was to be made, it should not have been made long ago. Of course not! Business hours are over now. This old brumbly's not going to spoil his supper for us, however pleasant he might find it to give us a fright. We're all right, Mabel? All right for this time. Come what may, to-morrow. Almost as she spoke, the outside door of the house opened and noisily closed again. A dead silence followed. It's he! said Hilda, under her breath. Mabel did not reply. She was looking uneasily in the direction of Lily, fearful of her being startled from her partial slumber by the unusual sound. The silence below was broken by a shuffling step along the narrow entry. Then came the uncertain tread of a foot ascending the stair. Mabel put the iron from her hand, and went noiselessly to the side of her little charge. She bent down her ear to Lily's lips, and found that her breathing was still regular. Then anticipating the condition of pain and excitement, likely to be caused by the coming visit of the house agent, she began to prepare for her unconscious patient a dose of the morphine. Meanwhile the ascending steps shuffled on, and arrived outside the chamber door. And the next moment the knob was turned, and brumbly entered the room. Just within the door he paused, and slowly looked around him, an ugly gleam in his eye, and something of a mocking smile on his lip. Drawing up with his gaze upon Mabel, as she stood by Lily's pillow, he broke the silence with, I said, if you didn't come to me, I'd come to you, and I never break my word. I was unable to keep the rent and tire for you. Mabel replied, composedly as she could, and I hoped it would make little difference if you got it next week instead of today. Is it pay next week? I mean, is the money owing you, and is the person owing it, a reliable person it must be, bound by promise to pay at this time? It is not owing, nor is it promised, except as pay for work to be given. Mabel spoke with her eyes fixed directly upon the ugly face before her, for brumbly had now approached quite near to where she stood. Then it's the old dodge that I know every turn of, was the rejoinder, but it's played out, I, for one, can't be put on by it, coming down to simple fact, your rents overdue, and you haven't money to pay it. I have three dollars, two shillings, said Mabel, if you will take that now, I have little doubt of being able to pay you the rest in a week's time. No, no, you can't come that dodge, neither, replied the man. I have gone through the mill, and know what take part today and the rest tomorrow means. It's all or none, all or none, if you haven't all, the move is for you to quit the premises. Quite impossible with a child so ill as this, said Mabel, with a firmness that surprised herself. You must be merciful, Mr. Brumbly, and give us a little time. Look you, cried the heartless creature, advancing his clenched hand till he brought it directly before Mabel's face. What was my warning to you, the day you came about renting this room? What did I say to you, first and last, wasn't it? Don't throw the sick child in my face, don't throw the sick child in my face. It was, and you know it. Now you've done it, you've thrown at me your sick child, as I said you would, and the dodge won't serve your turn any better than the others. Sick child, or no sick child, you leave these premises forthwith, forthwith. A glance from Mabel at her charge, discovered Lily with her eyes fixed in a terrified stare upon the house agent. The former had been on the watch for this waking, and she now bent down and whispered some reassuring words to the child. It is simply impossible, as I said before, Mr. Brumbly. She then replied to the man, turning to him once more. Common humanity calls for some mercy in a case like this. What do I know about your common humanity? What indeed? I'm proprietor of this house, and look to the interests of the owner. The child shall be carried out, carried out, I tell you, sick or dead. Upon this little Lily cried out piteously, and for a short time Mabel's whole attention was given to her. Mabel, Mabel, will he put me out? Oh, oh, will he kill me? No indeed, my darling, no one shall touch you. Take your medicine, dear Lily, or you will have some of your ugly pains. They're coming now, Mabel. Oh, I feel so bad. Make that naughty man go away, Mabel. Please make him go. Hilda had, until now, been but a looker on of the scene, not having even moved from the spot where she stood at the time the first sound was made below by the house agent. Great was her terror of this Brumbly. So great as quite to subdue the ready spirit which characterized her. But the appeal of poor Lily aroused her indignation against their oppressor to a point where fear and prudence were left far behind. You know nothing of humanity, she cried, stepping before him with flashing eyes. But decency at least you're forced to observe. Quit the presence of this poor child this moment. You're injuring her. You're killing her. So, so, you throw the sick child at me too, do you? Tauntingly replied Brumbly, turning the full glare of his ugly eyes upon her. I order you from her presence. Cried Hilda excitedly. Instantly leave this room. Instantly leave it. Then you leave this house. The whole trumpery of you. This, no, not this night. For the coward knew he dared not go so far. But by eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I, for one, ain't to be put off by a scolding girl's tongue. I've gone through the mill, and I know every dodge of it. If I find you here after eight to-morrow, I seize everything belonging to you and turn you into the street, off of hand. I'll not leave you the bed your child lies on. Mind you that. Poor little Lily's terror and pain had now reached their culminating point, and Mabel had no moment to give to the scene enacting between the impetuous Hilda and their persecutor. Thus Hilda was left to conduct the defense of herself and her sister as she thought proper. By that time to-morrow, you peace of inhumanity! she angrily rejoined. I shall