WOMAN'S TRIALS;

OR, TALES AND SKETCHES FROM THE LIFE AROUND US. 

BY

T. S. ARTHUR. 

PHILADELPHIA:

1851. 

PREFACE. 

THE title of this volume sufficiently indicates its purpose. Thestories of which it is composed have been mainly written with the endof creating for woman, in the various life-trials through which she hasto pass, sympathy and true consideration, as well in her own sex as inours. We are all too much engrossed in what concerns ourselves--in ourown peculiar wants, trials, and sufferings--to give that thought toothers which true humanity should inspire. To the creator of fictitioushistories is, therefore, left the task of reminding us of our duty, bypresenting pictures from the world of life around us--moving pictures, in which we may not only see the effect of our actions upon others, butalso the relations of others to society, and thus learn to sympathizewith the tried and the tempted, the suffering and the oppressed, thegrief-stricken and the mourner. It is good for us, at times, to forgetourselves; to think of others and feel a heart-warm interest in allthat concerns them. If the perusal of this volume has such an effectupon the reader's mind, it will accomplish all that its author desires;for right feeling is but the prompter to right action. 

This book is to be followed, immediately, by other volumes, to thenumber of twelve, printed in uniform style: the series, when complete, to be called, "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD. "

"MARRIED LIFE, " the volume to come after this, is passing through thepress, and will be ready for publication in a few days. 

CONTENTS. 

 A LESSON OF PATIENCE I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT TAKING BOARDERS. PLAIN SEWING; OR, HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR JESSIE HAMPTON THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE HOME AT LAST GOING HOME

WOMAN'S TRIALS. 

A LESSON OF PATIENCE. 

I WAS very unhappy, from a variety of causes, definable andundefinable. My chambermaid had been cross for a week, and, by talkingto my cook, had made her dissatisfied with her place. The mother offive little children, I felt that I had a weight of care andresponsibility greater than I could support. I was unequal to the task. My spirits fell under its bare contemplation. Then I had beendisappointed in a seamstress, and my children were, as the saying is, "in rags. " While brooding over these and other dishearteningcircumstances, Netty, my chambermaid, opened the door of the room whereI was sitting, (it was Monday morning, ) and said--

"Harriet has just sent word that she is sick, and can't come to-day. "

"Then you and Agnes will have to do the washing, " I replied, in afretful voice; this new source of trouble completely breaking me down. 

"Indeed, ma'am, " replied Netty, tossing her head and speaking with somepertness, "_I_ can't do the washing. I didn't engage for any thing butchamber-work. "

And so saying she left me to my own reflections. I must own to feelingexceedingly angry, and rose to ring the bell for Netty to return, inorder to tell her that she could go to washing or leave the house, asbest suited her fancy. But the sudden recollection of a somewhatsimilar collision with a former chambermaid, in which I was worsted, and compelled to do my own chamber-work for a week, caused me tohesitate, and, finally, to sit down and indulge in a hearty fit ofcrying. 

When my husband came home at dinnertime, things did not seem verypleasant for him, I must own. I had on a long, a very long face--muchlonger than it was when he went away in the morning. 

"Still in trouble, I see, Jane, " said he. "I wish you would try andtake things a little more cheerfully. To be unhappy about what is notexactly agreeable doesn't help the matter any, but really makes itworse. "

"If you had to contend with what I have to contend with, you wouldn'ttalk about things being _exactly agreeable, _" I replied to this. "It iseasy enough to talk. I only wish you had a little of my trouble; youwouldn't think so lightly of it. "

"What is the great trouble now, Jane?" said my husband, without beingat all fretted with my unamiable temper. "Let us hear. Perhaps I cansuggest a remedy. "

"If you will get me a washerwoman, you will exceedingly oblige me, "said I. 

"Where is Harriet?" he asked. 

"She is sick, or pretends to be, I don't know which. "

"Perhaps she will be well enough to do your washing to-morrow, "suggested my husband. 

"Perhaps is a poor dependence. "

I said this with a tartness that ill repaid my husband's effort tocomfort me. I saw that he felt the unkindness of my manner, in theslight shade that passed over his face. 

"Can't you get some one else to do your washing this week?"

I made no reply. The question was easily asked. After that, my husbandwas silent, --silent in that peculiar way that I understood, too well, as the effect of my words, or tones, or state of mind. Here was anothercause for unhappiness, in the reflection that I had disturbed myhusband's peace. 

I am sure that I did not much look like a loving wife and mother as Ipresided at the dinner table that day. The children never seemed sorestless and hard to manage; and I could not help speaking to them, every now and then, "as if I would take their heads off;" but to littlegood effect. 

After my husband went away on finishing his dinner, I went to bed, andcried for more than half the afternoon. Oh! how wretched I felt! Lifeseemed an almost intolerable burden. 

Then my mind grew more composed, and I tried to think about what was tobe done. The necessity for having the clothes washed was absolute; andthis roused me, at length, as the most pressing domestic duty, intothinking so earnestly, that I presently rang the bell for Netty, whocame in her own good time. 

"Tell Agnes that I want to see her, " said I, not in a very good-naturedway. 

The effect was that Netty left the chamber without replying, andslammed the door hard after her, which mark of disrespect set my bloodto boiling. In a little while my cook made her appearance. 

"Agnes, " said I, "do you know of any one that can get to do the washingthis week?"

Agnes thought for a few moments, and then replied--

"There's a poor woman who lives near my mother's. I think she goes outto wash sometimes. "

"I wish you would step round and see if she can't come here to-morrow. "

Agnes said that she would do so. 

"Tell her she must come, " said I. 

"Very well, ma'am. "

And Agnes withdrew. 

In an hour she tame back, and said that she had seen the woman, whopromised to come. 

"What is her name?" I asked. 

"Mrs. Partridge, " was answered. 

"You think she won't disappoint me?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I don't think Mrs. Partridge is the kind of a woman topromise and then disappoint a person. "

It was some relief to think I was going to get my washing done; but theidea of having the ironing about all the week fretted my mind. And nosooner was this leading trouble set aside, than I began to worry aboutthe children's clothes, and the prospect of losing my cook, who hadmanaged my kitchen more to my satisfaction than any one had ever donebefore. 

The promise for a pleasant hour at home was but little more flatteringto my husband, when he returned in the evening, than it had been atdinner time. I was still in a sombre mood. 

In the morning Mrs. Partridge came early and commenced the washing. There was something in this woman's appearance that interested me, andsomething in her face that reminded me of somebody I had seen before;but when and where I could not tell. Although her clothes were poor andfaded, there was nothing common about her, and she struck me as beingsuperior to her class. Several times during the morning I had to gointo the kitchen where she was at work, and each time her appearanceimpressed me more and more. An emotion of pity arose in my bosom, as Isaw her bending over the washing tub, and remembered that, for thishard labour during a whole day, the pay was to be but seventy-fivecents. And yet there was an air of meek patience, if not contentment, in her face; while I, who had every thing from which I ought to havederived happiness, was dissatisfied and full of trouble. While in herpresence I felt rebuked for my complaining spirit. 

At dinner time Mrs. Partridge came to my room, and with a gentle, patient smile on her face, said--

"If you have no objections, ma'am, I would like to run home for a fewminutes to nurse my baby and give the children something to eat. I'llmake up the time. "

"Go by all means, " I replied, with an effort to speak calmly. 

The woman turned, and went quickly away. 

"Run home to nurse the baby and give the children something to eat!"The words went through and through me. So unexpected a request, revealing, as it did, the existence of such biting poverty in one whowas evidently bearing her hard lot without a murmur, made me feelashamed of myself for complaining at things which I ought to have bornewith a cheerful spirit. I had a comfortable, in fact a luxurious, home, a kind and provident husband, and servants to do every thing in myhouse. There was no lack of the means for procuring every natural goodI might reasonably desire. But, between the means and the attainment ofthe natural blessings I sought, there were many obstacles; and, insteadof going to work in a cheerful, confident spirit to remove thoseobstacles, I suffered their interposition to make me unhappy; and notme alone, but my husband and all around me. But here was a poor woman, compelled to labour hard with her hands before she could obtain eventhe means for supplying nature's most pressing wants, doing her dutywith an earnest, resigned, and hopeful spirit!

"It is wicked in me to feel as I do, " I could not help saying, as Imade an effort to turn away from the picture that was before me. 

When Mrs. Partridge came back, which was in about half an hour, I saidto her--

"Did you find all safe at home?"

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, " she answered cheerfully. 

"How old is your baby?"

"Eleven months old, ma'am. "

"Is your husband living?"

"No, ma'am; he died more than a year ago. "

"How many children have you?"

"Four. "

"All young?"

"Yes, ma'am. The oldest is only in her tenth year, but she is a goodlittle girl, and takes care of the baby for me almost as well as agrown person. I don't know what I would do without her. "

"But ain't you afraid to leave them all at home alone, for so long atime?"

"No, ma'am. Jane takes excellent care of them, and she is so kind thatthey will obey her as well as they do me. I don't know what in theworld I would do without her. I am certainly blessed in having so gooda child. "

"And only in her tenth year!" said I--the image of my Alice comingbefore my mind, with the thought of the little use she would be as anurse and care-taker of her younger brothers and sisters. 

"She is young, I know, " returned the washerwoman--"too young to beconfined down as much as she is. But then she is a very patient child, and knows that her mother has a great deal to do. I often wish it waseasier for her; though, as it can't be helped, I don't let it fret me, for you know that would do no good. "

"But how in the world, Mrs. Partridge, " said I, "do you manage toprovide for four children, and do for them at the same time?"

"I find it hard work, " she replied; "and sometimes I feel discouragedfor a little while; but by patience and perseverance I manage to getalong. "

Mrs. Partridge went to her washing, and I sat down in my comfortableroom, having a servant in every department of my family, and amplemeans for the supply of every comfort and luxury I could reasonablydesire. 

"If she can get along by patience and perseverance, " said I to myself, "it's a shame for me that I can't. " Still, for all this, when I thoughtof losing my cook through the bad influence of Netty, the chambermaid, I felt worried; and thinking about this, and what I should do foranother cook, and the trouble always attendant upon bringing a newdomestic into the house, made me, after a while, feel almost as unhappyas before. It was not long before Netty came into my room, saying, asshe did so--

"Mrs. Smith, what frock shall I put on Alice?"

"The one with a blue sprig, " I replied. 

"That's in the wash, " was answered. 

"In the wash!" said I, in a fretful tone. "How came it in the wash?"

"It was dirty. "

"No, it wasn't any such thing. It would have done very well for her toput on as a change to-day and to-morrow. "

"Well, ma'am, it's in the wash, and no help for it now, " said Netty, quite pertly. 

I was dreadfully provoked with her, and had it on my tongue to orderher to leave my presence instantly. But I choked down my risingindignation. 

"Take the red and white one, then, " said I. 

"The sleeve's nearly torn off of that. There isn't any one that she canwear except her white muslin. "

"Oh dear! It's too bad! What shall I do? The children are all in ragsand tatters!"

And in this style I fretted away for three or four minutes, while Nettystood waiting for my decision as to what Alice was to wear. 

"Shall she put on the white muslin?" she at length asked. 

"No, indeed! Certainly not! A pretty condition she'd have it in beforenight! Go and get me the red and white frock, and I will mend it. Youaught to have told me it was torn this morning. You knew there wasnothing for the child to put on ut this. I never saw such a set as youare!"

Netty flirted away, grumbling to herself. When she came in, she threwthe frock into my lap with manner so insolent and provoking that Icould hardly keep from breaking out upon her and rating her soundly. One thing that helped to restrain me was the recollection of sundryebullitions of a like nature that had neither produced good effects norleft my mind in a state of much self-respect or tranquillity. 

I repaired the torn sleeve, while Netty stood by. It was the work ofbut five minutes. 

"Be sure, " said I, as I handed the garment to Netty, "to see that oneof Alice's frocks is ironed first thing to-morrow morning. "

The girl heard, of course, but she made no answer. That was rather moreof a condescension than she was willing to make just then. 

Instead of thinking how easily the difficulty of the clean frock forAlice had been gotten over, I began fretting myself because I had notbeen able to procure a seamstress, although the children were "all inrags and tatters. "

"What is to be done?" I said, half crying, as I began to rock myselfbackward and forward in the great rocking-chair. "I am out of allheart. " For an hour I continued to rock and fret myself, and then cameto the desperate resolution to go to work and try what I could do withmy own hands. But where was I to begin? What was I to take hold offirst? All the children were in rags. 

"Not one of them has a decent garment to his back, " said I. 

So, after worrying for a whole hour about what I should do, and where Ishould begin, I abandoned the idea of attempting any thing myself, indespair, and concluded the perplexing debate by taking another heartycrying-spell. The poor washerwoman was forgotten during most of thisafternoon. My own troubles were too near the axis of vision, and shutout all other objects. 

The dusky twilight had begun to fall, and I was still sitting idly inmy chamber, and as unhappy as I could be. I felt completelydiscouraged. How _was_ I to get along? I had been trying for weeks, invain, to get a good seamstress; and yet had no prospect of obtainingone. I was going to lose my cook, and, in all probability, mychambermaid. What would I do? No light broke in through the cloudy veilthat overhung my mind. The door opened, and Agnes, who had come up tomy room, said--

"Mrs. Partridge is done. "

I took out my purse, and had selected therefrom the change necessary topay the washerwoman, when a thought of her caused me to say--

"Tell Mrs. Partridge to come up and see me. "

My thoughts and feelings were changing. By the time the washerwomancame in, my interest in her was alive again. 

"Sit down, " said I, to the tired-looking creature who sank into achair, evidently much wearied. 

"It's hard work, Mrs. Partridge, " said I. 

"Yes, ma'am, it is rather hard. But I am thankful for health andstrength to enable me to go through with it. I know some poor women whohave to work as hard as I do, and yet do not know what it is to feelwell for an hour at a time. "

"Poor creatures!" said I. "It is very hard! How in the world can theydo it?"

"We can do a great deal, ma'am, when it comes the pinch; and it is muchpleasanter to do, I find, than to think about it. If I were to thinkmuch I should give up in despair. But I pray the Lord each morning togive me my daily bread, and thus far he has done it, and will, I amsure, continue to do it to the end. "

"Happy it is for you that you can so think and feel, " I replied. "But Iam sure I could not be as you are, Mrs. Partridge. It would kill me. "

"I sincerely trust, ma'am, that you will never be called to passthrough what I have, " said Mrs. Partridge. "And yet there are those whohave it still harder. There was a time when the thought of being aspoor as I now am, and of having to work so hard, would have beenterrible to me; and yet I do not know that I was so very much happierthen than I am now, though I confess I ought to have been. I had fulland plenty of every thing brought into the house by my husband, and hadonly to dispense in my family the blessings of God sent to us. But Ilet things annoy me then more than they do now. "

"But how can you help being worried, Mrs. Partridge? To be away from mychildren as you have been away from yours all day would set me wild. Iwould be sure some of them would be killed or dreadfully hurt. "

"Children are wonderfully protected, " said Mrs. Partridge, in aconfident voice. 

"So they are. But to think of four little children, the youngest elevenmonths and the oldest not ten years old, left all alone, for a wholeday!"

"It is bad when we think about it, I know, " returned Mrs. Partridge. "It looks very bad! But I try and put that view of it out of my mind. When I leave them in the morning they say they will be good children. At dinner time I sometimes find them all fast asleep or playing about. I never find them crying, or at all unhappy. Jane loves the youngerones, and keeps them pleased all the time. In the evening, when I getback from my work, there is generally no one awake but Jane. She hasgiven them the bread and milk I left for their suppers, and undressedand put them to bed. "

"Dear little girl! What a treasure she must be!" I could not helpsaying. 

"She is, indeed. I don't see how I could get along without her. "

"You could not get along at all. "

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I could. Some way would be provided for me, " was theconfident reply. 

I looked into the poor woman's face with wonder and admiration. Sopatient, so trustful, and yet so very poor. The expression of hercountenance was beautiful in its calm religious hope, and it struck memore than ever as familiar. 

"Did I ever see you before, Mrs. Partridge?" I asked. 

"Indeed, ma'am, I don't know. I am sure I have seen you somewhere. No, now I recollect; it is your likeness to a young schoolmate that makesyour face so familiar. How much you do favour her, now I look at youmore closely. "

"What was her name?" I asked. 

"Her name was Flora S----. "

"Indeed! Why, that was my name!"

"Your name! Did you go to Madame Martier's school?"

"I did. "

"And can you indeed be my old schoolmate, Flora S----?"

"My maiden name was Flora S----, and I went to Madame Martier's. Yourface is also familiar, but how to place you I do not know. "

"Don't you remember Helen Sprague?"

"Helen Sprague! This can't be Helen Sprague, surely! Yes! I remembernow. Why, Helen?" and I stepped forward and grasped her hand. "I amboth glad and sorry to see you. To think that, after the lapse offifteen years, we should meet thus! How in the world is it that fortunehas been so unkind to you? I remember hearing it said that you hadmarried very well. "

"I certainly never had cause to regret my marriage, " replied Mrs. Partridge, with more feeling than she had yet shown. "While my husbandlived I had every external blessing that I could ask. But, just beforehe died, somehow or other he got behind-hand in his business, and afterhis death, there being no one to see to things, what he left was seizedupon and sold, leaving me friendless and almost penniless. Since then, the effort to get food and clothes for my children has been so constantand earnest, that I have scarcely had time to sit down and grieve overmy losses and sufferings. It is one perpetual struggle for life. Andyet, though I cannot now keep the tears from my eyes, I will not saythat I am unhappy. Thus far, all things necessary for me have come. Iyet have my little flock together, and a place that bears the sacredname of home. "

I looked into Helen's face, over which tears were falling, and wonderedif I were not dreaming. At school she had been the favourite of all, she was so full of good humour, and had such a cheerful, peace-lovingspirit. Her parents were poor, but respectable people, who died whenHelen was fifteen years old. She was then taken from school, and Inever saw her afterward until she came to my house in the capacity of awasherwoman, hundreds of miles away from the scenes of our early years. 