be round to your office with the full seven dollars, so we can defy you, then and now. Get out of this at once! We can't bear you here another minute, not one. I'll stand to my word, said the mean creature, shuffling off to the door, so you look to it. You'll no more have the money to-morrow than to-day, and I hold you between my thumb and finger, your sick child and the rest of it. You shall be turned out, the child shall be turned out. In a momentary lull of her own voice Lily caught the last words, and sent forth another shriek of terror and of appeal to Mabel. Off with you! Out of this at once! cried Hilda, following on his footsteps and motioning fiercely to the door. The man turned and scowled at her. I, for one, won't be sorry to see you get your desserts, said he, and I'll give them to you yet. With the last words he reached the door, opened it and passed out, and to the concluding one Hilda formed a noisy accompaniment by slamming the door upon him, doing this so violently as nearly to pitch him down the stairs. He was, in fact, heard to stumble and to catch at the balusters with a muttered oath. A sudden and dead calm reigned in the room he had left. Hilda remained perfectly still on the spot from whence she had given her last angry demonstration. Mabel stood pale and trembling by Lily's bedside, and poor Lily, with every sound of pain and terror hushed by a mighty effort, lay like a stricken thing upon the bed. The eyes of the two older sisters were turned upon each other, those of the child upon the door by which had departed the object of her mortal dread. One, two, three minutes passed, then came the slam of the street door. Brumbly had left the house. Gone, exultantly cried Hilda, we're rid of the old bugbear for this time. Little Lily dropped her strained eyes from the door and began to relieve her pent feelings by the low murmur which was the usual forerunner of her medicine-gained ease. Oh, Hilda, what have you done? cried Mabel. He has gone exasperated beyond anything we can hope to conciliate. What have I done? replied Hilda, still exultantly. Why, I have kept my powder dry. And now, Mabel, I leave to you the part you can so well perform, the trusting in providence. Not to say, though, but that I shall do a good share of trusting myself. My dear sister, do you not see that by putting him off with this positive promise, you only make our trouble tomorrow more certain? I shall gain time, Mabel, and everybody knows that is good generalship. He's gotten rid of and Darling Lily is getting to sleep, and by and by we shall get some sleep, too. But tomorrow, Hilda, what a new thing, Mabel, for you to be troubling yourself so much about tomorrow. Haven't you been long teaching me to hope and trust? Yet now, when I am hoping and trusting, you'd have me desponding. I'm concerned because of the promise, Hilda, and because of your having angered the man so terribly, when he comes again. No doubt it will be in quite as sweet a temper as he came to-night. As far as I can judge, he commenced as like a bear with a sore head as he well could, and even if he had been paid his money it's not likely he'd have overburdened us with civility. Now it appears to me, if we're sensible girls, we'll just go back to our sewing and ironing, and drop the subject of old brumbly till, till he comes again, Hilda. Yes, or till I go to him. Stranger things have happened than my keeping this promise, Mabel. Remember the mana and the ravens. Is it too short a time between now and eight o'clock tomorrow for a miracle to be performed? No, no, Mabel. So let us enjoy the present respite from the grip of old shuffle and hope for the best. CHAPTER 33 THE RAG MERCHANTS The next day found little Lily in a particularly feeble condition, the result of the terror and excitement of the preceding evening. Mabel was quiet and anxious, Hilda, on the contrary, more than usually active and talkative. You won't let that ugly bad man come again, Mabel? pleaded Lily as she took a little of the hot tea prepared by her sister. You won't let him turn me out and take my bed? No one shall touch you, my darling. Mabel will guard you from everything. But say he shan't come again, Mabel. I want to hear you say that. He certainly shall not harm you, my precious. And I say he shan't come. Very positively said, Hilda. Make sure of that, Lily, dear. The old brumbly comes here no more. I'm so glad, said Lily, with a little sigh of relief. And, Hilda, Mabel, will the visitor of the first floor come instead? We all hope she may, darling, Mabel replied. I'll stop as I go out and see if Mrs. Moppet's home yet, said Hilda. I'm hurrying breakfast, you know, to get out early. I promised to see old brumbly Mabel, and I shall see him. Mabel looked her surprise across the little table where they sat. To what purpose, you would ask, observed Hilda, replying to the look. Well, well, I'm going to pacify him, or defy him, as I said I would. Make yourself and Lily easy as you can, Mabel. With or without a miracle, God is going to help us out of this trouble. She abruptly left the breakfast table, her bread and potatoes, but half eaten, and having hurriedly kissed her sisters, went to the closet to make her preparations for going out. She put on her hat and an old sack which she had the evening before mended up, then carefully made into a bundle the merino dress and good shawl given her by her cousin Algin. Not sure that she could affect her escape from the room with this bundle, which was a sizable one, without attracting the notice of Mabel or the child, she became so nervous and embarrassed as almost to draw upon herself the attention she was so desirous to avoid. And when, finally, she found herself on the outside of the chamber door, with her purpose accomplished, she was quite trembling with agitation. According to the promise made Lily, she stopped at the door of Mrs. Moppet's room, knocking several times, and making quite sure she really was not there before leaving the house. Mrs. Moppet evidently was still from