"But can't you find easier work than washing?" I asked. "Are you nothandy with your needle?"

"The only work I have been able to get has been from the clothing men, and they pay so little that I can't live on it. "

"Can you do fine sewing?" I asked. 

"Yes, I call myself handy with my needle. "

"Can you make children's clothes?"

"Boy's clothes?"

"No. Girl's clothing. "

"Oh, yes. "

"I'm very much in want of some one. My children are all in"--rags andtatters I was going to say, but I checked myself--"are all in need ofclothes, and so far I have not been able to get anybody to sew for me. If you like, I will give you three or four weeks' sewing at least. "

"I shall be very glad to have it, and very thankful for your kindnessin offering it to me, " returned Mrs. Partridge, rising from her chair, and adding as she did so--

"But I must be getting home. It is nearly dark, and Jane will beanxious to see me back again. "

I handed her the seventy-five cents she had earned for washing for meduring a whole day. Promising to come over and see me early in themorning about the sewing, she withdrew, and I was left again to my ownreflections. 

"If ever a murmurer and complainer received a severe rebuke, it is I!"was the first almost audible thought that passed through my mind. "Tothink that I, with my cup full and running over with blessings, shouldmake myself and all around me unhappy, because a few minor things arenot just to my satisfaction, while this woman, who toils like a slavefrom morning until night, and who can hardly procure food and clothingfor her children, from whom she is almost constantly separated, ispatient and hopeful, makes me feel as if I deserved to lose what I haverefused to enjoy. "

On the next morning Mrs. Partridge called quite early. She cut andfitted several frocks for the children, at which work she seemed veryhandy, and then took them home to make. She sewed for me five weeks, and then got work in another family where I recommended her. Sincethen, she has been kept constantly employed in sewing, at good prices, by about six families. In all of these I have spoken of her and createdan interest in her favour. The mere wages that she earns is much lessthan what she really receives. All her children's clothes are given toher, and she receives many a bag of meal and load of coal withoutknowing from whence it comes. In fact, her condition is morecomfortable in every way than it was, and, in fact, so is mine. Thelesson of patience I learned from Mrs. Partridge in my first, and inmany subsequent interviews, impressed itself deeply upon my mind, andcaused me to look at and value the good I had, rather than fret overthe few occurrences that were not altogether to my wishes. I saw, too, how the small trouble to me had been the means of working out a greatgood to her. My need of a washerwoman, about which I had been soannoyed, and the temporary want of a seamstress which I hadexperienced--light things as they should have been--led me to searchabout for aid, and, providentially, to fall upon Mrs. Partridge, whoneeded just what it was in my power to do for her. 

Whenever I find myself falling into my old habit, which I am sorry tosay is too frequently the case, I turn my thoughts to this poor woman, who is still toiling on under heavy life-burdens, yet with meekness andpatience, and bowing my head in shame, say--

"If _she_ is thankful for the good she has, how deep should be _my_gratitude!"

I DIDN'T THINK OF THAT!

MR. LAWSON, the tailor, was considered a very good member of society. He was industrious, paid what he owed, was a kind husband and fatherand a pleasant and considerate neighbour. He was, moreover, attached tothe church, and, by his brethren in the faith, considered a pious andgood man. And, to say the truth, Mr. Lawson would compare favourablywith most people. 

One day as Mr. Lawson stood at his cutting board, shears in hand, apoorly dressed young woman entered his shop, and approaching him, asked, with some embarrassment and timidity, if he had any work to giveout. 

"What can you do?" asked the tailor, looking rather coldly upon hisvisitor. 

"I can make pantaloons and vests, " replied the girl. 

"Have you ever worked for the merchant tailors?"

"Yes, sir, I worked for Mr. Wright. "

"Hasn't he any thing for you to do?"

"No, not just now. He has regular hands who always get the preference. "

"Did your work suit him?"

"He never found fault with it. "

"Where do you live?"

"In Cherry street, " replied the young woman. 

"At No. --. "

Mr. Lawson stood and mused for a short time. 

"I have a vest here, " he at length said, taking a small bundle from ashelf, "which I want by tomorrow evening at the latest. If you thinkyou can make it very neatly, and have it done in time, you can take it. "

"It shall be done in time, " said the young woman, reaching out eagerlyfor the bundle. 

"And remember, I shall expect it made well. If I like your work, I willgive you more. "

"I will try to please you, " returned the girl, in a low voice. 

"To-morrow evening, recollect. "

"Yes, sir. I will have it done. "

The girl turned and went quickly away. As she walked along hurriedly, her slender form bent forward, and there was an unsteadiness in hersteps, as if from weakness. She did not linger a moment, nor heed anything that was passing in the street. 

A back room in the third story of an old house in Cherry street was thehome of the poor sewing girl. As she entered, she said, in a cheerfulvoice, to a person who was lying upon a bed which the room contained--

"I have got work, sister. It is a vest, and it must be done byto-morrow evening. "

"Can you finish it in time?" inquired the invalid in a faint voice. 

"Oh, yes, easily;" and as she spoke, she laid off her bonnet and shawlhurriedly and sat down to unroll the work she had obtained. 

The vest proved to be of white Marseilles. As soon as the invalidsister saw this, she said--

"I'm afraid you won't be able to get that done in time, Ellen; it isvery particular work. To stitch the edges well will alone take you manyhours. "

"I will sit up late, and get a fair start to-night, Mary. Then I caneasily finish it in time. You know a vest is only a day's work for agood sewer, and I have nearly a day and a half before me. "

"Yes; but you must remember, Ellen, that you are not very fast withyour needle, and are, besides, far from being well. The work, too, isof the most particular kind, and cannot be hurried. "

"Don't fear for me in the least, Mary. I will do all I have engaged todo, " and the young woman, who had already arranged the cut-out garment, took a portion of it in her lap and commenced her task. 

The two sisters, here introduced, were poor, in bad health, and withoutfriends. Mary, the older, had declined rapidly within a few months, andbecome so much exhausted as to be obliged to keep her bed most of thetime. The task of providing for the wants of both fell, consequently, upon Ellen. Increased exertion was more than her delicate frame couldwell endure. Daily were the vital energies of her system becoming moreand more exhausted, a fact of which she was painfully conscious, andwhich she, with studious care, sought to conceal from Mary. 

When, through loss of friends and change of circumstances, the twosisters were thrown entirely dependent upon their own exertions for alivelihood, they, with prudent forethought, immediately appliedthemselves to the learning of a trade in order to have the means ofsupport. Confinement for twelve or fourteen hours a day, sitting in oneposition--a great change for them--could not long be endured withoutproducing ill effects on frail young creatures at best. Mary, theolder, failed first; and, at the time of which we are writing, had sofar declined as to be little more than the shadow of any thing earthly. 

With her own unaided hands, Ellen found it impossible to earn enoughfor even their most simple need. Often Mary was without medicine, because there was no money left after food and fuel were bought. Moreand more earnestly did Ellen apply herself as want came in more variedshapes; but the returns of her labour became daily less and lessadequate to meet the demands of nature. 

The busy season had passed, and trade was dull. Ellen worked for onlytwo merchant tailors, and with them she was considered an extra hand. When business fell off, as the season approached towards mid-summer, she was the first to receive notice that no more work could be givenout for the present. With a disheartened feeling she returned home onreceiving this intelligence. Mary saw that something was wrong themoment she entered, and tenderly inquired the cause of her trouble. Onlearning what it was, she endeavoured to comfort and assure her, but tolittle purpose. 

As soon as Ellen could regain sufficient composure of mind, she wentforth in search of work at other shops. To one of her peculiar, timid, and shrinking disposition this was a severe trial. But there was nopassing it by. Three days elapsed, during which every effort to getwork proved unsuccessful. Even the clothing stores had nothing to giveout to extra hands. 

Reduced to their last penny, Ellen was almost in despair, when shecalled upon Mr. Lawson. The garment he gave her to make seemed to herlike help sent from heaven. Cheerfully did she work upon it until alate hour at night, and she was ready to resume her labour with therising sun. But, as Mary had feared, the work did not progressaltogether to her satisfaction. She had never made over one or twowhite Marseilles vests, and found that she was not so well skilled inthe art of neat and accurate stitching as was required to give thegarment a beautiful and workmanlike appearance. The stitches did notimpress themselves along the edges with the accuracy that her eye toldher was required, and she was troubled to find that, be as careful asshe would, the pure white fabric grew soiled beneath her fingers. Mary, to whom she frequently submitted the work, tried to encourage her; buther eyes were not deceived. 

It was after dark when Ellen finished the garment. She was weary andfaint; for she had taken no food since morning, and had been bendingover her work, with very little intermission, the whole day; and shehad no hope of receiving any thing more to do, for Mr. Lawson, she wassure, would not be pleased with the way the vest was made. But, want ofevery thing, and particularly food for herself and sister, made the sumof seventy-five cents, to be received for the garment, a littletreasure in her eyes; and she hurried off with the vest the moment itwas finished. 

"I will bring home a little tea, sister, " she said, as she was aboutleaving; "I am sure a cup of tea will do you good; and I feel as if itwould revive and strengthen me. "

Mary looked at Ellen with a tender, pitying expression, while her largebright eyes shone glassy in the dim rays sent forth by a poor lamp; butshe did not reply. She had a gnawing in her stomach, that made her feelfaint, and a most earnest craving for nourishing and even stimulatingfood, the consequence of long abstinence as well as from thepeculiarity of her disease. But she did not breathe a word of this toEllen, who would, she knew, expend for her every cent of the money shewas about to receive, if she was aware of the morbid appetite fromwhich she was suffering. 

"I will be back soon, " added Ellen, as she retired from the room. 

Mary sighed deeply when alone. She raised her eyes upwards for a fewmoments, then closing them and clasping her hands tightly together, shelay with her white face turned towards the light, more the image ofdeath than of life. 

"Here it is past eight o'clock, and that vest is not yet in, " said Mr. Lawson, in a fretful tone. "I had my doubts about the girl when I gaveit to her. But she looked so poor, and seemed so earnest about work, that I was weak enough to intrust her with the garment. But I will takecare, another time, how I let my feeling get the better of my judgment. "

Before the individual had time to reply, Ellen came in with the vest, and laid it on the counter, at which the tailor was standing. She saidnothing, neither did the tailor make any remark; but the latterunfolded the vest in the way that plainly showed him not to be in avery placid frame of mind. 

"Goodness!" he ejaculated, after glancing hurriedly at the garment. 

The girl shrunk back from the counter, and looked frightened. 

"Well, this is a pretty job for one to bring in!" said the tailor, inan excited tone of voice. "A pretty job, indeed! It looks as if it hadbeen dragged through a duck puddle. And such work!"

He tossed the garment from him in angry contempt, and walked away tothe back part of the shop, leaving Ellen standing almost as still as astatue. 

"That vest was to have been home to-night, " he said, as he threwhimself into a chair. "Of course, the customer will be disappointed andangry, and I shall lose him. But I don't care half so much for that, asI do for not being able to keep my word with him. It is too much!"

Ellen would have instantly retired, but the thought of her sick sisterforced her to remain. She felt that she could not go until she hadreceived the price of making the vest, for their money was all gone, and they had no food in the house. She had lingered for a little while, when the tailor called out to her, and said--

"You needn't stand there, Miss! thinking that I am going to pay you forruining the job. It's bad enough to lose my material, and customer intothe bargain. In justice you should be made to pay for the vest. Butthere is no hope for that. So take yourself away as quickly aspossible, and never let me set eyes on you again. "

Ellen did not reply, but turned away slowly, and, with her eyes uponthe floor and her form drooping, retired from the shop. After she hadgone, Mr. Lawson returned to the front part of the store, and taking upthe vest, brought it back to where an elderly man was sitting, andholding it towards him, said, by way of apology for the part he hadtaken in the little scene:

"That's a beautiful article for a gentleman to wear--isn't it?"

The man made no reply, and the tailor, after a pause, added--

"I refused to pay her, as a matter of principle. She knew she couldn'tmake the garment when she took it away. She will be more careful howshe tries again to impose herself upon customer tailors as a good vestmaker. "

"Perhaps, " said the old gentleman, in a mild way, "necessity drove herto you for work, and tempted her to undertake a job that requiredgreater skill than she possessed. She certainly looked very poor. "

"It was because she appeared so poor and miserable that I was weakenough to place the vest in her hands, " replied Mr. Lawson, in a lesssevere tone of voice. "But it was an imposition in her to ask for workthat she did not know how to make. "

"Brother Lawson, " said the old gentleman, who was a fellow member ofthe church, "we should not blame, with too much severity, the personwho, in extreme want, undertakes to perform work for which he does notpossess the requisite skill. The fact that a young girl, like the onewho was just here, is willing, in her extreme poverty, to labour, instead of sinking into vice and idleness, shows her to possess bothvirtue and integrity of character, and these we should be willing toencourage, even at some sacrifice. Work is slack now, as you are aware, and there is but little doubt that she had been to many places seekingemployment before she came to you. It may be--and this is a veryprobable suggestion--that she did not come to you for work until she, and those who may be dependent upon the meagre returns of her labour, were reduced to the utmost extremity. And, it may be, that even theirnext meal was dependent upon the receipt of the money that was expectedto be paid for making the vest you hold in your hand. The expression ofher face as she turned away, and her slow, lingering step and droopingform, as she left the shop, had in them a language which told me of allthis, and even more. "

A great change came over the tailor's countenance. 

"I didn't think of that, " fell in a low tone from his lips. 

"I didn't suppose you did, brother Lawson, " said his monitor. "We areall more apt to think of ourselves than of others. The girl promisedyou the vest this evening?"

"Yes. "

"And, so far as that was concerned, performed her contract. Is the vestmade so very badly?"

Mr. Lawson took up the garment, and examined it more carefully. 

"Well, I can't say that the work is so very badly done. But it isdreadfully soiled and rumpled, and is not as neat a job as it shouldbe, nor at all such as I wished it. The customer for whom it isintended is very particular, and I was anxious to please him. "

"All this is very annoying, of course; but still we should always beready to make some excuse for the short-comings of others. There is notelling under how many disadvantages the poor girl may have laboured inmaking this vest. She may have had a sick mother, or a father, orsister to attend to, which constantly interfered with and interruptedher. She may have been compelled, from this cause, to work through agreater part of the night, in order to keep her promise to you. Undersuch circumstances, even you could hardly wonder if the garment werenot made well, or if it came soiled from her hands. And even you couldhardly find it in your heart to speak unkindly to the poor creature, much less turn her away angrily, and without the money she had toiledfor so earnestly. "

"I didn't think of that, " was murmured in a low abstracted voice. 

"Who could wonder, " continued the old man, "if that unhappy girl, deprived of the reward of honest labour, and driven angrily away as youdrove her just now, should in despair step aside into ruin, thussacrificing herself, body and soul, in order to save from want anddeprivation those she could not sustain by virtuous toil?"

"I didn't think of that, " fell quick and in an agitated voice from thetailor's lips, as, dropping the garment he held in his hand, he hurriedaround his counter and left the shop. 

Ellen was not tempted as the friend of Mr. Lawson had supposed; butthere are hundreds who, under like circumstances, would have turnedaside. From the shop of the tailor she went slowly homeward; at herheart was a feeling of utter despondency. She had struggled long, inweariness and pain, with her lot; but now she felt that the strugglewas over. The hope of the hour had failed, and it seemed to her thelast hope. 

When Ellen entered the room where her sister lay, the sight of herexpectant face (for the desire for nourishing, refreshing food had beenstronger than usual with Mary, and her fancy had been dwelling upon thepleasant repast that was soon to be spread before her) made the task ofcommunicating the cruel repulse she had received tenfold more painful. Without uttering a word, she threw herself upon the bed beside hersister, and, burying her face in a pillow, endeavoured to smother thesobs that came up convulsively from her bosom. Mary asked no question. She understood the meaning of Ellen's agitation well; it told her thatshe had been disappointed in the expectation of receiving the money forher work. 

Deep silence followed. Mary clasped her hands together and raised hereyes upward, while Ellen lay motionless with her face hidden where shehad first concealed it. There was a knock at the door, but no voicebade the applicant for admission enter. It was repeated; but, if heard, it met no response. Then the latch was lifted, the door swung open, andthe tailor stepped into the room. The sound of his feet aroused thepassive sisters. The white face of Mary was to him, at first, astartling image of death; but her large bright eyes opened and turnedupon him with an assurance that life still lingered in its earthlytenement. 

"Ellen, Ellen, " said the sick girl, faintly. 

Ellen, too, had heard the sound of footsteps on the floor, and she nowraised up slowly, and presented to Lawson her sad, tearful countenance. 

"I was wrong to speak to you as I did, " said the tailor withoutpreface, advancing towards the bed and holding out to Ellen the moneyshe had earned. "There is the price of the vest; it is better made thanI at first thought it was. To-morrow I will send you more work. Try andcheer up. Are you so very poor?"

The last two sentences were uttered in a voice of encouragement andsympathy. Ellen looked her thankfulness, but did not venture a reply. Her heart was too full to trust her lips with utterance. 

Feeling that his presence, under all circumstances, could not but beembarrassing, Mr. Lawson, after taking two or three dollars from hispocket and placing them on the table with the remark--"Take this inadvance for work, " retired and left the poor sisters in a differentframe of mind from what they were in when he entered. Shortly afterthey received a basket, in which was a supply of nourishing food. Though no one's name was sent with it, they were not in doubt as towhence it came. 

Mr. Lawson was not an unfeeling man, but, like too many others in theworld, he did not always "think. "

TAKING BOARDERS. 

CHAPTER I. 

A LADY, past the prime of life, sat thoughtful, as twilight fellduskily around her, in a room furnished with great elegance. That herthoughts were far from being pleasant, the sober, even sad expressionof her countenance too clearly testified. She was dressed in deepmourning. A faint sigh parted her lips as she looked up, on hearing thedoor of the apartment in which she was sitting open. The person whoentered, a tall and beautiful girl, also in mourning, came and sat downby her side, and leaned her head, with a pensive, troubled air, downupon her shoulder. 