home, however, and a glance at the outside of the house showed the windows still tightly closed as when she had made her observations before. As Hilda was on the point of closing the house door, a cart appeared at the turn of the near corner and the well-known cry of the ragman struck on her ear. The cart and driver were frequent visitors to the neighborhood, being the same that little Lily had washed with such interest from the window. There had also been a period of great moment to the little girl, in connection with this establishment. And that was when every old matter that could prudently be dispensed with, having been carefully looked up and gathered together by Mabel and Hilda, the grand occasion came when they were disposed of to the itinerant merchants. To have the rag-firm stop beneath their own window, to see their own bundles carried out by Hilda and, after being weighed, thrown with the rest into the cart, and then to have Hilda return in a little flutter of delight and present Mabel with the whole of seven shillings as the purchase-money of their gatherings—oh, it formed altogether a scene never to be forgotten by the poor crippled child whose days were passed in such monotony and privation in that close little room. As has been said, the appearance of the rag merchants took place at the moment Hilda was about to leave the house. Moreover, it stayed her departure. Most opportune seemed to her there coming, for it was likely to save her much time in trouble. The man looked straight forward over the ears of his horse, an animal in perfect keeping with the rest of the turnout, and in a voice of one intonation called out the magic monosyllable rags. From behind invariably followed an echo of the same, though delivered in a much higher pitch, while for the drawl of the first was substituted a little, short, blunt style of enunciation, which coming so immediately after the lengthened one produced a particularly ludicrous effect. The second speaker was a small boy, unquestionably the son of the driver, and in every respect a curious counterpart of him, who sat in the body of the cart, surrounded by the ill-looking, stuffed-out, and leaky bags generally to be seen in company with business people of this description. No words can describe the total apathy which seemed to have taken possession of not only the man and boy, but of the horse as well. One might have fancied all three to be in performance of some dreary penance of no possible interest to themselves, and which was such an old story with them that it had come to be performed in mechanical unconsciousness. Waiting till the cart dragged its weary way to the house, Hilda made a sign to the driver to stop. Raaags! he cried, catching the signal from the corner of his eye, and mechanically coming to a standstill. And Raaags! echoed the little urchin from the rear, his eyes never moving from the old, high-crowned hat worn by his father, which seemed the guiding point by which he steered. Hilda passed down to the curb, from whence she gave a hurried glance up to the window of their little room. The survey seemed satisfactory, and she turned to address the rag merchant. Can you direct me to any place where they buy second-hand clothing? She asked, dresses and shawls and things of that sort. The man brought his regards from over the ears of his horse to the face of the speaker. It appeared to take some time for the meaning of her words to be duly appreciated, for something near a minute elapsed before he replied. My old woman bison! she have a store on Clark and Twenty Second. I buy them, too, sometimes. Then you can tell me what these I have here are worth! rejoined Hilda, but you must come into the house to look at them. The man stared at her, then slowly got down from his seat and followed her into the house. Hilda opened her bundle, and tremblingly displayed her marino dress and shawl, each of which, in turn, the man examined with critical eye. Having held them up and looked through them, then brought them to close inspection, then again held them off and squinted at them, he returned them to their owner. Do you mean to sell them both? he asked. Yes, but I want a good price for them the very best you can offer. I might give you five dollars for them. I'll take it. The poor girl spoke the words so quickly that any other than the slow person with whom she was dealing must have seen the price named was far more than she had looked for. If he saw it, he was either too apathetic or too honest to take advantage of it. For he quietly took from his pocket a greasy porte-monnaie, and having extracted from it the sum named, in good one-dollar greenbacks, he placed them in Hilda's hand. Hilda could not receive them so silently as they were given. Already, thank you! bursting from her lips. The man looked at her curiously for a moment, then quietly rolled up the dress and shawl and tucked them under his arm. About to pass out, he stopped, and giving a wrap with the back of his hand to the door of the first floor, said, She's away. Gone a nursing to a sick woman. Do you know her? asked Hilda rather quickly, for she was thinking of little Lily and her interest in the visitor of Mrs. Moppet. I mean, do you know Mrs. Moppet? I know her, because I know the woman she's a nursing. Barbara strands about the best woman breathing. She did for my old woman and the two twins when all three was a dyin', and after that I'll member her to my last day. And is it Barbara Strand who is sick? questioned Hilda. Yes, sick enough. My old woman's put out for fear she'd die. Never was no woman better nor Barbara Strand. I'm very sorry to hear she's sick, said Hilda, now quite satisfied that this Barbara was no other than their interesting visitor. She came to see us a while ago and promised to come again. We have all been looking for her since, but most of all my little sister, who is very sick. Ah, she takes to children, Barbara does, returned the man. Especially children that's sick. Never see nothing like Barbara with sick little ones. Maybe