"We must decide upon something, Edith, and that with as little delay aspossible, " said the elder of the two ladies, soon after the younger oneentered. This was said in a tone of great despondency. 

"Upon what shall we decide, mother?" and the young lady raised her headfrom its reclining position, and looked earnestly into the eyes of herparent. 

"We must decide to do something by which the family can be sustained. Your father's death has left us, unfortunately and unexpectedly, as youalready know, with scarcely a thousand dollars beyond the furniture ofthis house, instead of an independence which we supposed him topossess. His death was sad and afflictive enough--more than it seemed Icould bear. But to have this added!"

The voice of the speaker sank into a low moan, and was lost in astifled sob. 

"But what _can_ we do, mother?" asked Edith, in an earnest tone, afterpausing long enough for her mother to regain the control of herfeelings. 

"I have thought of but one thing that is at all respectable, " repliedthe mother. 

"What is that?"

"Taking boarders. "

"Why, mother!" ejaculated Edith, evincing great surprise, "how can youthink of such a thing?"

"Because driven to do so by the force of circumstances. "

"Taking boarders! Keeping a boarding-house! Surely we have not come tothis!"

An expression of distress blended with the look of astonishment inEdith's face. 

"There is nothing disgraceful in keeping a boarding-house, " returnedthe mother. "A great many very respectable ladies have been compelledto resort to it as a means of supporting their families. "

"But to think of it, mother! To think of _your_ keeping aboarding-house! I cannot bear it. "

"Is there any thing else that can be done, Edith?"

"Don't ask _me_ such a question. "

"If, then, you cannot think for me, you must try and think with me, mychild. Something will have to be done to create an income. In less thantwelve months, every dollar I have will be expended; and then what arewe to do? Now, Edith, is the time for us to look at the matterearnestly, and to determine the course we will take. There is no use tolook away from it. A good house in a central situation, large enoughfor the purpose, can no doubt be obtained; and I think there will be nodifficulty about our getting boarders enough to fill it. The income orprofit from these will enable us still to live comfortably, and keepEdward and Ellen at school. "

"It is hard, " was the only remark Edith made to this. 

"It is hard, my daughter; very hard! I have thought and thought aboutit until my whole mind has been thrown into confusion. But it will notdo to think for ever; there must be action. Can I see want stealing inupon my children, and sit and fold my hands supinely? No! And to you, Edith, my oldest child, I look for aid and for counsel. Stand upbravely by my side. "

"And you are in earnest in all this?" said Edith, whose mind seemedhardly able to realize the truth of their position. From her earliestdays, all the blessings that money could procure had been freelyscattered around her feet. As she grew up and advanced towardswomanhood, she had moved in the most fashionable circles, and thereacquired the habit of estimating people according to their wealth andsocial standing, rather than by qualities of mind. In her view, itappeared degrading in a woman to enter upon any kind of employment formoney; and with the keeper of a boarding-house, particularly, she hadalways associated something low, vulgar, and ungenteel. At the thoughtof her mother's engaging in such an occupation, when the suggestion wasmade her mind instantly revolted. It appeared to her as if disgracewould be the inevitable consequence. 

"And you are in earnest in all this?" was an expression mingling herclear conviction of the truth of what at first appeared so strange aproposition, and her astonishment that the necessities of theirsituation were such as to drive them to so humiliating a resource. 

"Deeply in earnest, " was the mother's reply. 

"We are left alone in the world. He who cared for us and provided forus so liberally has been taken away, and we have nowhere to look foraid but to the resources that are in ourselves. These well applied, will give us, I feel strongly assured, all that we need. The thing todecide is, what we ought to do. If we choose aright, all will doubtlesscome out right. To choose aright is, therefore, of the firstimportance; and to do this, we must not suffer distorting suggestionsnor the appeals of a false pride to influence our minds in the least. You are my oldest child, Edith; and, as such, I cannot but look uponyou as, to some extent, jointly with me, the guardian of your youngerbrothers and sisters. True, Miriam is of age, and Henry nearly so; butstill you are the eldest--your mind is more matured, and in yourjudgment I have the most confidence. Try and forget, Edith, all but thefact that, unless we make an exertion, one home for all cannot beretained. Are you willing that we should be scattered like leaves inthe autumn wind? No! you would consider that one of the greatestcalamities that could befall us--an evil to prevent which we should useevery effort in our power. Do you, not see this clearly?"

"I do, mother, " was replied by Edith in a more rational tone of voicethan that in which she had yet spoken. 

"To open a store of any kind would involve five times the exposure of aboarding-house; and, moreover, I know nothing of business. "

"Keeping a store? Oh, no! we couldn't do that. Think of the dreadfulexposure!"

"But in taking boarders we only increase our family, and all goes on asusual. To my mind, it is the most genteel thing that we can do. Ourstyle of living will be the same; our waiter and all our servants willbe retained. In fact, to the eye there will be little change, and theworld need never know how greatly reduced our circumstances havebecome. "

This mode of argument tended to reconcile Edith to taking boarders. Something, she saw, had to be done. Opening a store was felt to be outof the question; and as to commencing a school, the thought wasrepulsed at the very first suggestion. 

A few friends were consulted on the subject, and all agreed that thebest thing for the widow to do was to take boarders. Each one couldpoint to some lady who had commenced the business with far less abilityto make boarders comfortable, and who had yet got along very well. Itwas conceded on all hands that it was a very genteel business, and thatsome of the first ladies had been compelled to resort to it, withoutbeing any the less respected. Almost every one to whom the matter wasreferred spoke in favour of the thing, and but a single individualsuggested difficulty; but what he said was not permitted to have muchweight. This individual was a brother of the widow, who had always beenlooked upon as rather eccentric. He was a bachelor and without fortune, merely enjoying a moderate income as book-keeper in the office of aninsurance company. But more of him hereafter. 

CHAPTER II. 

MRS. DARLINGTON, the widow we have just introduced to the reader, hadfive children. Edith, the oldest daughter, was twenty-two years of ageat the time of her father's death; and Henry, the oldest son, justtwenty. Next to Henry was Miriam, eighteen years old. The ages of thetwo youngest children, Ellen and Edward, were ten and eight. 

Mr. Darlington, while living, was a lawyer of distinguished ability, and his talents and reputation at the Philadelphia bar enabled him toaccumulate a handsome fortune. Upon this he had lived for some years ina style of great elegance. About a year before his death, he had beeninduced to enter into some speculation that promised great results; buthe found, when too late to retreat, that he had been greatly deceived. Heavy losses soon followed. In a struggle to recover himself, he becamestill further involved; and, ere the expiration of a twelvemonth, sawevery thing falling from under him. The trouble brought on by this wasthe real cause of his death, which was sudden, and resulted frominflammation and congestion of the brain. 

Henry Darlington, the oldest son, was a young man of promising talents. He remained at college until a few months before his father's death, when he returned home and commenced the study of law, in which he feltambitious to distinguish himself. 

Edith, the oldest daughter, possessed a fine mind, which had been welleducated. She had some false views of life, natural to her position;but, apart from this, was a girl of sound sense and great force ofcharacter. Thus far in life she had not encountered circumstances of anature calculated to develop what was in her. The time for that, however, was approaching. Miriam, her sister, was a quiet, gentle, retiring, almost timid girl. She went into company with reluctance, andthen always shrunk as far from observation as it was possible to get;but, like most quiet, retiring persons, there were deep places in hermind and heart. She thought and felt more than was supposed. All whoknew Miriam loved her. Of the younger children we need not here speak. 

Mrs. Darlington knew comparatively nothing of the world beyond her ownsocial circle. She was, perhaps, as little calculated for doing whatshe proposed to do as a woman could well be. She had no habits ofeconomy, and had never in her life been called upon to makecalculations of expense in household matters. There was a tendency togenerosity rather than selfishness in her character, and she rarelythought evil of any one. But all that she was need not here be setforth, for it will appear as our narrative progresses. 

Mr. Hiram Ellis, the brother of Mrs. Darlington to whom brief allusionhas been made, was not a great favourite in the family--although Mr. Darlington understood his good qualities, and very highly respectedhim--because he had not much that was prepossessing in his externalappearance, and was thought to be a little eccentric. Moreover, he wasnot rich--merely holding the place of book-keeper in an insuranceoffice, at a moderate salary. But as he had never married, and had onlyhimself to support, his income supplied amply all his wants, and lefthim a small annual surplus. 

After the death of Mr. Darlington, he visited his sister much morefrequently than before. Of the exact condition of her affairs, he wasmuch better acquainted than she supposed. The anxiety which she felt, some months after her husband's death, when the result of thesettlement of his estate became known, led her to be rather morecommunicative. After determining to open a boarding-house, she said tohim, on the occasion of his visiting her one evening--

"As it is necessary for me to do something, Hiram, I have concluded tomove to a better location, and take a few boarders. "

"Don't do any such thing, Margaret, " her brother made answer. "Takingboarders! It's the last thing of which a woman should think. "

"Why do you say that, Hiram?" asked Mrs. Darlington, evincing no littlesurprise at this unexpected reply. 

"Because I think that a woman who has a living to make can hardly try amore doubtful experiment. Not one in ten ever succeeds in doing anything. "

"But why, Hiram? Why? I'm sure a great many ladies get a living in thatway. "

"What you will never do, Margaret, mark my words for it. It takes awoman of shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the world, and onethoroughly versed in household economy, to get along in this pursuit. Even if you possessed all these prerequisites to success, you have justthe family that ought not to come in contact with anybody and everybodythat find their way into boarding-houses. "

"I must do something, Hiram, " said Mrs. Darlington, evincing impatienceat the opposition of her brother. 

"I perfectly agree with you in that, Margaret, " replied Mr. Ellis. "Theonly doubt is as to your choice of occupation. You think that your bestplan will be to take boarders; while I think you could not fall upon aworse expedient. "

"Why do you think so?"

"Have I not just said?"

"What?"

"Why, that, in the first place, it takes a woman of great shrewdness, caution, and knowledge of the world, and one thoroughly versed inhousehold economy, to succeed in the business. "

"I'm not a fool, Hiram!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, losing herself-command. 

"Perhaps you may alter your opinion on that head some time within thenext twelve months, " coolly returned Mr. Ellis, rising and beginning tobutton up his coat. 

"Such language to me, at this time, is cruel!" said Mrs. Darlington, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. 

"No, " calmly replied her brother, "not cruel, but kind. I wish to saveyou from trouble. "

"What else can I do?" asked the widow, removing the handkerchief fromher face. 

"Many things, I was going to say, " returned Mr. Ellis. "But, in truth, the choice of employment is not very great. Still, something with afairer promise than taking boarders may be found. "

"If you can point me to some better way, brother, " said Mrs. Darlington, "I shall feel greatly indebted to you. "

"Almost any thing is better. Suppose you and Edith were to open aschool. Both of you are well--"

"Open a school!" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, interrupting her brother, and exhibiting most profound astonishment. "_I_ open a school! I didn'tthink _you_ would take advantage of my grief and misfortune to offer mean insult. "

Mr. Ellis buttoned the top button of his coat nervously, as his sistersaid this, and, partly turning himself towards the door, said--

"Teaching school is a far more useful, and, if you will, morerespectable employment, than keeping a boarding-house. This you oughtto see at a glance. As a teacher, you would be a minister of truth tothe mind, and have it in your power to bend from evil and lead to goodthe young immortals committed to your care; while, as a boarding-housekeeper, you would merely furnish food for the natural body--a use belowwhat you are capable of rendering to society. "

But Mrs. Darlington was in no state of mind to feel the force of suchan argument. From the thought of a school she shrunk as from somethingdegrading, and turned from it with displeasure. 

"Don't mention such a thing to me, " said she fretfully, "I will notlisten to the proposition. "

"Oh, well, Margaret, as you please, " replied her brother, now movingtowards the door. "When you ask my advice, I will give it according tomy best judgment, and with a sincere desire for your good. If, however, it conflicts with your views, reject it; but, in simple justice to me, do so in a better spirit than you manifest on the present occasion. Good evening!"

Mrs. Darlington was too much disturbed in mind to make a reply, and Mr. Hiram Ellis left the room without any attempt on the part of his sisterto detain him. On both sides there had been the indulgence of rathermore impatience and intolerance than was commendable. 

CHAPTER III. 

IN due time, Mrs. Darlington removed to a house in Arch Street, theannual rent of which was six hundred dollars, and there began herexperiment. The expense of a removal, and the cost of the additionalchamber furniture required, exhausted about two hundred dollars of thewidow's slender stock of money, and caused her, to feel a littletroubled when she noticed the diminution. 

She began her new business with two boarders, a gentleman and his wifeby the name of Grimes, who had entered her house on the recommendationof a friend. They were to pay her the sum of eight dollars a week. Ayoung man named Barling, clerk in a wholesale Market Street house, camenext; and he introduced, soon after, a friend of his, a clerk in thesame store, named Mason. They were room-mates, and paid three dollarsand a half each. Three or four weeks elapsed before any furtheradditions were made; then an advertisement brought severalapplications. One was from a gentleman who wanted two rooms for himselfand wife, a nurse and four children. He wanted the second story frontand back chambers, furnished, and was not willing to pay over sixteendollars, although his oldest child was twelve and his youngest fouryears of age--seven good eaters and two of the best rooms in the housefor sixteen dollars!

Mrs. Darlington demurred. The man said--

"Very well, ma'am, " in a tone of indifference. "I can find plenty ofaccommodations quite as good as yours for the price I offer. It's all Ipay now. " Poor Mrs. Darlington sighed. She had but fifteen dollars yetin the house--that is, boarders who paid this amount weekly--and therent alone amounted to twelve dollars. Sixteen dollars, she argued withherself, as she sat with her eyes upon the floor, would make a greatdifference in her income; would, in fact, meet all the expenses of thehouse. Two good rooms would still remain, and all that she received forthese would be so much clear profit. Such was the hurried conclusion ofMrs. Darlington's mind. 

"I suppose I will have to take you, " said she, lifting her eyes to theman's hard features. "But those rooms ought to bring me twenty-fourdollars. "

"Sixteen is the utmost I will pay, " replied the man. In fact, I didthink of offering only fourteen dollars. "But the rooms are fine, and Ilike them. Sixteen is a liberal price. Your terms are considerablyabove the ordinary range. "

The widow sighed again. 

If the man heard this sound, it did not touch a single chord of feeling. 

"Then it is understood that I am to have your rooms at sixteendollars?" said he. 

"Yes, sir. I will take you for that. "

"Very well. My name is Scragg. We will be ready to come in on Mondaynext. You can have all prepared for us?"

"Yes, sir. "

Scarcely had Mr. Scragg departed, when a gentleman called to know ifMrs. Darlington had a vacant front room in the second story. 

"I had this morning; but it is taken, " replied the widow. 

"Ah! I'm sorry for that. "

"Will not a third story front room suit you?" "No. My wife is not invery good health, and wishes a second story room. We pay twelve dollarsa week, and would even give more, if necessary, to obtain just theaccommodations we like. The situation of your house pleases me. I'msorry that I happen to be too late. "

"Will you look at the room?" said Mrs. Darlington, into whose mind camethe desire to break the bad bargain she had just made. 

"If you please, " returned the man. 

And both went up to the large and beautifully furnished chambers. 

"Just the thing!" said the man, as he looked around, much pleased withthe appearance of every thing. "But I understood you to say that it wastaken. "

"Why, yes, " replied Mrs. Darlington, "I did partly engage it thismorning; but, no doubt, I can arrange with the family to take the tworooms above, which will suit them just as well. "

"If you can"--

"There'll be no difficulty, I presume. You'll pay twelve dollars aweek?"

"Yes. "

"Only yourself and lady?"

"That's all. "

"Very well, sir; you can have the room. "

"It's a bargain, then. My name is Ring. Our week is up to-day where weare; and, if it is agreeable, we will become your guests to-morrow. "

"Perfectly agreeable, Mr. Ring. "

The gentleman bowed politely and retired. 

Now Mrs. Darlington did not feel very comfortable when she reflected onwhat she had done. The rooms in the second story were positivelyengaged to Mr. Scragg, and now one of them was as positively engaged toMr. Ring. The face of Mr. Scragg she remembered very well. It was ahard, sinister face, just such a one as we rarely forget because of thedisagreeable impression it makes. As it came up distinctly before theeyes of her mind, she was oppressed with a sense of coming trouble. Nordid she feel altogether satisfied with what she had done--satisfied inher own conscience. 

On the next morning, Mr. And Mrs. Ring came and took possession of theroom previously engaged to Mr. Scragg. They were pleasant people, andmade a good first impression. 

As day after day glided past, Mrs. Darlington felt more and more uneasyabout Mr. Scragg, with whom, she had a decided presentiment, therewould be trouble. Had she known where to find him, she would have senthim a note, saying that she had changed her mind about the rooms, andcould not let him have them. But she was ignorant of his address; andthe only thing left for her was to wait until he came on Monday, andthen get over the difficulty in the best way possible. She and Edithhad talked over the matter frequently, and had come to thedetermination to offer Mr. Scragg the two chambers in the third storyfor fourteen dollars. 

On Monday morning, Mrs. Darlington was nervous. This was the day onwhich Mr. Scragg and family were to arrive, and she felt that therewould be trouble. 

Mr. Ring, and the other gentlemen boarders, left soon after breakfast. About ten o'clock, the door-bell rang. Mrs. Darlington was in her roomat the time changing her dress. Thinking that this might be theannouncement of Mr. Scragg's arrival, she hurried through her dressingin order to get down to the parlour as quickly as possible to meet himand the difficulty that was to be encountered; but before she was in acondition to be seen, she heard a man's voice on the stairs, saying--

"Walk up, my dear. The rooms on the second floor are ours. "

Then came the noise of many feet in the passage, and the din ofchildren's voices. Mr. Scragg and his family had arrived. 

Mrs. Ring was sitting with the morning paper in her hand, when her doorwas flung widely open, and a strange man stepped boldly in, saying, ashe did so, to the lady who followed him--

"This is one of the chambers. "

Mrs. Ring arose, bowed, and looked at the intruders with surprise andembarrassment. Just then, four rude children bounded into the room, spreading themselves around it, and making themselves perfectly at home. 

"There is some mistake, I presume, " said Mrs. Scragg, on perceiving alady in the room, whose manner said plainly enough that they were outof their place. 

"Oh no! no mistake at all, " replied Scragg. 

"These are the two rooms I engaged. "

Just then Mrs. Darlington entered, in manifest excitement. 

"Walk down into the parlour, if you please, " said she. 

"These are our rooms, " said Scragg, showing no inclination to vacatethe premises. 

"Be kind enough to walk down into the parlour, " repeated Mrs. Darlington, whose sense of propriety was outraged by the man's conduct, and who felt a corresponding degree of indignation. 

With some show of reluctance, this invitation was acceded to, and Mr. Scragg went muttering down stairs, followed by his brood. The moment heleft the chamber, the door was shut and locked by Mrs. Ring, who was agood deal frightened by so unexpected an intrusion. 

"What am I to understand by this, madam?" said Mr. Scragg, fiercely, assoon as they had all reached the parlour, planting his hands upon hiships as he spoke, drawing himself up, and looking at Mrs. Darlingtonwith a lowering countenance. 

"Take a seat, madam, " said Mrs. Darlington, addressing the man's wifein a tone of forced composure. She was struggling for self-possession. 

The lady sat down. 

"Will you be good enough to explain the meaning of all this, madam?"repeated Mr. Scragg. 

"The meaning is simply, " replied Mrs. Darlington, "that I have let thefront room in the second story to a gentleman and his wife for twelvedollars a week. "

"The deuse you have!" said Mr. Scragg, with a particular exhibition ofgentlemanly indignation. 

"And pray, madam, didn't you let both the rooms in the second story tome for sixteen dollars?"

"I did; but"--

"Oh, very well. That's all I wish to know about it. The rooms wererented to me, and from that day became mine. Please to inform the ladyand her husband that I am here with my family, and desire them tovacate the chambers as quickly as possible. I'm a man that knows hisrights, and, knowing, always maintains them. "

"You cannot have the rooms, sir. That is out of the question, " saidMrs. Darlington, looking both distressed and indignant. 

"And I tell you that I will have them!" replied Scragg, angrily. 

"Peter! Peter! Don't act so, " now interposed Mrs. Scragg. "There's nouse in it. "

"Ain't there, indeed? We'll see. Madam"--he addressed Mrs. Darlington--"will you be kind enough to inform the lady and gentlemanwho now occupy one of our rooms"--

"Mr. Scragg!" said Mrs. Darlington, in whose fainting heart hisoutrageous conduct had awakened something of the right spirit--"Mr. Scragg, I wish you to understand, once for all, that the front room istaken and now occupied, and that you cannot have it. "

"Madam!"

"It's no use for you to waste words, sir! What I say I mean. I haveother rooms in the house very nearly as good, and am willing to takeyou for something less in consideration of this disappointment. If thatwill meet your views, well; if not, let us have no more words on thesubject. "

There was a certain something in Mrs. Darlington's tone of voice thatScragg understood to mean a fixed purpose. Moreover, his mind caught atthe idea of getting boarded for something less than sixteen dollars aweek. 

"Where are the rooms?" he asked gruffly. 

"The third story chambers. "

"Front?"

"Yes. "

"I don't want to go to the third story. "

"Very well. Then you can have the back chamber down stairs, and thefront chamber above. "

"What will be your charge?"

"Fourteen dollars. "

"That will do, Peter, " said Mrs. Scragg. "Two dollars a week isconsiderable abatement. "

"It's something, of course. But I don't like this off and on kind ofbusiness. When I make an agreement, I'm up to the mark, and expect thesame from everybody else. Will you let my wife see the rooms, madam?"

"Certainly, " replied Mrs. Darlington, and moved towards the door. Mrs. Scragg followed, and so did all the juvenile Scraggs--the latterspringing up the stairs with the agility of apes and the noise of adozen rude schoolboys just freed from the terror of rod and ferule. 

The rooms suited Mrs. Scragg very well--at least such was her report toher husband--and, after some further rudeness on the part of Mr. Scragg, and an effort to beat Mrs. Darlington down to twelve dollars aweek, were taken, and forthwith occupied. 

CHAPTER IV. 

MRS. DARLINGTON was a woman of refinement herself, and had been used tothe society of refined persons. She was, naturally enough, shocked atthe coarseness and brutality of Mr. Scragg, and, ere an hour went by, in despair at the unmannerly rudeness of the children, the oldest astout, vulgar-looking boy, who went racing and rummaging about thehouse from the garret to the cellar. For a long time after her excitinginterview with Mr. Scragg, she sat weeping and trembling in her ownroom, with Edith by her side, who sought earnestly to comfort andencourage her. 

"Oh, Edith!" she sobbed, "to think that we should be humbled to this!"

"Necessity has forced us into our present unhappy position, mother, "replied Edith. "Let us meet its difficulties with as brave hearts aspossible. "

"I shall never be able to treat that dreadful man with even commoncivility, " said Mrs. Darlington. 

"We have accepted him as our guest, mother, and it will be our duty tomake all as pleasant and comfortable as possible. We will have to bearmuch, I see--much beyond what I had anticipated. "

Mrs. Darlington sighed deeply as she replied--

"Yes, yes, Edith. Ah, the thought makes me miserable!"

"No more of that sweet drawing together in our own dear home circle, "remarked Edith, sadly. 

"Henceforth we are to bear the constant presence and intrusion ofstrangers, with whom we have few or no sentiments in common. We openour house and take in the ignorant, the selfish, the vulgar, and feedthem for a certain price! Does not the thought bring a feeling ofpainful humiliation? What can pay for all this? Ah me! The anticipationhad in it not a glimpse of what we have found in our brief experience. Except Mr. And Mrs. Ring, there isn't a lady nor gentleman in thehouse. That Mason is so rudely familiar that I cannot bear to come nearhim. He's making himself quite intimate with Henry already, and I don'tlike to see it. "

"Nor do I, " replied Mrs. Darlington. "Henry's been out with him twiceto the theatre already. "

"I'm afraid of his influence over Henry. He's not the kind of acompanion he ought to choose, " said Edith. "And then Mr. Barling iswith Miriam in the parlour almost every evening. He asks her to sing, and she says she doesn't like to refuse. "

The mother sighed deeply. While they were conversing, a servant came totheir room to say that Mr. Ring was in the parlour, and wished to speakwith Mrs. Darlington. It was late in the afternoon of the day on whichthe Scraggs had made their appearance. 

With a presentiment of trouble, Mrs. Darlington went down to theparlour. 

"Madam, " said Mr. Ring, as soon as she entered, speaking in a firmvoice, "I find that my wife has been grossly insulted by a fellow whosefamily you have taken into your house. Now they must leave here, or wewill, and that forthwith. "

"I regret extremely, " replied Mrs. Darlington, "the unpleasantoccurrence to which you allude; but I do not see how it is possible forme to turn these people out of the house. "

"Very well, ma'am. Suit yourself about that. You can choose between us. Both can't remain. "

"If I were to tell this Mr. Scragg to seek another boarding-house, hewould insult me, " said Mrs. Darlington. 

"Strange that you would take such a fellow into your house!"

"My rooms were vacant, and I had to fill them. "

"Better to have let them remain vacant. But this is neither here northere. If this fellow remains, we go. "

And go they did on the next day. Mrs. Darlington was afraid to approachMr. Scragg on the subject. Had she done so, she would have receivednothing but abuse. 

Two weeks afterward, the room vacated by Mr. And Mrs. Ring was taken bya tall, fine-looking man, who wore a pair of handsome whiskers anddressed elegantly. He gave his name as Burton, and agreed to pay eightdollars. Mrs. Darlington liked him very much. There was a certain styleabout him that evidenced good breeding and a knowledge of the world. What his business was he did not say. He was usually in the house aslate as ten o'clock in the morning, and rarely came in before twelve atnight. 

Soon after Mr. Burton became a member of Mrs. Darlington's household, he began to show particular attentions to Miriam, who was in hernineteenth year, and was, as we have said, a gentle, timid, shrinkinggirl. Though she did not encourage, she would not reject the attentionsof the polite and elegant stranger, who had so much that was agreeableto say that she insensibly acquired a kind of prepossession in hisfavour. 

As now constituted, the family of Mrs. Darlington was not so pleasantand harmonious as could have been desired. Mr. Scragg had alreadysucceeded in making himself so disagreeable to the other boarders, thatthey were scarcely civil to him; and Mrs. Grimes, who was quitegracious with Mrs. Scragg at first, no longer spoke to her. They hadfallen out about some trifle, quarrelled, and then cut each other'sacquaintance. When the breakfast, dinner, or tea bell rang, and theboarders assembled at the table, there was generally, at first, anembarrassing silence. Scragg looked like a bull-dog waiting for anoccasion to bark; Mrs. Scragg sat with her lips closely compressed andher head partly turned away, so as to keep her eyes out of the line ofvision with Mrs. Grimes's face; while Mrs. Grimes gave an occasionalglance of contempt towards the lady with whom she had had a "tiff. "Barling and Mason, observing all this, and enjoying it, were generallythe first to break the reigning silence; and this was usually done byaddressing some remark to Scragg, for no other reason, it seemed, thanto hear his growling reply. Usually, they succeeded in drawing him intoan argument, when they would goad him until he became angry; a speciesof irritation in which they never suffered themselves to indulge. Asfor Mr. Grimes, he was a man of few words. When spoken to, he wouldreply; but he never made conversation. The only man who really behavedlike a gentleman was Mr. Burton; and the contrast seen in him naturallyprepossessed the family in his favour. 

The first three months' experience in taking boarders was enough tomake the heart of Mrs. Darlington sick. All domestic comfort was gone. From early morning until late at night, she toiled harder than anyservant in the house; and, with all, had a mind pressed down with careand anxiety. Three times during this period she had been obliged tochange her cook, yet, for all, scarcely a day passed that she did notset badly cooked food before her guests. Sometimes certain of theboarders complained, and it generally happened that rudenessaccompanied the complaint. The sense of pain that attended this wasalways most acute, for it was accompanied by deep humiliation and afeeling of helplessness. Moreover, during these first three months, Mr. And Mrs. Grimes had left the house without paying their board for fiveweeks, thus throwing her into a loss of forty dollars. 

At the beginning of this experiment, after completing the furniture ofher house, Mrs. Darlington had about three hundred dollars. When thequarter's bill for rent was paid, she had only a hundred and fiftydollars left. Thus, instead of making any thing by boarders, so far, she had sunk a hundred and fifty dollars. This fact disheartened herdreadfully. Then, the effect upon almost every member of her family hadbeen bad. Harry was no longer the thoughtful affectionate, innocent-minded young man of former days. Mason and Barling hadintroduced him into gay company, and, fascinated with a new and moreexciting kind of life, he was fast forming associations and acquiringhabits of a dangerous character. It was rare that he spent an eveningat home; and, instead of being of any assistance to his mother, wasconstantly making demands on her for money. The pain all thisoccasioned Mrs. Darlington was of the most distressing character. Sincethe children of Mr. And Mrs. Scragg came into the house, Edward andEllen, who had heretofore been under the constant care and instructionof their mother, left almost entirely to themselves, associatedconstantly with these children, and learned from them to be rude, vulgar, and, in some things, even vicious. And Miriam had becomeapparently so much interested in Mr. Burton, who was constantlyattentive to her, that both Mrs. Darlington and Edith became anxious onher account. Burton was entire stranger to them all, and there weremany things about him that appeared strange, if not wrong. 

So much for the experiment of taking boarders, after the lapse of asingle quarter of a year. 

CHAPTER V. 

ABOUT this time a lady and gentleman, named Marion, called and engagedboarding for themselves and three children. In Mrs. Marion there wassomething that won the heart at first sight, and her children were aslovely and attractive as herself; but towards her husband there was afeeling of instant repulsion. Not that he was coarse or rude in hisexterior--that was polished; but there were a sensualism and want ofprinciple about him that could be felt. 

They had been in the house only a week or two, when their oldest child, a beautiful boy, was taken ill. He had fever, and complained ofdistress in his back and pain in his head. The mother appeared anxious, but the father treated the matter lightly, and said he would be wellagain in a few hours. 

"I think you'd better call in a doctor, " Mrs. Darlington heard themother say, as her husband stood at the chamber door ready to go away. 

"Nonsense, Jane, " he replied. "You are easily frightened. There'snothing serious the matter. "

"I'm afraid of scarlet fever, Henry, " was answered to this. 

"Fiddlesticks! You're always afraid of something, " was lightly andunkindly returned. 

Mrs. Marion said no more, and her husband went away. About half an hourafterwards, as Mrs. Darlington sat in her room, there was a light tapat her door, which was immediately opened, and Mrs. Marion stepped in. Her face was pale, and it was some moments before her quivering lipscould articulate. 

"Won't you come up and look at my Willy?" she at length said, in atremulous voice. 

"Certainly, ma'am, " replied Mrs. Darlington, rising immediately. "Whatdo you think ails your little boy?"

"I don't know, ma'am; but I'm afraid of scarlet fever--that dreadfuldisease. "

Mrs. Darlington went up to the chamber of Mrs. Marion. On the bed layWilly, his face flushed with fever, and his eyes wearing a glassylustre. 

"Do you feel sick, my dear?" asked Mrs. Darlington, as she laid herhand on his burning forehead. 

"Yes, ma'am, " replied the child. 

"There are you sick?"

"My head aches. "

"Is your throat sore?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Very sore?"

"It hurts me so that I can hardly swallow. "

"What do you think ails him?" asked the mother, in anxious tones. 

"It's hard to say, Mrs. Marion; but, if it were my case, I would sendfor a doctor. Who is your physician?"

"Dr. M----. "

"If you would like to have him called in, I will send the waiter to hisoffice. "

Mrs. Marion looked troubled and alarmed. 

"My husband doesn't think it any thing serious, " said she. "I wantedhim to go for the doctor. "

"Take my advice, and send for a physician, " replied Mrs. Darlington. 

"If you will send for Dr. M----, I will feel greatly obliged, " saidMrs. Marion. 

The doctor was sent for immediately. He did not come for two hours, inwhich time Willy had grown much worse. He looked serious, and answeredall questions evasively. After writing a prescription, he gave a fewdirections, and said he would call again in the evening. At his secondvisit, he found his patient much worse; and, on the following morning, pronounced it a case of scarlatina. 

Already, Willy had made a friend in every member of Mrs. Darlington'sfamily, and the announcement of his dangerous illness was received withacute pain. Miriam took her place beside Mrs. Marion in the sickchamber, all her sympathies alive, and all her fears awakened; andEdith and her mother gave every attention that their other duties inthe household would permit. 

Rapidly did the disease, which had fixed itself upon the delicate frameof the child, run its fatal course. On the fourth day he died in thearms of his almost frantic mother. 

Though Mrs. Marion had been only a short time in the house, yet she hadalready deeply interested the feelings of Mrs. Darlington and her twoeldest daughters, who suffered with her in the affliction almost asseverely as if they had themselves experienced a bereavement; and thisadded to the weight, already painfully oppressive, that rested uponthem. 

The nearer contact into which the family of Mrs. Darlington and thebereaved mother were brought by this affliction, discovered to theformer many things that strengthened the repugnance first felt towardsMr. Marion, and awakened still livelier sympathies for his sufferingwife. 

One evening, a week after the body of the child was borne out by themourners and laid to moulder in its kindred dust, the voice of Mr. Marion was heard in loud, angry tones. He was alone with his wife intheir chamber. This chamber was next to hat of Edith and Miriam, wherethey, at the time, happened to be. What he said they could not makeout; but they distinctly heard the voice of Mrs. Marion, and the words--

"Oh, Henry! don't! don't!" uttered in tones the most agonizing. Theyalso heard the words, "For the sake of our dear, dear Willy!" used insome appeal. 

Both Edith and Miriam were terribly frightened, and sat panting andlooking at each other with pale faces. 

All now became silent. Not a sound could be heard in the chamber savean occasional low sob. For half an hour this silence continued. Thenthe door of the chamber was opened, and Marion went down stairs. Theclosing of the front door announced his departure from the house. Edithand her sister sat listening for some minutes after Marion had left, but not a movement could they perceive in the adjoining chamber. 

"Strange! What can it mean?" at length said Miriam, in a husky whisper. Edith breathed heavily to relieve the pressure on her bosom, but madeno answer. 

"He didn't strike her?" said Miriam, her face growing paler as she madethis suggestion. 

The moment this was uttered, Edith arose quickly and moved towards thedoor. 

"Where are you going?" asked her sister. 

"Into Mrs. Marion's room. "

"Oh no, don't!" returned Miriam, speaking from some vague fear thatmade her heart shrink. 

But Edith did not heed the words. Her light tap at Mrs. Marion's doorwas not answered. Opening it softly, she stepped within the chamber. Onthe bed, where she had evidently thrown herself, lay Mrs. Marion; and, on approaching and bending over her, Edith discovered that she wassleeping. On perceiving this, she retired as noiselessly as she hadentered. 

Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock came; and yet Mr. Marion had not returned. An hour later than this, Edith and her sister lay awake, but up to thattime he was still away. On the next morning, when the bell rang forbreakfast, and the family assembled at the table, the places of Mr. AndMrs. Marion were vacant. From their nurse it was ascertained that Mr. Marion had not come home since he went out on the evening before, andthat his wife had not yet arisen. Between nine and ten o'clock, Mrs. Darlington sent up to know if Mrs. Marion wished any thing, but wasanswered in the negative. At dinner time Mr. Marion did not make hisappearance, and his wife remained in her chamber. Food was sent to her, but it was returned untasted. 

During the afternoon, Mrs. Darlington knocked at her door, but thenurse said that Mrs. Marion asked to be excused from seeing her. Atsupper time food was sent again to her room; but, save part of a cup oftea, nothing was tasted. After tea, Mrs. Darlington called again at herroom, but the desire to be excused from seeing her was repeated. Mariondid not return that night. 