my old woman be saying to her, for once in a while she gets seen of her. How the little one, your sister, looks for her. Barbara don't forget none of the sick children she sees. I wish you would have your wife tell her, said Hilda, surprised at the man's readiness to talk on this one subject, and a little too at her own willingness to fall into the colloquy. I would like Mrs. Strand to know that we have none of us forgotten her. The ragman nodded his head, hitched up his bundle, and again was on the point of leaving. Then pausing once more, he significantly touched the bundle, and looking over his shoulder at Hilda, said, There's something more nor sickness the matter when it comes to this. I've seen such things and I know. But it's none of my business, course to none of my business. Before Hilda could recover from her surprise at these words, the rag merchant was at his cart, stowing away in a safe corner his new purchase. She stood looking at him until the establishment began to move off, then closed the door behind her, and sped away in the direction of Brumbly's office. She heard the cart moving on through little crowded Polk Street, and the cry of the rag merchants renewed. But it was like something she had no concern in now. She never thought of her good marino dress and warm double shawl, the only good clothing she had owned, hidden in a corner of the ragman's cart. She never looked to how she was to get through that pinching cold winter without them. Her mind was on the five dollars which, with what she had brought away from Mabel, was more than enough for the rent, and that she carried within the old glove on her hand. I hold you between my thumb and finger, the house agent had said to her the evening before. I now hold him in the hollow of my hand, said the young girl to herself now. Yes, the seven dollars will buy him, his mean soul will succumb before it. He may be crabbed and cross, bearish and savage, but his power to molest us is passed from him. Dear Mabel and darling little Lily may breathe freely again, for one month at least we can defy him. About an hour later she returned, and hurrying up to the room, silently placed in Mabel's hand Brumbly's receipt for the coming month's rent. My dear sister, this is welcome indeed, exclaimed Mabel. I have scarcely permitted myself to think how time was passing, how every minute was bringing us nearer that terrible eight o'clock. But say, dear Hilda, how did you get the money? Buy a miracle, maybe? Hilda gaily replied, stooping to kiss her sister's cheek. But see, we're not left penniless by this mighty rent-paying. Here's something to begin again on, and she placed in Mabel's hand the residue of the money. Mabel looked surprised and not a little anxious, too. But seriously, dear Hilda, how did you come buy it? Seriously, Mabel, I came buy it honestly, Hilda replied, honestly enough to satisfy even your fastidious fancy. There is no need to be more explicit at present. You must exercise a little of your faith in my favour, and now I must tell you how our old enemy received me and the money. She then related how she had continued to hold with him the high hand she had taken the evening before, how he had affected to be agreeably surprised when she knew he was really sadly disappointed at her fulfilling of her promise, how he had snarlingly said it was as well she should know, in consideration of the future, that he had laid his plans for fulfilment of his promise by quarter after eight that morning, and how, after getting her receipt for the rent money, she had given him a little bit of her mind and come away. Let us be thankful that God has relieved us in our great trouble, said Mabel. I do not question you further, dear Hilda, about how you have come by the money, but leave you to tell me in your own time. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 of Mabel Ross The Sewing Girl This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 34 The Lady President Thursday came round, and Mabel left home to pay her second visit as agreed upon to Mrs. Hague's. For the first time she was this morning obliged to leave Little Lily alone, Hilda being engaged at Mr. Pension Companies, and there being no stranger she could call on to remain with the child, a sore trial this was to the devoted nurse, and nothing but the absolute necessity of the case would have persuaded her to the measure, though Lily herself, in her desire to relieve the anxiety of her sister, made light of being thus left. With everything arranged in the best possible way for the comfort and well-doing of the little girl, Mabel gave her a parting kiss and hurried off, locking the door of the room upon the outside, and carrying with her the key. Arrived at Mrs. Hague's, she rang the doorbell, and was admitted by the neat-looking servant woman into the hall, where the latter left her to announce her presence to her mistress. In a little while Mrs. Hague's appeared accompanied by Ms. Lizzie, who wore on this occasion a look of pride and consequence, which sat with peculiar unbecomingness upon her dull-like face. Mrs. Hague's herself appeared fluttered beyond anything Mabel had yet seen in her, and painfully embarrassed beside. Following in the wake of the two ladies came the servant woman carrying a bundle of new linen, and having come up to Mabel, Mrs. Hague's took the bundle from her attendant, and presented it to her visitor, saying, Here's the work I promised you, young woman, it's all cut out, and it's only pillar cases beside, so you can't go wrong. Mabel thanked her, adding that she could not name an exact day for having the work finished, as on the condition of her little sister depended her leisure to devote herself to it, but that she would certainly bring it home as soon as it was done. The doll looked impatient at this explanation, and interrupted her mother on the point of reply to say, The young woman might take as long as she liked at it. The only thing was she wasn't to look for any more, as her ma wasn't wanting work done at all, and only gave her that out of charity. Mabel took no notice of the doll, but repeated her thanks to the mother, and hurried off with her work. The words of Miss Lizzie had sunk deep within her, however. She was to look for no more work. The bundle she carried was all she had secured, though more than a morning was spent in solicitation. With a great effort Mabel threw off the momentary despondency this disappointment caused her, and with a heart still kept light by the hope she would not let falter, hastened home to her little charge. Lily had done well as could be looked for during her absence, and made no murmur of complaint concerning the trial she had been put to. As she put her arms about Mabel's neck, however, with the welcoming kiss, a pent-up sob burst from her that was eloquent in expression of all she had suffered. Still she spoke no word, nor did Mabel, as she pressed the poor child to her breast, and kissed again and again the marble-like brow that rested against her. Upon looking over the linen she had brought from Mrs. Hague's, Mabel found she had received something like three or four dollars worth of work. This was more than she had looked for as the first offer, but it presented no very encouraging prospect, knowing it was to be followed by no more. Making the best of her leisure time, for Lily had that day more than one turn of great suffering, and working through most of the night hours, the young sower got her pillowcases finished to take home early Saturday morning. Never mind if it is the last from Mrs. Hague's, Mabel, Hilda remarked, when about to leave home that morning for her place of labour. You'll get work somewhere else, and one person's job is good as another. This is the end of my week at Pinsch's, and I'll bring home good pay tonight, and for many a Saturday to come too, I wouldn't wonder, for the advertisements in the paper still, and with my pay and yours for the pillowcases, we'll have money enough for next month's rent secured. Leaving her little patient as she had done before, Mabel repaired for the third time to the residence of Mrs. Hague's. The servant woman admitted her into the hall, took from her the bundle of linen, and sententiously asked how much the work was worth. Mabel answered three dollars for shillings, and the woman, having given her a stare, departed upstairs with the bundle. In a few minutes she reappeared, followed by Miss Lizzy. The young lady's morning toilet was showy and becoming. With her bright eyes, fine complexion, flowing drapery and rich jewellery, Miss Lizzy evidently saw nothing unsuitable in diamonds worn with a robe de chambre. She carried about her a radiance of glitter and beauty, which must quite have bewildered Mabel, all unaccustomed to close contact with such splendor, but that, young as she was, our sewing girl had learned to look so closely for the earnest in life. The beauty of truth and worth was all that touched her, and Miss Lizzy, robed in her splendor, was to her but a beautiful glittering toy. Ma is not home, said the pretty doll, sweeping up to where Mabel stood, and she told me to pay you what I thought your work was worth. Three dollars for shillings is mighty high for four pair of pillowcases. Dear me, why three dollars is more than their worth, for it's six shillings a pair, I'll pay you two dollars six shillings, and that's almost too much. There was too great need for that money at home for Mabel not to make an effort for it. I should not ask more than six shillings a pair if they were plain cases, even very large ones as they are, she said. But they're all having rufflings makes a good deal more work. Well, but two dollars six shillings is plenty for them, for all that. Rejoined the little beauty, besides, she yawningly added, it's all I have down with me, and it's not worth my while to go up again just for six shillings. Oh, had she no heart to think what that just six shillings might be to the poor sewing-girl? Mabel looked wistfully into the beautiful eyes of Miss Lizzie, but she saw no heart there, nothing to encourage her to further effort, and suppressing a sigh, she accepted from the jeweled fingers the two dollars six shillings and turned to go. Remember, Ma has no more work for you, a little pertly said the doll, as Mabel's hand was on the doorknob. She never will have any more for you, so you needn't come again. Thus dismissed Mabel left the house. Just as she was about turning out of the avenue, a showy carriage drew up to the curb near her, and a plump, kitted hand beckoned her from the window. Mabel was passing on, for she could not at first believe it was to her the occupant of the fine carriage was motioning. A second look, however, assured her that the person within was no other than the mistress of the house she had just quitted, and she approached the window as invited. I'm so glad I got to see you! exclaimed the good-hearted Mrs. Hague's. Most like you've been taking home the pillar cases. Mabel replied that she had just left them at the house with the lady's daughter. And did she pay you the price you asked? Rather anxiously inquired Mrs. Hague's. She paid me two dollars six shillings, ma'am. My price was three dollars four shillings. And it's three dollars four you shall have! rejoined the good woman, taking out her Port Monet. My daughter, you see, was put out by my talking to you that day, and she told Mr. Hague's about it and so there was trouble. I can't give you any more work because of it, she added, having placed the six shillings in Mabel's hand. But I can send you to someone who maybe will. Here's my visiting card. And she took one from a gold-chased case and handed it to Mabel. And you can take it to Mrs. Grace, Michigan Avenue. She's a very charitable person, that is, she's head of all the society ladies of Chicago, and president of a big sewing and industrious society that's top of all the rest. If she takes a fancy to do it, she can give you a big lift. You'd best write the name and number on the card, so there'll be no mistake. She