Nearly a week passed, the husband still remaining away, and not onceduring that time had Mrs. Marion been seen by any member of the family. At the end of this period, she sent word to Mrs. Darlington that shewould be glad to see her. 

When the latter entered her room, she found her lying upon the bed, with a face so pale and grief-stricken, that she could not help anexclamation of painful surprise. 

"My dear madam, what has happened?" said she, as she took her hand. 

Mrs. Marion was too much overcome by emotion to be able to speak forsome moments. Acquiring self-possession at length, she said, in a low, sad voice--

"My heart is almost broken, Mrs. Darlington. I feel crushed to the veryground. How shall I speak of what I am suffering?"

Her voice quivered and failed. But in a few moments she recoveredherself again, and said, more calmly--

"I need not tell you that my husband has been absent for a week; hewent away in a moment of anger, vowing that he would never return. Hourly have I waited since, in the hope that he would come back; but, alas! I have thus far received from him neither word nor sign. "

Mrs. Marion here gave way to her feelings, and wept bitterly. 

"Did he ever leave you before?" asked Mrs. Darlington, as soon as shehad grown calm. 

"Once. "

"How long did he remain away?"

"More than a year. "

"Have you friends?"

"I have no relative but an aunt, who is very poor. "

Mrs. Darlington sighed involuntarily. On that very day she had beenseriously examining into her affairs, and the result was a convictionthat, under her present range of expenses, she must go behind-hand withgreat rapidity. Mr. And Mrs. Marion were to pay fourteen dollars aweeks Thus far, nothing had been received from them; and now thehusband had gone off and left his family on her hands. She could notturn them off, yet how could she bear up under this additional burden!

All this passed through her mind in a moment, and produced the sighwhich distracted her bosom. 

"Do you not know where he has gone?" she asked, seeking to throw asmuch sympathy and interest in her voice as possible, and thus toconceal the pressure upon her own feelings which the intelligence hadoccasioned. 

Mrs. Marion shook her head. She knew that, in the effort to speak, hervoice would fail her. 

For nearly the space of a minute there was silence. This was broken, atlength, by Mrs. Marion, who again wept violently. As soon as thepassionate burst of feeling was over, Mrs. Darlington said to her in akind and sympathizing voice--

"Do not grieve so deeply. You are not friendless altogether. Though youhave been with us only a short time, we feel an interest in you, andwill not"--

The sentence remained unfinished. There was an impulse in Mrs. Darlington's mind to proffer the unhappy woman a home for herself andchildren; but a sudden recollection of the embarrassing nature of herown circumstances checked the words on her tongue. 

"I cannot remain a burden upon you, " quickly answered Mrs. Marion. "Butwhere can I go? What shall I do?"

The last few words were spoken half to herself, in a low tone ofdistressing despondency. 

"For the present, " said Mrs. Darlington, anxious to mitigate, even in asmall degree, the anguish of the unhappy woman's mind, "let this giveyou no trouble. Doubtless the way will open before you. After thedarkest hour the morning breaks. "

Yet, even while Mrs. Darlington sought thus to give comfort, her ownheart felt the weight upon it growing heavier. Scarcely able to standup in her difficulties alone, here was a new burden laid upon her. 

None could have sympathized more deeply with the afflicted mother anddeserted wife than did Mrs. Darlington and her family; and none couldhave extended more willingly a helping hand in time of need. But, insustaining the burden of her support, they felt that the additionalweight was bearing them under. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THREE months more elapsed. Mrs. Marion was still an inmate of thefamily. Up to this time, not a word had come from her husband, and shehad not been able to pay Mrs. Darlington a single dollar. 

Painfully did she feel her dependent situation, although she wastreated with the utmost delicacy and consideration. But all the widow'smeans were now exhausted in the payment of the second quarter's rent, and she found her weekly income reduced to thirty-five dollars, scarcely sufficient to meet the weekly expense for supplying the table, paying the servants, etc. , leaving nothing for future rent bills, thecost of clothing, and education for the younger children. With allthis, Mrs. Darlington's duties had been growing daily more and moresevere. Nothing could be trusted to servants that was not, in some way, defectively done, causing repeated complaints from the boarders. Whatproved most annoying was the bad cooking, to remedy which Mrs. Darlington strove in vain. One day the coffee was not fit to drink, andon the next day the steak would be burnt or broiled as dry as a chip, or the sirloin roasted until every particle of juice had evaporated. Ifhot cakes were ordered for breakfast, ten chances to one that they werenot sour; or, if rolls were baked, they would, most likely, be as heavyas lead. 

Such mishaps were so frequent, that the guests of Mrs. Darlingtonbecame impatient, and Mr. Scragg, in particular, never let an occasionfor grumbling or insolence pass without fully improving it. 

"Is your coal out?" said he, one morning, about this time, as he sat atthe breakfast table. 

Mrs. Darlington understood, by the man's tone and manner, that he meantto be rude, though she did not comprehend the meaning of the question. 

"No, sir, " she replied, with some dignity of manner. "Why do you ask?"

"It struck me, " he answered, "that such might be the case. But, perhaps, cook is too lazy to bring it out of the cellar. If she'll sendfor me to-morrow morning, I'll bring her up an extra scuttleful, as Iparticularly like a good cup of hot coffee. "

His meaning was now plain. Quick as thought, the blood rushed to theface of Mrs. Darlington. 

She had borne so much from this man, and felt towards him such utterdisgust, that she could forbear no longer. 

"Mr. Scragg, " said she, with marked indignation, "when a gentleman hasany complaint to make, he does it as a gentleman. "

"Madam!" exclaimed Scragg, with a threat in his voice, while his coarseface became red with anger. 

"When a _gentleman_ has any complaint to make, he does it _as_ agentleman, " repeated Mrs. Darlington, with a more particular emphasisthan at first. 

"I'd thank you to explain yourself, " said Scragg, dropping his handsfrom the table, and elevating his person. 

"My words convey my meaning plainly enough. But, if you cannotunderstand, I will try to make them clearer. Your conduct is not thatof a gentleman. "

Of course, Mr. Scragg asked for no further explanation. Starting fromthe table, he said, looking at Mrs. Scragg--

"Come!"

And Mrs. Scragg arose and followed her indignant spouse. 

"Served him right, " remarked Burton, in a low voice, bending a littletowards Miriam, who sat near him. "I hope we shall now be rid of thelow-bred fellow. "

Miriam was too much disturbed to make a reply. All at the table feltmore or less uncomfortable, and soon retired. Ere dinner time, Mr. AndMrs. Scragg, with their whole brood, had left the house, thus reducingthe income of Mrs. Darlington from thirty-five to twenty-three dollarsa week. 

At dinner time, Mrs. Darlington was in bed. The reaction which followedthe excitement of the morning, accompanied as it was with theconviction that, in parting with the Scraggs, insufferable as theywere, she had parted with the very means of sustaining herself, completely prostrated her. During the afternoon, she was better, andwas able to confer with Edith on the desperate nature of their affairs. 

"What are we to do?" said she to her daughter, breaking thus abruptly asilence which had continued for many minutes. "We have an income ofonly twenty-three dollars a week, and that will scarcely supply thetable. "

Edith sighed, but did not answer. 

"Twenty-three dollars a week, " repeated Mrs. Darlington. "What are weto do?"

"Our rooms will not remain vacant long, I hope, " said Edith. 

"There is little prospect of filling them that I can see, " murmuredMrs. Darlington. "If all our rooms were taken, we might get along. "

"I don't know, " returned Edith to this, speaking thoughtfully. "Isometimes think that our expenses are too great for us to make anything, even if our rooms were filled. Six hundred dollars is a largerent for us to pay. "

"We've sunk three hundred dollars in six months. That is certain, " saidMrs. Darlington. 

"And our furniture has suffered to an extent almost equivalent, " addedher daughter. 

"Oh, do not speak of that! The thought makes me sick. Our handsomeFrench china dinner set, which cost us a hundred and fifty dollars, iscompletely ruined. Half of the plates are broken, and there is scarcelya piece of it not injured or defaced. My heart aches to see thedestruction going on around us. "

"I was in Mr. Scragg's room to-day, " said Edith. 

"Well, what of it?" asked her mother. 

"It would make you sick in earnest to look in there. You know thebeautiful bowl and pitcher that were in her chamber?"

"Yes. "

"Both handle and spout are off of the pitcher. "

"Edith!"

"And the bowl is cracked from the rim to the centre. Then the elegantrosewood washstand is completely ruined. Two knobs are off of thedressing-bureau, the veneering stripped from the edge of one of thedrawers, and the whole surface marked over in a thousand lines. Itlooks as if the children had amused themselves by the hour inscratching it with pins. Three chairs are broken. And the new carpet weput on the floor looks as if it had been used for ten years. Moreover, every thing is in a most filthy condition. It is shocking. "

Mrs. Darlington fairly groaned at this intelligence. 

"But where is it all to lead, Edith?" she asked, arousing herself froma kind of stupor into which her mind had fallen. "We cannot go on as weare now going. "

"We must reduce our expenses, if possible. "

"But how are we to reduce them? We cannot send away the cook. "

"No. Of course not. "

"Nor our chambermaid. "

"No. But cannot we dispense with the waiter?"

"Who will attend the table, go to market, and do the dozen other thingsnow required of him?"

"We can get our marketing sent home. "

"But the waiting oh the table. Who will do that?"

"Half a dollar a week extra to the chambermaid will secure that servicefrom her. "

"But she has enough to do besides waiting on the table, " objected Mrs. Darlington. 

"Miriam and I will help more through the house than we have yet done. Three dollars a week and the waiter's board will be saving a good deal. "

Mrs. Darlington sighed heavily, and then said--

"To think what I have borne from that Scragg and his family, ignorant, low-bred, vulgar people, with whom we have no social affinity whatever, who occupy a level far below us, and who yet put on airs and treat usas if we were only their servants! I could bear his insolence nolonger. Ah, to what mortifications are we not subjected in our presentposition! How little dreamed I of all this, when I decided to open aboarding-house! But, Edith, to come back to what we were conversingabout, it would be something to save the expense of our waiter; butwhat are three or four dollars a week, when we are going behind hand atthe rate of twenty?"

"If Mrs. Marion"--

Edith checked herself, and did not say what was in her mind. Mrs. Darlington was silent, sighed again heavily, and then said--

"Yes; if it wasn't for the expense of keeping Mrs. Marion. And she hasno claim upon us. "

"None but the claim of humanity, " said Edith. 

"If we were able to pay that claim, " remarked Mrs. Darlington. 

"True. "

"But we are not. Such being the case, are we justified in any longeroffering her a home?"

"Where will she go? What will she do?" said Edith. 

"Where will we go? What will we do, unless there is a change in ourfavour?" asked Mrs. Darlington. 

"Alas, I cannot tell! When we are weak, small things are felt as aburden. The expense of keeping Mrs. Marion and her two children is notvery great. Still, it is an expense that we are unable to meet. But howcan we tell her to go?"

"I cannot take my children's bread and distribute it to others, "replied Mrs. Darlington, with much feeling. "My first duty is to them. "

"Poor woman! My heart aches for her, " said Edith. "She looks so paleand heart-broken, feels so keenly her state of dependence, and tries soin every possible way to make the pressure of her presence in ourfamily as light as possible, that the very thought of turning her fromour door seems to involve cruelty. "

"All that, Edith, I feel most sensibly. Ah me! into what a strait arewe driven!"

"How many times have I wished that we had never commenced thisbusiness!" said Edith. "It has brought us nothing but trouble from thebeginning; and, unless my fears are idle, some worse troubles are yetbefore us. "

"Of what kind?"

"Henry did not come home until after two o'clock this morning. "

"What!" exclaimed the mother in painful surprise. 

"I sat up for him. Knowing that he had gone out with Mr. Barling, and, finding that he had not returned by eleven o'clock, I could not go tobed. I said nothing to Miriam, but sat up alone. It was nearly halfpast two when he came home in company with Barling. Both, I am sorry tosay, were so much intoxicated, that they could scarcely make their wayup stairs. "

"Oh, Edith!" exclaimed the stricken mother, hiding her face in herhands, and weeping aloud. 

Miriam entered the room at this moment, and, seeing her mother intears, and Edith looking the very image of distress, begged to know thecause of their trouble. Little was said to her then; but Edith, whenshe was alone with her soon after, fully explained the desperatecondition of their affairs. Hitherto they had, out of regard forMiriam, concealed from her the nature of the difficulties that wereclosing around them. 

"I dreamed not of this, " said Miriam, in a voice of anguish. "My poormother! What pain she must suffer! No wonder that her countenance is sooften sad. But, Edith, cannot we do something?"

Ever thus, to the mind of the sweet girl, when the troubles of otherswere mentioned to her, came, first, the desire to afford relief. 

"We can do nothing, " replied Edith, "at present, unless it be to assistthrough the house, so that the chambermaid can attend the door, wait onthe table, and do other things now required of the waiter. "

"And let him go?"

"Yes. "

"I am willing to do all in my power, Edith, " said Miriam. "But, ifmother has lost so much already, will she not lose still more if shecontinue to go on as she is now going?"

"She hopes to fill all her rooms; then she thinks that she will be ableto make something. "

"This has been her hope from the first, " replied Miriam. 

"Yes; and thus far it has been a vain hope. "

"Three hundred dollars lost already, " sighed Miriam, "our beautifulfurniture ruined, and all domestic happiness destroyed! Ah me! Where isall going to end? Uncle Hiram was right when he objected to mother'staking boarders, and said that it was the worst thing she could attemptto do. I wish we had taken his advice. Willingly would I give musiclessons or work with my hands for an income, to save mother from thesuffering and labour she has now to bear. "

"The worst is, " said Edith, following out her own thoughts rather thanreplying to her sister, "now that all our money is gone, debt willfollow. How is the next quarter's rent to be paid?"

"A hundred aid fifty dollars?"

"Yes. How can we pay that?"

"Oh dear!" sighed Miriam. "What are we to do? How dark all looks!"

"If there is not some change, " said Edith, "by the close of another sixmonths, every thing we have will be sold for debt. "

"Dreadful!" ejaculated Miriam, "dreadful!"

For a long time the sisters conferred together, but no gleam of lightarose in their minds. All the future remained shrouded in darkness. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE man named Burton, to whom reference has been made as beingparticularly attentive to Miriam, was really charmed with the beautifulyoung girl. But the affection of a man such as he was comes to itsobject as a blight instead of a blessing. Miriam, while she did notrepel his attentions, for his manner towards her was ever polite andrespectful, felt, nevertheless, an instinctive repugnance towards him, and when she could keep out of his way without seeming to avoid him, she generally did so. 

A few evenings after the conversation held with Edith, as given in thelast chapter, Burton, in passing from the dining room, said to Miriam, --

"Come. I want you to play for me some of those beautiful airs in DonGiovanni. "

"Indeed you must excuse me Mr. Burton, " replied Miriam. "I don't feellike playing to-night. "

"Can't excuse you, indeed, " said Burton, smiling pleasantly, and, atthe same time, taking Miriam's hand, which she quickly withdrew fromhis touch. The contact sent an unpleasant thrill along her nerves. "Socome. I must have some music to-night. "

Miriam yielded to the request, although she felt in no mood fortouching the piano. After playing several pieces, she lifted her handsfrom the instrument, and, turning away from it, said, --

"There, Mr. Burton, you must really excuse me. I cannot play to-night. "

"Excuse you! Certainly. And for the pleasure you have given me, acceptmy thanks, " replied Mr. Burton. There was a change in his tone of voicewhich Miriam did not comprehend. "And now, " he added, in a low voice, bending to her ear, "come and sit down with me on the sofa. I havesomething particular that I wish to say. "

Miriam did as she was desired, not dreaming of what was in the mind ofBurton. 

"Miriam, " said he, after a pause, "do not be startled nor surprised atwhat I am going to say. "

But his words and manner both startled her, and she was about rising, when he took her hand and gently detained her. 

"Nay, Miriam, " said he, "you must hear what I wish to speak. From theday I entered this house, you have interested me deeply. Admiration wasfollowed quickly by profound respect; and to this succeeded a warmersentiment. "

A deep crimson instantly mantled the face of Miriam, and her eye fellto the floor. 

"Can you, my dear young lady, " continued Mr. Burton, "reciprocate thefeeling I have expressed?"

"Oh, sir! Excuse me!" said Miriam, so soon as she could recover herdisordered thoughts. And she made another effort to rise, but was stilldetained by Burton. 

"Stay! stay!" said he. "Hear all that I wish to utter. I am rich"--

But, ere he could speak another word, Miriam sprang from the sofa, and, bounding from the room, flew rather than walked up the stairs. Theinstant she entered her own room she closed and locked the door, andthen, falling upon the bed, gave vent to a flood of tears. A long timepassed before her spirit regained its former composure; and then, whenher thought turned towards Mr. Burton, she experienced an inwardshudder. 

Of what had occurred, she breathed not a syllable to Edith when shejoined her in the chamber to retire for the night. 

"How my heart aches for mother!" sighed Edith, as she came in. "I havebeen trying to encourage her; but words are of no avail. 'Where is allto end?' she asks; and I cannot answer the question. Oh dear! What isto become of us? At the rate we are going on now, every thing must soonbe lost. To think of what we have sacrificed and are still sacrificing, yet all to no purpose. Every comfort is gone. Strangers, who have nosympathy with us, have come into our house; and mother is compelled tobear all manner of indignities from people who are in every way herinferiors. Yet, for all, we are losing instead of gaining. Ah me! Nowonder she is heart-sick and utterly discouraged. How could it beotherwise?"

Miriam heard and felt every word; but she made no answer. Thought, however, was busy, and remained busy long after sleep had brought backto the troubled heart of Edith its even pulsations. 

"I am rich. " These words of Mr. Burton were constantly recurring to hermind. It was in vain that she turned from the idea presented with them:it grew more and more distinct each moment. Yes, there was a way ofrelief opened for her mother, of safety for the family, and Miriam sawit plainly, yet shuddered as she looked, and closed her eyes, like oneabout to leap from a fearful height. 

Hour after hour Miriam lay awake, pondering the new aspect which thingshad assumed, and gazing down the fearful abyss into which, in a spiritof self-devotion, she was seeking to find the courage to leap. 

"I am rich. " Ever and anon these words sounded in her ears. As the wifeof Burton, she could at once lift her mother out of her present unhappysituation. Thus, before the hour of midnight came and went, shethought. He had offered her his hand. She might accept the offer, oncondition of his settling an income upon her mother. 

This the tempter whispered in her ears, and she hearkened, in exquisitepain, to the suggestion. 

When Edith awoke on the next morning, Miriam slept soundly by her side;but Edith, observed that her face was pale and troubled, and that tearswere on her cheeks. At breakfast time, she did not appear at the table;and when her mother sent to her room she returned for answer that shewas not very well. The whole of the day she spent in her chamber, and, during all the time, was struggling against the instinctive repulsionfelt towards the man who had made her an offer of marriage. 

At supper time, she reappeared at the table with a calm, yet sad face. As she was passing from the dining room after tea, Burton came to herside and whispered--

"Can I have a word with you in the parlour, Miriam?"

The young girl neither looked up nor spoke, but moved along by hisside, and descended with him to the parlour, where they were alone. 

"Miriam, " said Burton, as he placed himself by her side on the sofa, "have you thought seriously of what I said last evening? Can youreciprocate the ardent sentiments I expressed?"

"Oh, sir!" returned Miriam, looking up artlessly in his face, "I am tooyoung to listen to words like these. "

"You are a woman, Miriam, " replied Burton, earnestly--"a lovely woman, with a heart overflowing with pure affections. Deeply have youinterested my feelings from the first; and now I ask you to be mine. AsI was going to say last evening, I am rich, and will surround you withevery comfort and elegance that money can obtain. Dearest Miriam, saythat you will accept the hand I now offer you. "

"My mother will never consent, " said the trembling girl, after a longpause. 

"Your mother is in trouble. I have long seen that, " remarked Mr. Burton, "and have long wanted to advise and befriend her. Put it in mypower to do so, and then ask for her what you will. "

This was touching the right key, and Burton saw it in a moment. 

"Yes, you have said truly, " replied Miriam; "my mother is in greattrouble. Ah! what would I not do for her relief?"

"Ask for your mother what you will, Miriam, " said Burton. 

The maiden's eyes were upon the floor, and the rapid heaving of herbosom showed that her thoughts were busy in earnest debate. At length, looking up, she said--

"Will you lift her out of her present embarrassed position, and settleupon her an income sufficient for herself and family?"

"I will, " was the prompt answer. "And now, my dear Miriam, name the sumyou wish her to receive. "

Another long silence followed. 

"Ah, sir!" at length said the maiden, "in what a strange, humiliatingposition am I placed!"

"Do not speak thus, Miriam. I understand all better than words canutter it. Will an income of two thousand dollars a year suffice?"

"It is more than I could ask. "

"Enough. The moment you are mine, that sum will be settled on yourmother. "

Miriam arose up quickly, as Burton said this, murmuring--

"Let me have a few days for reflection, " and, ere he could prevent her, glided from the room. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Two weeks more went by, and the pressure upon Mrs. Darlington washeavier and heavier. Her income was below her table expenses andservant-hire, and all her reserve fund being exhausted, she felt theextremity of her circumstances more than at any time before. To bearlonger the extra weight of poor, deserted Mrs. Marion and her twochildren was felt to be impossible. With painful reluctance did Mrs. Darlington slowly make up her mind to say to Mrs. Marion that she mustseek another home; and for this purpose she one day waited upon her inher room. As tenderly and as delicately as possible did she approachthe subject. A word or two only had she said, when Mrs. Marion, withtears upon her face, replied, --

"Pardon me that I have so long remained a burden upon you. Had I knownwhere to go, or what to do, I would not have added my weight to theheavy ones you have had to bear. Daily have I lived in hope that myhusband would return. But my heart is sick with hope deferred. It istime now that I began the work of self-dependence. "

"Where can you go?" asked Mrs. Darlington. 

"I know not, " sadly returned Mrs. Marion. "My only relative is a pooraunt, with scarcely the ability to support herself. But I will see herto-day. Perhaps she can advise me what to do. "

When Mrs. Marion returned from this visit to her aunt, she looked verysad. Mrs. Darlington was in the passage as she came in; but she passedher without speaking, and hurried up to her chamber. Neither at teatime on that evening nor at breakfast time on the next morning did sheappear, though food for herself and children was sent to her room. Deeply did Mrs. Darlington and her daughters suffer on account of thestep they were compelled to take, but stern necessity left them noalternative. During the day, Mrs. Marion went out again for an hour ortwo, and when she came back she announced that she would leave on thenext day. She looked even sadder than before. Some inquiries as towhere she was going were made, but she evaded them. On the dayfollowing, a carriage came for her, and she parted with her kindfriends, uttering the warmest expressions of gratitude. 

"I have turned her from the house!" said Mrs. Darlington, in a tone ofdeep regret, as she closed the door upon the poor creature. "How wouldI like my own child treated thus?"

For the rest of the day she was so unhappy, owing to this circumstance, that she could scarcely attend to any thing. 

"Do you know where Mrs. Marion went when she left our house?" saidEdith to her mother, about two weeks afterwards. There was a troubledlook in Edith's face as she asked this question. 

"No. Where is she?"

"At Blockley. "

"What!"

"In the Alms-house!"

"Edith!"

"It is too true. I have just learned that when she left here, it was totake up her abode among paupers. She had no other home. "

Mrs. Darlington clasped her hands together, and was about givingexpression to her feelings, when a domestic came in and said that Mr. Ellis was in the parlour, and wished to see her immediately. 

"Where is Miriam?" asked the brother, in a quick voice, the moment Mrs. Darlington entered the parlour, where he awaited her. 

"She's in her room, I believe. Why do you ask?"

"Are you certain? Go up, Edith, quickly, and see. "

The manner of Mr. Ellis was so excited that Edith did not pause to hearmore, but flew up stairs. In a few moments she returned, saying thather sister was not there, and that, moreover, on looking into herdrawers, she found them nearly empty. 

"Then it was her!" exclaimed Mr. Ellis. 

"Where is she? Where did you see her?" eagerly asked both mother andsister, their faces becoming as pale as ashes. 

"I saw her in a carriage with a notorious gambler and scoundrel namedBurton. There was a trunk on behind, and they were driving towards thewharf. It is ten minutes before the boat starts for New York, and I maysave her yet!"

And, with these words, Mr. Ellis turned abruptly away, and hurried fromthe house. So paralyzed were both Mrs. Darlington and Edith by thisdreadful announcement, that neither of them had for a time the power ofutterance. Then both, as by a common impulse, arose and went up to thechamber where Miriam slept. Almost the first thing that met the eyes ofMrs. Darlington was a letter, partly concealed by a book on themantel-piece. It was addressed to her. On breaking the seal, she read--

"MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER: I shall be away from you only a little while;and, when I return, I will come with relief for all your presenttroubles. Do not blame me, dear mother! What I have done is for yoursake. It almost broke my heart to see you so pressed down andmiserable. And, then, there was no light ahead. Mr. Burton, who hasgreat wealth, offered me his hand. Only on condition of a handsomesettlement upon you would I accept of it. Forgive me that I have actedwithout consultation. I deemed it best. In a little while, I will beback to throw myself into your arms, and then to lift you out of yourmany troubles. How purely and tenderly I love you, mother, dear mother!I need not say. It is from this love that I am now acting. Takecourage, mother. Be comforted. We shall yet be happy. Farewell, for alittle while. In a few days I will be with you again. 

"MIRIAM. "

As Mrs. Darlington read the last sentence of this letter, Henry, herson, who had not been home since he went out at breakfast-time, camehurriedly into the room, and, in an excited manner, said--

"Mother, I want ten dollars!"

The face of the young man was flushed, and his eyes unsteady. It wasplain, at a glance, that he had been drinking. 

Mrs. Darlington looked at him for a moment, and then, before Edith hadseen the contents of Miriam's letter, placed it in his hands. 

"What does this mean?" he exclaimed, after running his eyes over ithurriedly. "Miriam gone off with that Burton!"

The letter dropped upon the floor, and Henry clasped his hands togetherwith a gesture of pain. 

"Who is Mr. Burton? What do you know of him?" asked Edith. 

"I know him to be a man of the vilest character, and a gambler into thebargain! Rich! Gracious heaven!"

And the young man struck his hands against his forehead, and glancedwildly from his pale-faced mother to his paler sister. 

"And you knew the character of this man, Henry!" said Mrs. Darlington. There was a smiting rebuke in her tone. "You knew him, and did not makethe first effort to protect your young, confiding, devoted sister!Henry Darlington, the blood of her murdered happiness will never bewashed from the skirts of your garments!"

"Mother! mother!" exclaimed the young man, putting up his hands toenforce the deprecation in his voice, "do not speak so, or I will gobeside myself! But where is she? When did she go? I will fly inpursuit. It may not yet be too late. "

"Your Uncle Hiram saw her in a carriage with Mr. Burton, on their way, as he supposed, to the steamboat landing. He has gone to interceptthem, if possible. "

Henry drew his watch from his pocket, and, as he glanced at the time, sank into a chair, murmuring, in a low voice of anguish--

"It is too late!"

CHAPTER IX. 

WHEN Mr. Ellis left the house of his sister, he called a carriage thathappened to be going by, and reached the wharf at Walnut street in timeto spring on board of the steamboat just as the plank was drawn in atthe gangway. He then passed along the boat until he came to the ladies'cabin, which he entered. Almost the first persons he saw were Burtonand his niece. The eyes of Miriam rested upon him at the same moment, and she drew her veil quickly, hoping that she was not recognised. Hiram Ellis did not hesitate a moment, but, walking up to where Miriamsat, stooped to her ear, and said, in a low, anxious voice--

"Miriam, are you married yet?"

Miriam did not reply. 

"Speak, child. Are you married?"

"No, " came in a half audible murmur. 

"Thank God! thank God!" fell in low accents from the lips of Mr. Ellis. 

"Who are you, sir?" now spoke up Burton, whom surprise had till nowkept silent. There was a fiery gleam in his eyes. 

"The uncle of this dear girl, and one who knows you well, " wasanswered, in a stern voice. "Knows you to be unworthy to touch even thehem of her garment. "

A dark scowl lowered upon the face of Burton. But Mr. Ellis returnedhis looks of anger glance for glance. Miriam was in terror at thisunexpected scene, and trembled like an aspen. Instinctively she shranktowards her uncle. 

Two or three persons, who sat near, were attracted by the excitementvisible in the manner of all three, although they heard nothing thatwas said. Burton saw that they were observed, and, bending towards Mr. Ellis, said--

"This, sir, is no place for a scene. A hundred eyes will soon be uponus. "

"More than one pair of which, " replied Mr. Ellis, promptly, "willrecognise in you a noted gambler, who has at least one wife living, ifno more. "

As if stung by a serpent, Burton started to his feet and retired fromthe cabin. 

"Oh, uncle! can what you say of this man be true?" asked Miriam, with ablanching face. 

"Too true, my dear child! too true! He is one of the worst of men. Thank God that you have escaped the snare of the fowler!"

"Yes, thank God! thank God!" came trembling from the lips of the maiden. 

Mr. Ellis then drew his niece to a part of the cabin where they couldconverse without being overheard by other passengers on board of theboat. To his inquiry into the reasons for so rash an act, Miriam gaveher uncle an undisguised account of her mother's distressed condition, and touchingly portrayed the anguish of mind which had accompanied herreluctant assent to the offer of Burton. 

"And all this great sacrifice was on your mother's account?" said Mr. Ellis. 

"All! all! He agreed to settle upon her the sum of two thousand dollarsa year, if I would become his wife. This would have made the familycomfortable. "

"And you most wretched. Better, a thousand times better, have gone downto your grave, Miriam, than become the wife of that man. But for theprovidential circumstance of my seeing you in the carriage with him, all would have been lost. Surely, you could not have felt for him theleast affection. "

"Oh, uncle! you can never know what a fearful trial I have passedthrough. Affection! It was, instead, an intense repugnance. But, for mymother's sake, I was prepared to make any sacrifice consistent withhonour. "

"Of all others, my dear child, " said Mr. Ellis, with much feeling, "asacrifice of this kind is the worst. It is full of evil consequencesthat cannot be enumerated, and scarcely imagined. You had no affectionfor this man, and yet, in the sight of Heaven, you were going solemnlyto vow that you would love and cherish him through life!"

A shudder ran through the frame of Miriam, which being perceived by Mr. Ellis, he said--

"Well may you shudder, as you stand looking down the awful abyss intowhich you were about plunging. You can see no bottom, and you wouldhave found none. There is no condition in this life, Miriam, sointensely wretched as that of a pure-minded, true-hearted woman unitedto a man whom she not only cannot love, but from whom every instinct ofher better nature turns with disgust. And this would have been yourcondition. Ah me! in what a fearful evil was this error of your mother, in opening a boarding-house, about involving her child! I begged hernot to do so. I tried to show her the folly of such a step. But shewould not hear me. And now she is in great trouble?"

"Oh yes, uncle. All the money she had when she began is spent; and whatshe now receives from boarders but little more than half pays expenses. "

"I knew it would be so. But my word was not regarded. Your mother is nomore fitted to keep a boarding-house than a child ten years old. Ittakes a woman who has been raised in a different school, who hasdifferent habits, and a different character. "

"But what can we do, uncle?" said Miriam. 

"What are you willing to do?"

"I am willing to do any thing that is right for me to do. "

"All employment, Miriam, are honourable so far as they are useful, "said Mr. Ellis, seriously, "though false pride tries to make us thinkdifferently. And, strangely enough, this false pride drives too many, in the choice of employments, to the hardest, least honourable, andleast profitable. Hundreds of women resort to keeping boarders as ameans of supporting their families when they might do it more easily, with less exposure and greater certainty, in teaching, if qualified, fine needle-work, or even in the keeping of a store for the sale offancy and useful articles. But pursuits of the latter kind they rejectas too far below them, and, in vainly attempting to keep up a certainappearance, exhaust what little means they have. A breaking up of thefamily, and a separation of its members, follow the error in too manycases. "

Miriam listened to this in silence. Her uncle paused. 

"What can I do to aid my mother?" the young girl asked. 

"Could you not give music lessons?"

"I am too young, I fear, for that. Too little skilled in the principlesof music, " replied Miriam. 

"If competent, would you object to teach?"

"Oh, no. Most gladly would I enter upon the task, did it promise even asmall return. How happy would it make me if I could lighten, by my ownlabour, the burdens that press so heavily upon our mother!"

"And Edith. How does she feel on this subject?"

"As I do. Willing for any thing; ready for any change from our presentcondition. "

"Take courage, then, my dear child, take courage, " said the uncle, in acheerful voice. "There is light ahead. "

"Oh, how distressed my mother will be when she finds I am gone!" sighedMiriam, after a brief silence, in which her thoughts reverted to thefact of her absence from home. "When can we get back again?"

"Not before ten o'clock to-night. We must go on as far as Bristol, andthen return by the evening line from New York. "

Another deep sigh heaved the troubled bosom of Miriam, as she uttered, in a low voice, speaking to herself--

"My poor mother! Her heart will be broken!"

CHAPTER X. 

MEANWHILE the hours passed with the mother, sister, and brother in themost agonizing suspense. Henry, who had been drawn away into evilcompany by two young men who boarded in the house, was neglecting hisstudies, and pressing on towards speedy ruin. To drinking andassociation with the vicious, he now added gaming. Little did hismother dream of the perilous ways his feet were treading. On thisoccasion he had come in, as has been seen, with a demand for tendollars. When he left home in the morning, it was in company with theyoung man named Barling. Instead of his going to the office where hewas studying, or his companion to his place of business, they went to acertain public house in Chestnut Street, where they first drank at thebar. 

"Shall we go up into the billiard-room?" said Barling, as they turnedfrom the white marble counter at which they had been drinking. 

"I don't care. Have you time to play a game?" replied Henry. 

"Oh, yes. We're not very busy at the store to-day. "

So the two young men ascended to the billiard-room, and spent a coupleof hours there. Both played very well, and were pretty equally matched. 

From the billiard-room, they proceeded to another part of the house, more retired, and there, at the suggestion of Barling, tried a game atcards for a small stake. Young Darlington was loser at first, but, after a time, regained his losses and made some advance on hisfellow-player. Hours passed in playing and drinking; and finally, Darlington, whose good fortune did not continue, parted with everysixpence. 

"Lend me a dollar, " said he as the last game went against him. 

The dollar was lent, and the playing renewed. Thus it went on, hourafter hour, neither of the young men stopping to eat any thing, thoughboth drank too frequently. At last, Darlington was ten dollars in debtto Barling, who, on being asked for another loan, declined any furtheradvances. Stung by the refusal, Henry said to him, rising as he spoke--

"Do you mean by this that you are afraid I will never return the money?"

"Oh, no, " replied Barling. "But I don't want to play against you anylonger. Your luck is bad. "

"I can beat you, " said Darlington. 

"You hav'n't done it to-day certainly, " answered Barling. 

"Will you wait here a quarter of an hour?" asked Henry. 

"For what?"

"I want to pay you off and begin again. I am going for some money. "

"Yes, I'll wait, " replied the young man. 

"Very well. I'll be back in a few minutes. "

It was for this work and for this purpose that Henry Darlington came tohis mother just at the moment the absence of Miriam and her purpose inleaving had been discovered. The effect of the painful news on theyoung man has already been described. From the time he became aware ofthe fact that Miriam had gone away with Burton for the purpose ofbecoming his wife, until ten o'clock at night, he was in an agony ofsuspense. As the uncle could not be found at the office where he wrote, nor at the house where he boarded, it was concluded that he had reachedthe boat before its departure, and gone on with the fugitives in thetrain to New York. Nothing was therefore left for the distressed familybut to await his return. 

How anxiously passed the hours! At tea time Edith only made herappearance. Henry and his mother remained in the chamber of the latter. As for the young man, he was cast down and distressed beyond measure, vexing his spirit with self-accusations that were but too well founded. 