handed Mabel a small pencil, and the young girl put down the name and number as directed. While you're about it, you'd best write something more, observed Mrs. Hague's. Please give the young woman some sewing, as she's in need of help. I'd rather you'd write that yourself, Mrs. Hague's, said Mabel, it would be better coming from you. Mrs. Hague's looked embarrassed. Her eyes glanced from Mabel's face to an uncertain point in the distance, then fell upon her own hands in their tightly fitting yellow gloves. I can't write for having my gloves on, she said, but you're putting it down's all the same. Without suspicion of the true cause of Mrs. Hague's refusal, Mabel wrote the words suggested. Then, with thanks to her kind benefactress, she turned her steps in the direction of Michigan Avenue. Mrs. Graith was about going to a meeting of one of her many societies. She informed Mabel of the fact, but added that as she had a few minutes to spare, she was willing to talk with her concerning the peculiarities of her, Mabel's, case. The lady had a singular number of questions to ask, and while Mabel was answering them, fixed on her so scrutinizing a look that the young girl was satisfied she had, in some way, incurred her peculiar suspicion. But she was mistaken. Mrs. Graith did not regard her with more suspicion than she did every individual of what she called the poor class who came under her notice. It was her want to start in each case with a whole host of suspicions, which, had they been put into so many words, would most probably quite have shocked herself. These suspicions, or misgivings, as she called them, it became the duty of each person brought before her charitable notice to do away with, in the most satisfactory manner, before he or she could be deemed worthy of the lady's faintest sympathy or assistance. Without being aware of it, she reversed the method of some person, real or imaginary, to whom she made frequent reference under the title of My Injudicious Friend. This Injudicious Friend, it would appear, started off, in each case, presented her, under the fixed impression that the individual in question was possessed of every possible virtue, until it was satisfactorily, or rather unsatisfactorily, proved to her that the individual was, in fact, possessed of every possible vice. Thus, with Mrs. Graith, every one was open to suspicion of every vice, until proved to be blessed with every virtue. The first of Mrs. Graith's inquisitorial remarks bore reference to the card presented her by Mabel. I presume I am to understand that Mrs. Hague's herself wrote these lines of recommendation. She said, with her keen gaze upon the young girl. No, ma'am, Mabel replied, unsuspicious of the trap set to catch her. Mrs. Hague's had her gloves on, and told me to write them. Mrs. Graith smiled a little quiet smile to herself, then took a second look at the card, after which the inquisitorial order of things was fairly instituted. Through this she learned everything relating to her visitor and her visitor's family that Mabel chose she should know, privately set down in her own mind as fact a good many more, and guessed or suspected many more still. She didn't like Mabel being so handsome, yet acknowledged, even to her own suspicious self, that there was nothing about her which looked like a consciousness of her beauty. But then, as her reasoning went on, these people do get to be so cunning. I shall take your case into consideration. At length said the lady, consulting her watch. I'm going, just now, to a meeting of the Ladies of Chicago Society for Promotion of Honest Industry, and will lay all the matter you have given me before the Committee of Investigation. If everything is satisfactory, there will be a vote taken upon your case, and if the vote is in your favour, after that we will see what can be done for your assistance. Mabel opened her eyes at this. You understand, ma'am, she said, that it is simply work, needlework I apply for. Certainly that is understood, but we cannot give our work indiscriminately to every applicant. The most deserving are to be assisted first, the really deserving only at any time. The Ladies of Chicago Society for Promotion of Honest Industry is a society upon which too many eyes are fixed to permit its members to be any other than the most watchful and careful advocates of right and virtue. Indeed, it is quite terrible to see how many institutions of this sort, through want of this very watchfulness and caution, promote evil rather than good. Mabel had moved slowly to the door. When shall I call again, ma'am? She asked. I really cannot say. That is, I cannot say when I am likely to give you work, but you might call in about two weeks' time to learn what progress is making in your case. At the words, two weeks' time, poor Mabel's heart sank. How near would such delay bring them to another rent-day? Visions of the brutal house agent rose before her fancy. Old Brumley and poor little Lily! Such thought made her bold. Try and let me have something soon as possible, Mrs. Graith, she earnestly said. Indeed, indeed, it would be no mistaken kindness in my case. I have told you our peculiar position, our poor little sister. Mrs. Graith looked coldly and with some aggravation of suspicion upon her. The girl looked so handsome when she spoke with that light in her eye. There was such an air about her, she looked so excited. Mrs. Graith didn't like it. She was really afraid, well, she'd have to be very, very cautious. All will be done in good time and in proper form. She replied, in a tone quite as cold as her look. Our society cannot be hurried and put out of its way for any individual case to the detriment of others. There is, I believe, some fault found with us on this score. Pursue the lady, buy certain persons ignorant of how such things should be managed, but we know our own business and don't trouble ourselves about them. Once in a while it happens that some little matter turns up seeming to favour this idea of our being somewhat too deliberate in