"Oh, mother!" said he, while they were alone, starting up from where hehad been sitting with his face buried in his hands--"oh, mother! whatevils have come through this opening of our house, for strangers toenter! Miriam, our sweet, gentle, pure-hearted Miriam, has been luredaway by one of the worst of men; and!"--the young man checked himself amoment or two, and then continued--"and I have been drawn away fromright paths into those that lead to sure destruction. Mother, I havebeen in great danger. Until Barling and Mason came into our family, Iwas guiltless of any act that could awaken a blush of shame upon mycheek. Oh, that I had never met them!"

"Henry! Henry! what do you mean by this?" exclaimed Mrs. Darlington, ina voice full of anguish. 

"I have been standing on the brink of a precipice, " replied the youngman with more calmness. "But a hand has suddenly drawn me away, and Iam trembling at the danger I have escaped. Oh, mother, will you notgive up this mode of life? We have none of us been happy. I have neverfelt as if I had a home since it began. And you--what a slave have youbeen! and how unhappy! Can nothing be done except keeping boarders? Oh, what would I not give for the dear seclusion of a home where nostranger's foot could enter!"

"Some other mode of living must be sought, my son, " replied Mrs. Darlington. "Added to all the evils attendant on the present mode, isthat of a positive loss instead of a profit. Several hundred dollarshave been wasted already, and daily am I going in debt. "

"Then, mother, let us change at once, " replied the young man. "It wouldbe better to shrink together in a single room than to continue as weare. I will seek a clerkship in a store and earn what I can to helpsupport the family. "

"I can think of nothing now but Miriam!" said Mrs. Darlington. "Oh, ifshe were back again, safe from the toils that have been thrown aroundher, I think I would be the most thankful of mortals! Oh, my child! mychild!"

What could Henry say to comfort his mother? Nothing. And he remainedsilent. 

Long after this, Mrs. Darlington, with Henry and Edith, were sittingtogether in painful suspense. No word had been spoken by either for thespace of nearly an hour. The clock struck ten. 

"I would give worlds to see my dear, dear child!" murmured Mrs. Darlington. 

Just then a carriage drove up to the door and stopped. Henry sprangdown stairs; but neither Edith nor her mother could move from wherethey sat. As the former opened the street door, Miriam stood with heruncle on the threshold. Henry looked at her earnestly and tenderly foran instant, and then, staggering back, leaned against the wall forsupport. 

"Where is your mother?" asked Mr. Ellis. 

"In her own room, " said Henry, in a voice scarcely audible. 

Miriam sprang up the stairs with the fleetness of an antelope, and, ina few moments, was sobbing on her mother's bosom. 

"Miriam! Miriam!" said Mrs. Darlington, in a thrilling voice, "do youreturn the same as when you left?"

"Yes, thank God!" came from the maiden's lips. 

"Thank God! thank God!" responded the mother, wildly. "Oh, my child, what a fearful misery you have escaped!"

In a few minutes, the mother and sisters were joined by Henry. 

"Where is your uncle?" asked Mrs. Darlington. 

"He has gone away; but says that he will see you to-morrow. "

Over the remainder of that evening we will here draw a veil. 

CHAPTER XI. 

ON the next morning, only Mrs. Darlington met her boarders at thebreakfast-table, when she announced to them that she had concluded toclose her present business, and seek some new mode of sustaining herfamily; at the same time, desiring each one to find another home asearly as possible. 

At the close of the third day after this, Mrs. Darlington sat down toher evening meal with only her children gathered at the table. Asubdued and tranquil spirit pervaded each bosom, even though a darkveil was drawn against the future. To a long and troubled excitementthere had succeeded a calm. It was good to be once more alone, and theyfelt this. "Through what a scene of trial, disorder, and suffering havewe passed!" said Edith. "It seems as if I had just awakened from adream. "

"And such a dream!" sighed Miriam. 

"Would that it were but a dream!" said Mrs. Darlington. "But, alas! thewrecks that are around us too surely testify the presence of adevastating storm. "

"The storm has passed away, mother, " said Edith; "and we will look forcalmer and brighter skies. "

"No bright skies for us, I fear, my children, " returned the mother, with a deeper tinge of sadness in her voice. 

"They are bright this hour to what they were a few days since, " saidEdith, "and I am sure they will grow brighter. I feel much encouraged. Where the heart is willing, the way is sure to open. Both Miriam and Iare willing to do all in our power, and I am sure we can do much. Wehave ability to teach others; and the exercise of that ability willbring a sure reward. I like Uncle Hiram's suggestion very much. "

"But the humiliation of soliciting scholars, " said the mother. 

"To do right is not humiliating, " quickly replied Edith. 

"It is easy to say this, my child; but can you go to Mrs. Lionel, forinstance, with whose family we were so intimate, and solicit her tosend Emma and Cordelia to the school you propose to open, without asmarting sense of humiliation? I am sure you cannot. "

Edith communed with her own thoughts for some moments, and thenanswered--

"If I gave way to false pride, mother, this might be so; but I mustovercome what is false and evil. This is as necessary for my happinessas the external good we seek--nay, far more so. Too many who have movedin the circle where we have been moving for years strangely enoughconnect an idea of degradation with the office of teaching children. But is there on the earth a higher or more important use thaninstructing the mind and training the heart of young immortals? It hasbeen beautifully and truly said, that 'Earth is the nursery of Heaven. 'The teacher, then, is a worker in God's own garden. Is it not so, mother?"

"You think wisely, my child. God grant that your true thoughts maysustain you in the trials to come!" replied Mrs. Darlington. 

The door-bell rang as the family were rising from the tea-table. Thevisitor was Mr. Ellis. He had come to advise with and assist thedistressed mother and her children; and his words were listened to withfar more deference than was the case a year before. Nine or ten months'experience in keeping a boarding-house had corrected many of the falseviews of Mrs. Darlington, and she was now prepared to make an effortfor her family in a different spirit from that exhibited in thebeginning. The plan proposed by her brother--a matter-of-fact kind ofperson--was the taking of a house at a more moderate rent, and openinga school for young children. Many objections and doubts were urged; buthe overruled them all, and obtained, in the end, the cordial consent ofevery member of the family. During the argument which preceded thefinal decision of the matter, Mrs. Darlington said--

"Suppose the girls should not be able to get scholars?"

"Let them see to this beforehand. "

"Many may promise to send, and afterwards change their minds. "

"Let them, " replied the brother. "If, at the end of the first, second, and third years, you have not made your expenses, I will supply thedeficiency. "

"You!"

"Yes. The fact is, sister, if you will be guided in some respects by myjudgment, I will stand by you, and see you safely over everydifficulty. Your boarding-house experiment I did not approve. I sawfrom the beginning how it would end, and I wished to see the end asquickly as possible. It has come, and I am glad of it; and, stillfurther, thankful that the disaster has not been greater. If you onlyhad now the five or six hundred dollars wasted in a vain experimentduring the past year, how much the sum might do for you! But we willnot sigh over this. As just said, I will stand by you in the newexperiment, and see that you do not fall again into embarrassment. "

Henry was present at this interview, but remained silent during thewhole time. Since the day of Miriam's departure with Burton, and safereturn, a great change had taken place in the young man. He was likeone starting up from sleep on the brink of a fearful precipice, andstanding appalled at the danger he had escaped almost by a miracle. Theway in which he had begun to walk he saw to be the way to suredestruction, and his heart shrunk with shame and trembled with dismay. 

"Henry, " said the uncle, after an hour's conversation with his sisterand Edith, "I would like to talk with you alone. "

Mrs. Darlington and her daughters left the room. 

"Henry, " said Mr. Ellis, as soon as the rest had withdrawn, "you areold enough to do something to help on. All the burden ought not to comeon Edith and Miriam. "

"Only show me what I can do, uncle, and I am ready to put my hands tothe work, " was Henry's prompt reply. 

"It will be years before you can expect an income from your profession. "

"I know, I know. That is what discourages me. "

"I can get you the place of clerk in an insurance office, at a salaryof five hundred dollars a year. Will you accept it?"

"Gladly!" The face of the young man brightened as if the sun had shoneupon it suddenly. 

"You will have several hours each day, in which to continue your lawreading, and will get admitted to the bar early enough. Keep yourmother and sisters for two or three years, and then they will be in acondition to sustain you until you make a practice in your profession. "

But to this the mother and sisters, when it was mentioned to them, objected. They were not willing to have Henry's professional studiesinterrupted. That would be a great wrong to him. 

"Not a great wrong, but a great good, " answered Mr. Ellis. "And I willmake this plain to you. Henry, as I learn from yourself, has made somedangerous associations; and some important change is needed to help himbreak away from them. No sphere of life is so safe for a young man asthat which surrounds profitable industry pursued for an end. Temptationrarely finds its way within this sphere. Two or three years devoted tothe duties of a clerk, with the end of aiding in the support of hismother and sisters, will do more to give a right direction to Henry'scharacter--more to make success in after life certain--than any thingelse possible now to be done. The office in which I can get him thesituation I speak of adjoins the one to which I am attached, and Iwill, therefore, have him mostly under my own eye. In this new school, the ardency of his young feelings will be duly chastened, and histhoughts turned more into elements of usefulness. In a word, sister, itwill give him self-dependence, and, in the end, make a man of him. "

The force of all this, and more by this suggested, was not only seen, but felt, by Mrs. Darlington; and when she found her son ready toaccept the offer made to him, she withdrew all opposition. 

Steps preliminary to the contemplated change were immediately taken. First of all, Edith waited upon a number of their old friends, who hadyoung children, and informed them that she was, in connection with hersister, about opening a school. Some were surprised, some pleased, andsome indifferent at the announcement; but a goodly number expressedpleasure at the opportunity it afforded them of placing their youngerchildren under the care of teachers in whose ability and character theyhad so much confidence. Thus was the way made plain before them. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A FEW weeks later, and the contemplated change was made. The familyremoved into a moderate-sized house, at a lower rent, and prepared totest the new mode of obtaining a livelihood. A good portion of theirfurniture had been sold, besides three gold watches and some valuablejewelry belonging to Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest daughters, inorder to make up a sum sufficient to pay off the debt contracted duringthe last few months of the boarding-house experiment. The real losssustained by the widow in this experiment fell little short of athousand dollars. 

"How many scholars have you now?" asked Mrs. Darlington of Edith, twomonths after the school was opened, as they sat at tea one evening, each member of the family wearing a cheerful face. 

"Twenty, " replied Edith. "We received two new ones to-day. Mrs. Wilmotcame and entered two of her children; and she said that Mrs. Armond wasgoing to send her Florence so soon as her quarter expired in the schoolshe is now attending. "

"How much will you receive from your present number of scholars?"inquired Henry. 

"I made the estimate to-day, " returned Edith, "and find that the billswill come to something like a hundred and twenty-five dollars aquarter. "

"Five hundred dollars a year, " said Henry; "and my five hundred addedto that will make a thousand. Can't we live on a thousand dollars, mother?"

"We may, by the closest economy. "

"Our school will increase, " remarked Edith; "and every increase willadd to our income. Oh! it looks so much brighter ahead! and we have somuch real comfort in the present! What a scene of trial have we passedthrough!"

"How I ever bore up under it is more than I can now tell, " said Mrs. Darlington, with an involuntary shudder. "And the toil, and suffering, and danger through which we have come! I cannot be sufficientlythankful that we are safe from the dreadful ordeal, and with so fewmarks of the fire upon us. "

A silence followed this, in which two hearts, at least, were humbled, yet thankful, in their self-communion--the hearts of Henry and Miriam. Through what perilous ways had they come! How near had they been toshipwreck!

"Poor Mrs. Marion!" said Edith, breaking the silence, at length. "Howoften I think of her! And the thought brings a feeling of condemnation. Was it right for us to thrust her forth as we did?"

"Can she still be in?"

"Oh no, no!" spoke up Henry, interrupting his mother. "I forgot to tellyou that I met her and her husband on the street to-day. "

"Are you certain?"

"Oh yes. "

"Did you speak to them?"

"No. They saw me, but instantly averted their faces. Mrs. Marion lookedvery pale, as if she had been sick. "

"Poor woman! She has had heart-sickness enough, " said Mrs. Darlington. "I shall never forgive myself for turning her out of the house. If Ihad known where she was going!"

"But we did not know that, mother, " said Edith. 

"We knew that she had neither friends nor a home, " replied the mother. "Ah me! when our own troubles press heavily upon us, we lose oursympathy for others!"

"It was not so in this case, " remarked Edith. "Deeply did we sympathizewith Mrs. Marion. But we could not bear the weight without going underourselves. "

"I don't know, I don't know, " said Mrs. Darlington, half to herself. "We might have kept up with her a little longer. But I am glad from myheart that her husband has come back. If he will be kind to his wife, Iwill forgive all his indebtedness to me. "

A few weeks subsequent to this time, as Miriam sat reading the morningpaper, she came upon a brief account of the arrest, in New Orleans, ofa "noted gambler, " as it said, named Burton, on the charge of bigamy. The paper dropped to the floor, and Miriam, with clasped hands and eyesinstantly overflowing with tears, looked upward, and murmured herthanks to Heaven. 

"What an escape!" fell tremblingly from her lips, as she arose and wentto her room to hold communion with her own thoughts. 

Three years have passed, and what has been the result of the widow'snew experiment? The school prospered from the beginning. The spiritwith which Edith and Miriam went to work made success certain. Parentswho sent their children were so much pleased with the progress theymade, that they spoke of the new school to their friends, and thus gaveit a reputation, that, ere a year had elapsed, crowded the rooms of thesisters. Mrs. Darlington was a woman who had herself received asuperior education. Seeing that the number of scholars increasedrapidly, and made the pressure on her daughters too great, she gave aportion of her time each day to the instruction of certain classes, andsoon became much interested in the work. From that time she associatedherself in the school with Edith and Miriam. 

Three years, as we said, have passed, and now the profits on the schoolare more than sufficient to meet all expenses. Henry has left hisclerkship, and is a member of the bar. Of course he has little or nopractice--only a few months having elapsed since his admission; but hismother and sisters are fully able to sustain him until he could sustainhimself. 

"How much better this is than keeping boarders!" said Edith, as she satconversing with her mother and uncle about the prospects of the school. 

"And how much more useful and honourable!" remarked Mr. Ellis. "In theone case, you fed only the body, but now you are dispensing food to theimmortal mind. You are moreover independent in your own house. When theday's work is done, you come together as one family, and shut out theintruding world. "

"Yes, it is better, far better, " replied Mrs. Darlington. "Ah, thatfirst mistake of mine was a sad one!"

"Yet out of it has come good, " said Mr. Ellis. "That painful experiencecorrected many false views, and gave to all your characters a new andhigher impulse. It is through disappointment, trial, and suffering, that we grow wise here; and true wisdom is worth the highest price weare ever called upon to pay for it. "

Yes, it is so. Through fiery trials are we purified. At times, in oursuffering, we feel as if every good thing in us was about beingconsumed. But this never happens. No good in our characters is everlost in affliction or trouble; and we come out of these states of painwiser and better than when we entered them, and more fitted and morewilling to act usefully our part in the world. 

PLAIN SEWING; OR, HOW TO ENCOURAGE THE POOR. 

"Do you know of any poor body who does plain sewing?" asked Mrs. Landerof a neighbour upon whom she called for the particular purpose ofmaking this inquiry. "I have a good deal of work that I want done, andI always like to give my plain sewing to people that need it. "

"I think I know of a person who will suit you, " replied Mrs. Brandon, the lady to whom the application had been made. "She is a poor widowwoman, with four children dependent upon her for support. She sewsneatly. Yesterday she brought me home some little drawers andnight-gowns that were beautifully made. I am sure she will please you, and I know she deserves encouragement. "

"What is her name?"

"Mrs. Walton; and she lives in Larkin's Court. "

"Thank you, ma'am. I will send for her this morning. You say she isvery poor?"

"You may judge of that yourself, Mrs. Lander. A woman who has fourchildren to support by the labour of her own hands cannot be very welloff. "

"No--certainly not. Poor creature! I will throw all I can in her way, if her work should please me. "

"I am sure that will be the case, for she sews very neatly. "

Mrs. Lander having found out a poor woman who could do plainsewing--she was always more ready to employ persons in extreme povertythan those who were in more easy circumstances--immediately sent asummons for her to attend upon her ladyship. Mrs. Walton's appearance, when she came, plainly enough told the story of her indigence. 

"Mrs. Brandon informs me, " said Mrs. Lander, "that you do plain sewingvery well, and that you stand in need of work. I always like toencourage the industrious poor. "

The woman inclined her head, and Mrs. Lander went on. 

"Do you make shirts?"

"Yes, ma'am, sometimes. "

"Do you consider yourself a good shirt maker?"

"I don't call myself any thing very extra; but people for whom I workseem generally pleased with what I do. "

"I have six shirts cut out for Mr. Lander. How soon can you make them?"

"I couldn't make them all in less than a couple of weeks, as I haveother work that must be done within that time. "

"Very well. That will do. "

The poor woman took the shirts home, feeling grateful to Mrs. Brandonfor having recommended her, and thankful to get the work. In order togive satisfaction to both her new customer, and those for whom shealready had work in the house, she divided her time between them, sewing one day for Mrs. Lander and the next on the work received beforehers came in. At the end of a week, three of the shirts were ready, and, as she needed very much the money she had earned in making them, she carried them over to Mrs. Lander on Saturday afternoon. 

"I have three of the shirts ready, " said she, as she handed to the ladythe bundle she had brought. 

"Ah! have you?" remarked Mrs. Lander, as, with a grave face, she openedthe bundle and examined the garments. This examination was continuedwith great minuteness, and long enough almost to have counted everystitch in the garments. She found the shirts exceedingly well made;much better than she had expected to find them. 

"When will you have the others ready?" she asked, as she laid themaside. 

"I will try and bring them in next Saturday. "

"Very well. "

Then came a deep silence. The poor woman sat with the fingers of bothhands moving together uneasily, and Mrs. Lander looked away out of thewindow and appeared to be intent upon something in the street. 