our movements. For instance, there was a case last winter of two girls being frozen to death one particularly cold night, and as it was well known we had had their case under consideration for about a couple of weeks it was thought by some that we might have determined on something in time to save them. But this was altogether a mistaken impression. Our society is bound by excellent laws and by-laws, and all the members are judicious ladies who feel no disposition to oppose them. There are no hot heads among us. All are cool-headed and prudent. Yes, fortunately for the honour of our society and the persons we labour to assist, no one can say that in a single instance either rashness or imprudent taste has been exhibited by any of our members. Mabel could not but think by what different names she would have styled the speed which would be mercy to her and to many other suffering ones. But she said nothing further. The President of the Ladies of Chicago's Society for Promotion of Honest Industry, of course knew her business best, and no appeal could be made from her decision. That evening Hilda returned from her week's employ at the Lake Street Store. As Mabel heard her step ascending the stair, she in part anticipated the tidings brought her. Between Hilda's heart and heels a peculiar sympathy manifested itself, and her sister, in this instance, as in many a former one, judged of the one by the other. In fact, the young girl's step dragged wearily enough on her approach to the presence of her loved Mabel and little Lily, and when she finally presented herself in the room, her countenance bore evidence of the heavy heart within. Oh, Mabel, Mabel! she said as she threw herself down beside her sisters. I'm not going to despond, I'm not going to give way to disappointment, but the temptation's greater than I have ever felt yet. I did so hope to have something worth bringing home to you. Everything did seem so fair and promising. This Mr. Pinch, he's well named, he'd pinch any poor girl black and blue to get work out of her. He's pinched hundreds till their hearts ache this very week. He put such a splendid advertisement in the paper, and he has such a fine store, and he spoke so gentlemanly and fair. Why, who could think? She stopped, covered her cold hands over her face, and burst into passionate weeping. My poor, poor Hilda, said Mabel, twining her arms about her. Don't give up to trouble this way. It was such a good resolve you made not to despond, you know. Stand by it, my sister, stand by it. The disappointment's mostly for you, Mabel, you and darling Lily, sobbed the poor girl. I wanted to help you, to do my share, you know, to let you see I was willing to make some sacrifice. Mabel drew the head of her sister down upon her breast, and pressing her own warm cheek against the cold one, now all bedewed with tears, whispered. To let me see you were willing to make sacrifice, Hilda. Don't I know you have sold your nice dress and shawl to pay our rent? The only decent clothes you had, my sister, the only things fit to keep out the cold of this bleak winter. Oh, Hilda, Hilda. The young girl raised her head and looked into her sister's face. You've found it out, Mabel. You've missed them from the closet? Yes, my darling, true, true sister. I know now how Brumbly was paid. I've discovered your secret. And you're crying? Why, Mabel, how unlike you! At the thought of your loss, my sister, can I help it? Look at this miserable dress you have on, this poor worn sack. Are they fit for trying weather like this? Those things were so good, they would have lasted you. They made so much of your comfort and respectability. And, Mabel, they are better, far better than anything you had, and so I really had no right to them. No, Mabel dear, every time I put on that dress and shawl I felt them a reproach to me. And until this disappointment it pinches, I have seemed happier and lighter since they were gone. Mabel, Mabel, on the alternate Sunday when you went to church, dressed in those old faded clothes, I thought of myself the Sunday before with that fine, glossy black marino and comfortable shawl, and almost hated myself that they were mine. Could I have persuaded you to wear the shawl, Mabel? It would have been something, but you wouldn't. And now it's done its last good service for us both. I don't regret it, I never shall regret it. It's been in my mind like a beginning of better things for me, Mabel, so you must make light of it as I do. I never, never can make light of it, my Hilda, replied Mabel, as she once more laid her cheek to her sisters. It has grieved me, yet made me happy too. Mabel, it was worth doing if only to have you say that and look so approvingly. Come, Hilda dear, and let me kiss you too, put in little Lily's plaintive voice. You've paid the rent, with your only good dress and shawl, she added, as she twined her arms about her sister's neck. You've kept away that ugly, cruel Mr. Brumbly, so he can't. For a whole month take my bed and turn me out. Good, good Hilda! My darling, I'd part with anything, my very life, to save you from that terrible thing again. You shall have all my peaches, cried the child quickly, you and Mabel, that are so good, and only have dry bread and potatoes. The peaches shan't be kept for me any more, you shall have them all. She ceased, and her eyes grew solemn as they remained fixed on those of Hilda. Then, drawing the head of the latter close to her breast, she whispered, Yes, Hilda, we're all right for a month, and don't tell Mabel, I sometimes think, after, that I shall never want but a little bed under, you know, beside fathers and mothers, with grass growing over and a pretty mountain ash for shade. Hilda raised her head with a startled look into the pale, wan little face, so like death already, only for the pain lines, as Lily's good angel had said, then strained the child again to her breast. Had it come to her for the first time, the thought how surely the precious one was passing from them? Was it a new picture presented her, the little grass-grown mound beside that one where already slept the parents, gone before? Hush, hush, Hilda, don't let Mabel hear. Don't cry neither, Hilda, for it don't make me cry. I often think of it, and never cry. The pains, you know, are so bad, and then we are so very, very poor, and dear Mabel has such a hard time with me, and so altogether, darling, when I think of our good, kind savior, ready to take me and stop my pains, and dear mother, and the other good angels, why, why it don't seem it could come a bit too soon. It may be well to state here the circumstances of Hilda's disappointment in the firm of Pinch and Company. Mr. Pinch had promised the applicants for employment brought to his store by his advertisement a fair, nay a high price for their labour. Although no amount was specified, each poor girl was willing to believe that the promises held out would be fulfilled, that a firm of such respectability would scorn to defraud poor, unprotected sewing-girls. These poor girls were required to work ten hours a day, and expected to make twenty-five pairs of overalls in that time. Hard work and close hours, but then the pay was to be good, and this was an incentive that nerv'd each to her task. In the home of each there was a grim necessity that permitted no thought of rest, however the overtaxed frame required it, no thought to spare muscle or sinew. The struggle was for the bread to eat and the rag to wear, and these must be had—oh yes, they must be had—at any cost of unrest and toil. Saturday evening came, and nearly a hundred expectant girls crowded waiting for their pay. Mr. Pinch's foreman presented himself, and went through the settling-up business to the last applicant. Some received one dollar and fifty cents, others two dollars, as a remuneration for six days' work, a little over one cent for the making of each pair of overalls. One among the crowd of disappointed souls dared to raise her voice in remonstrance. It was poor Hilda. She spoke to Mr. Pinch himself. She said to him that the small sum paid was insufficient to procure the common necessaries of life. Mr. Pinch stared and shrugged his shoulders. With that shrug he threw, from his respectable self, and from other members of his honourable firm, all stigma of reproach. His foreman, he said, had made out the bills, and the foreman alone was responsible. Nor was it any business of his, Mr. Pinch's, whether or not the sum paid was adequate to expenses of living. That was the affair of the girls themselves, not his. Said Hilda to her sister in conclusion. I know now, Mabel, why I didn't find Mary Griffin in the other girls I know there when I went. They commenced working on Friday, and when they found out, Saturday evening, the deception that had been put on them, of course, they went no more to the store. But what difference does there staying away, or will my staying away make to this Pinch and company? They'll still find plenty of poor girls to answer their advertisement, and to work for them, till the first Saturday evening has come and gone, then they will stay away to make room for still others. Hilda was silent a while, then added. And now, Mabel, I'm again without work. With all my trying and hoping, I'm but better off one dollar and four shillings than I was this day last week. Perhaps it would have been better to stay even at Pinch's than to have no place at all. No, my sister, you shall go there no more. You have had a hard week of toil, and we must try and get you something, if not easier, at least that will better compensate you for your labour. Tomorrow you will have that Sabbath day rest you need so much, and on Monday can look round again. I shall make efforts myself on Monday, among my old employers, and do not doubt I shall find something to bring home with me, or at least the promise of something. I have a dollar and seven shillings still in hand, and if we are both successful on Monday there will soon be more coming in. Then, next Thursday week, you remember, I go to Mrs. Grayth again, and as I do not fear but our characters will stand all the investigation of the society, I feel quite confident of getting steady work from that time. Make yourself easy, dear Hilda, for we shall be able to keep the wolf from the door. Hilda glanced up quickly from the sewing she was engaged on, the mending of another old dress which was to help take the place of the good one she had parted with. The wolf from the door, she repeated, we have a wolf more savage and cruel than ever walked on four legs to keep off Mabel, old Brumbly. He is never out of my thoughts, rejoined her sister, in a lower tone, and with a glance in the direction of the bed. Still, Hilda, our future does not look unpromising. We have time to recover ourselves, and that is everything. But how fast the weeks fly round, Mabel, almost one already gone in our new month. But in little more than one more there is every likelihood of my securing steady customer work. Hilda glanced up again, hesitated, then once more resumed her sewing. I don't want to discourage you, Mabel, she said at length, yielding to an impulse she appeared unable to resist. But I don't hang the faintest hope on that society of Mrs. Grace, and when I see you looking for so much from it, I know you'll be disappointed. I've heard all about it since you were there, and didn't mean to tell you, only I must. They say that out of a dozen who apply for aid, and come with the best sort of recommendations for character and everything else, not more than one is taken in hand by the members of the society, and perhaps that one only after waiting till all hope is dying out. The ladies of the society are so particular that it is almost as easy for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle as for a poor girl like you, however good she may be, to pass their laws and investigations. No, no, Mabel, I can hang some hope on our efforts on Monday, though we have failed in such things before, but none on your chances of success with Mrs. Grace and her society.