"Are these made to please you?" Mrs. Walton ventured to ask. 

"They'll do, " was the brief answer; and then came the same deadsilence, and the same interest on the part of the lady in somethingpassing in the street. 

Mrs. Walton wanted the money she had earned for making the shirts, andMrs. Lander knew it. 

But Mrs. Lander never liked to pay out money, if she could help it; andas doing so always went against the grain, it was her custom to put offsuch unpleasant work as long as possible. She liked to encourage thevery poor, because she knew they generally worked cheaper than peoplewho were in easier circumstances; but the drawback in their case was, that they always wanted money the moment their work was done. 

Badly as she stood in need of the money she had earned, poor Mrs. Walton felt reluctant to ask for it until the whole number of shirtsshe had engaged to make were done; and so, after sitting for a littlewhile longer, she got up and went away. It happened that she hadexpended her last sixpence on that very morning, and nothing was due toher from any one but Mrs. Lander. Two days at least would elapse beforeshe would have any other work ready to take home, and what to do in themean time she did not know. With her the reward of every day's labourwas needed when the labour was done; but now she was unpaid for fullfour days' work, and her debtor was a lady much interested in thewelfare of the poor, who always gave out her plain sewing to those whowere in need of encouragement. 

By placing in pawn some few articles of dress, and paying a heavyinterest upon the little sum of money advanced thereon, the poor widowwas able to keep hunger from her door until she could finish some workshe had in hand for a lady more considerate than Mrs. Lander. Then sheapplied herself with renewed industry to the three shirts yet to make, which she finished at the time she promised to have them done. With themoney to be received for these, she was to pay one dollar and a half toget her clothes from the pawnbroker's shop, buy her little boy a pairof shoes, --he had been from school a week for want of them, --and get asupply of food for the many mouths she had to feed. 

Mrs. Lander received her with that becoming dignity of manner andgravity which certain persons always assume when money has to be paidout. She, as it behooved her to do, thoroughly examined every seam, line of stitching, and hem upon each of the three shirts, and then, after slowly laying the garments upon a table sighed, and looked stillgraver. Poor Mrs. Walton felt oppressed; she hardly knew why. 

"Does the work please you?" she ventured to ask. 

"I don't think these are as well made as the others, " said Mrs. Lander. 

"I thought they were better made, " returned the woman. 

"Oh, no. The stitching on the bosoms, collars, and wristbands isn'tnearly so well done. "

Mrs. Walton knew better than this; but she did not feel in any humourto contend for the truth. Mrs. Lander took up the shirts again, andmade another examination. 

"What is the price of them?" she asked. 

"Seventy-five cents. "

"Apiece?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Seventy-five cents apiece!"

"I have never received less than that, and some for whom I sew alwayspay me a dollar. "

"Seventy five cents! It is an imposition. I know plenty of poor womenwho would have been glad of these shirts at half the price--yes, or ata third of the price either. Seventy-five cents, indeed! Oh, no--I willnever pay a price like that. I can go to any professed shirt-maker inthe city, and get them made for seventy-five cents or a dollar. "

"I know you can, ma'am, " said Mrs. Walton, stung into self-possessionby this unexpected language. "But why should I receive less if my workis as well done?"

"A pretty question, indeed!" retorted Mrs. Lander, thrown off herguard. "A pretty question for you to ask of me! Oh, yes! You can getsuch prices if you can, but I never pay them to people like you. When Ipay seventy-five cents or a dollar apiece for shirts, I go to regularshirt-makers. But this is what we generally get for trying to encouragethe poor. Mrs. Brandon said that you were in needy circumstances, andthat it would be a charity to give you work. But this is the way itgenerally turns out. "

"What are you willing to pay?" asked the poor woman, choking down herfeelings. 

"I have had shirts as well made as these for forty cents many and manya time. There is a poor woman down in Southwark, who sews beautifully, who would have caught at the job. She works for the shops, and does notget over twenty-five cents for fine shirts. But as Mrs. Brandon saidyou were suffering for work, I thought I would throw something in yourway. Forty cents is an abundance; but I had made up my mind, under thecircumstances, to make it fifty, and that is all I will give. So hereis your money--three dollars. "

And Mrs. Lander took out her purse, and counted out six half dollarsupon the table. Only for a few moments did the poor woman hesitate. Bread she must have for her children; and if her clothes were not takenout of pawn on that day, they would be lost. Slowly did she take up themoney while words of stinging rebuke were on her tongue. But she forcedherself to keep silence; and even departed, bearing the wrong that hadbeen laid upon her without uttering a word. 

"Did you get my shoes as you promised, mother?" eagerly inquired herlittle boy, as she came in, on returning from the house of Mrs. Lander. 

"No, dear, " replied the heart-full mother, in a subdued voice. "Ididn't get as much money as I expected. "

"When will you buy them, mother?" asked the child as tears filled hiseyes. "I can't go to school in this way. " And he looked down at hisbare feet. 

"I know you can't, Harry; and I will try and get them for you in a fewdays. "

The child said no more, but shrunk away with his little heart so fullof disappointment, that he could not keep the tears from gushing overhis face. The mother's heart was quite as full. Little Harry sat downin a corner to weep in silence, and Mrs. Walton took her sewing intoher hands; but the tears so blinded her eyes, that she could not seewhere to direct the needle. Before she had recovered herself, there wasa knock at the door, which was opened immediately afterwards by a lady, who came into the room where the poor widow sat with her little familyaround her. 

More than an hour had passed since the unpleasant interview with thepoor widow, and Mrs. Lander had not yet recovered her equanimity ofmind nor lost the feelings of indignation which the attempt to imposeupon her by an exorbitant charge had occasioned, when she was favouredwith a visit from Mrs. Brandon, who said familiarly, and with a smile, as she entered--

"Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Lander? I have just corrected a mistake youmade a little while ago. "

"Indeed! what is that?" asked Mrs. Lander, looking a little surprised. 

"You only gave poor Mrs. Walton fifty cents apiece for the half dozenof shirts she made for you, when the lowest price is seventy-fivecents. I always pay a dollar for Mr. Brandon's. The difference is avery important one to her--no less than a dollar and a half. I foundher in much trouble about it, and her little boy crying withdisappointment at not getting a pair of shoes his mother had promisedhim as soon as she got the money for the shirts. He has been fromschool for want of shoes for more than a week. So I took out my purseand gave Mrs. Walton the dollar and a half to make up the sum she hadearned, and told her I would see you about it. I acted right, did Inot? Of course, it was a mistake on your part?"

Mrs. Lander was never more completely out-generalled in her life. Thelady who had corrected her error was one in whose good opinion she hadevery reason for desiring to stand high. She could grind the face ofthe poor without pity or shame, but for the world she would not bethought mean by Mrs. Brandon. 

"I am very much obliged to you, indeed, " she said with a bland smile. "It was altogether a mistake on my part, and I blame the womanexceedingly for not having mentioned it at the time. Heaven knows I amthe last person in the world to grind the faces of the poor! Yes, thevery last person. Here is the money you paid for me, and I must repeatmy thanks for your prompt correction of the error. But I cannot helpfeeling vexed at the woman. "

"We must make many allowances for the poor, Mrs. Lander. They oftenbear a great deal of wrong without a word of complaint. Some peopletake advantage of their need, and, because they are poor, make themwork for the merest pittance in the world. I know some persons, andthey well off in the world, who always employ the poorest class ofpeople, and this under the pretence of favouring them, but, in reality, that they may get their work done at a cheaper rate than it can be madeby people who expect to derive from their labour a comfortable support. "

Mrs. Lander was stung to the quick by these words; but she dared notshow the least sign of feeling. 

"Surely no one professing to be a Christian can do so, " said she. 

"Yes, people professing to be Christians do these things, " was replied;"but of course their profession needs a better practice to prove it ofany worth. "

When her visitor retired, after having expressed her opinion on thesubject under consideration still more unequivocally, Mrs. Lander didnot feel very comfortable, nor was her good opinion of herself quite sofirm as it had been earlier in the day. But she took good care, in thefuture, not to give any more work to Mrs. Walton, and was exceedinglyparticular afterwards, in employing poor people, to know whether theysewed for Mrs. Brandon. There are a good many people in the world whoencourage the poor on Mrs. Lander's principle. 

JESSIE HAMPTON. 

"WHAT are you doing here, miss?"

The young girl thus addressed was sitting by a centre-table, upon whichstood a lamp, in a handsomely furnished drawing-room. She laid asidethe book she was reading, and, without making any reply, rose upquickly and retired. Two or three persons, members of the family, werepresent. All observed the effect of Mrs. Freeman's words, yet no onehad heard what was said; nor would they have been aware that more thana request for some service had been made, but for the lady's remark asthe girl left the room. 

"I might as well begin at once, and let Jessie know her place. "

"What did you say to her, ma?" asked a young lady who sat swingingherself in a large rocking-chair. 

"I simply asked her what she was doing here. "

"What did she answer?"

"Nothing. The way in which I put the question fully explained mymeaning. I am sorry that there should have arisen a necessity forhurting her feelings; but if the girl doesn't know her place, she mustbe told where it is. "

"I don't see that she was doing any great harm, " remarked an oldgentleman who sat in front of the grate. 

"She was not in her place, brother, " said Mrs. Freeman, with an air ofdignity. "We employ her as a teacher in the family, not as a companion. Her own good sense should have taught her this. "

"You wouldn't have us make an equal of Jessie Hampton, would you, uncleEdward?" inquired the young lady who sat in the rocking-chair. 

"You cannot make her your equal, Fanny, in point of worldly blessings, for, in this matter, Providence has dealt more hardly with her thanwith you. As to companionship, I do not see that she is less worthy nowthan she was a year ago. "

"You talk strangely, Edward, " said Mrs. Freeman, in a tone of dissent. 

"In what way, sister?"

"There has been a very great change in a year. Jessie's family nolonger moves in our circle. "

"True; but is Jessie any the less worthy to sit in your parlour thanshe was then?"

"_I_ think so, and that must decide the matter, " returned Mrs. Freeman, evincing some temper. 

The old gentleman said no more; but Fanny remarked--"I was not infavour of taking Jessie, for I knew how it would be; but Mrs. Carltonrecommended her so highly, and said so much in her favour, that no roomwas left for a refusal. As for Jessie herself, I have no particularobjection to her; but the fact of her having once moved in the circlewe are in is against her; for it leaves room for her to step beyond herplace, as she has already done, and puts upon us the unpleasantnecessity of reminding her of her error. "

"It don't seem to me, " remarked Mr. Freeman, who had till now saidnothing, "that Miss Hampton was doing any thing worthy of reproof. Shehas been well raised, we know; is an educated, refined, and intelligentgirl, and, therefore, has nothing about her to create repugnance or tomake her presence disagreeable. It would be better, perhaps, if welooked more to what persons are, than to things merely external. "

"It is all very well to talk in that way, " said Mrs. Freeman. "But MissHampton is governess in our family, and it is only right that sheshould hold to us that relation and keep her place. What she has been, or that she is, beyond the fact of her present position here, isnothing to us. "

Mr. Freeman knew from experience, that no particular good would growout of a prolonged argument on this subject, and so said nothingfurther, although he could not force from his mind the image of theyoung girl as she rose up hastily and left the room, nor help thinkinghow sad a change it would be for one of his own children, if reducedsuddenly to her condition. 

A good deal more was said by Mrs. Freeman, who did not feel verycomfortable, although she fully justified herself for what she had done. 

The young girl, who had been reminded so harshly of the error intowhich she had fallen, went quickly up into her cold chamber, and there, with a burning cheek, sat down to think as calmly as her disturbedfeelings would permit. The weakness of tears she did not indulge;self-respect, rather than pride, sustained her. Had she acted from thefirst impulse, she would have left the house immediately, never againto re-enter it; but reason soon told her that, however strong herimpulses might be, duties and considerations far beyond mere feelingmust come in to restrain them. 

"Whatever I have been, " she said to herself, as she sat and reflected, "I am now simply a governess, and must steadily bear that in mind. Inthis house I am to receive no more consideration than a mere stranger. Have I a right to complain of this? Have I cause to be offended at Mrs. Freeman for reminding me of the fact? Her reproof was unkindly given;but false pride has in it no gentleness, no regard for another'sfeelings. Ah me! this is one more lesson of the many I have to learn;but let me bear up with a brave heart. There is one who knows my path, and who will see that nothing therein need cause my feet to stumble. From this moment I will think of all here as strangers. I willfaithfully do what I have engaged to do, and expect therefor only thecompensation agreed upon when I came. Have I a right to expect more?"

The bright colour faded gradually from the flushed cheeks of JessieHampton, and with a calm, yet pensive face, she arose and went downinto the room which had been set apart for her use when givinginstruction to the children. It was warmed and lighted, and had in it asmall library. Here she sat alone, reading and thinking, for a coupleof hours, and then retired to her chamber for the night. 

As was intimated in the conversation that arose upon her leaving thedrawing-room, Jessie Hampton's circumstances had suffered, in a veryshort period, a great change. A year before she was the equal andcompanion of Fanny Freeman, and more beloved and respected by those whoknew her than Fanny was or ever could be; but unexpected reverses came. The relative who had been to her as a father for many years wassuddenly deprived of all his worldly goods, and reduced so low as to bein want of the comforts of life. So soon as Jessie saw this, she sawplainly her duty. 

"I cannot burden my uncle, " said she resolutely to herself. "He hasenough, and more than enough, to bear up under, without the addition ofmy weight. " Thoughtfully she looked around her; but still in doubt whatto do, she called upon a lady named Mrs. Carlton, who was among the fewwhose manner towards her had not changed with altered fortune, andfrankly opened to her what was in her mind. 

"What does your uncle say?" inquired Mrs. Carlton. "Does he approve thestep?"

"He knows nothing of my purpose, " returned Jessie. 

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"He will not hear of it, I am certain; but, for all that, I am resolvedto do as I propose. He has lost his property, and is now in greattrouble. He is, in fact, struggling hard to keep his head above water:my weight might sink him. But, even if there were no danger of this, solong as I am able to sustain myself, I will not cling to him while heis tossed on the waves of adversity. "

"I cannot but highly approve your decision, " said Mrs. Carlton, herheart warm with admiration for the right-minded girl. "The fact thatyour uncle has been compelled to give up his elegant house, and retirewith you to a boarding-house, shows the extremity to which he has beenreduced. I understand that his fine business is entirely broken up, andthat, burdened with debts, he has commenced the world again, a fewhundred dollars all his capital in trade, resolved, if health and asound mind be continued to him, to rise above all his presentdifficulties. "

"And shall I, " replied Jessie, "sit an idle witness of the honourablestruggle, content to burden him with my support? No! Were I of such aspirit, I would be unworthy the relation I bear him. Much rather wouldI aid him, were it in my power, by any sacrifice. "

"If I understand you aright, " said Mrs. Carlton, after thinking for a. Few moments, "you would prefer a situation as governess in a privatefamily. "

"Yes; that would suit me best. "

"How would you like to take charge of Mrs. Freeman's younger children?She mentioned to me, only yesterday, her wish to obtain a suitableinstructor for them, and said she was willing to pay a liberal salaryto a person who gave entire satisfaction. "

Jessie's face became thoughtful. 

"Mrs. Freeman is not the most agreeable person to be found, I know, Jessie, " said her friend; "but the step you propose involves sacrificesfrom the beginning. "

"It does, I know; and I must not forget this. Had I a choice, Icertainly should not select the family of Mrs. Freeman as the one inwhich to begin the new life I am about entering upon. She and Fanny areamong the few who have ceased to notice me, except with great coldness, since my uncle's misfortunes. But I will not think of this. If theywill take me, I will go even into their house, and assume the humbleduties of a governess. "

Mrs. Carlton immediately called upon Mrs. Freeman, and mentionedJessie. Some objection was made on the score of her being, an oldacquaintance, who would expect more notice than one in her position wasentitled to receive. This, however, was overruled by Mrs. Carlton, and, after an interview with Jessie, an engagement was entered into for ayear, at a salary of four hundred dollars. 

When Jessie mentioned the subject to her uncle, Mr. Hartman, he becamea good deal excited, and said that she should do no such thing. ButJessie remained firm, and her uncle was at last compelled, though withgreat reluctance, to consent to what she proposed, regarding it only asa temporary measure. 

The first day's experience of Jessie under the roof of Mrs. Freeman isknown to the reader. It was a painful experience, but she bore it inthe right spirit. After that, she was careful to confine herself to thepart of the house assigned her as a servant and inferior, and neverventured upon the least familiarity with any one. Her duty to thechildren who were committed to her charge was faithfully performed, andshe received, regularly, her wages, according to contract, and therethe relation between her and this family ceased. Day after day, weekafter week, and month after month, did Jessie Hampton, uncheered by anapproving smile or friendly word, discharge her duties. But she hadwithin, to sustain her, a consciousness that she was doing right, and afirm trust in an all-wise and merciful Providence. 

Mrs. Carlton remained her steady friend, and Jessie spent an evening ather house almost every week, and frequently met there many of her oldacquaintances. Of her treatment in the house of Mrs. Freeman she neverspoke, and when questioned on the subject avoided giving a directanswer. 

Mr. Hartman's struggle proved to be a hard one. Harassed by claims thathe could not pay off at once, his credit almost entirely gone, and thecapital upon which he was doing business limited to a few hundreddollars, he found it almost impossible to make any headway. In a yearfrom the time Jessie had relieved him from the burden of her support, so far from being encouraged by the result of his efforts, he felt likeabandoning all as hopeless. There are always those who are ready togive small credits to a man whom they believe to be honest, even thoughonce unfortunate in business; but for such favours Mr. Hartman couldnot have kept up thus far. Now the difficulty was to pay the few notesgiven as they matured. 

A note of five hundred dollars was to fall due on the next day, and Mr. Hartman found himself with but a hundred dollars to meet it. The firmfrom which he had bought the goods for which the note was given hadtrusted him when others refused credit to the amount of a singledollar, and had it in their power to forward his interests very greatlyif he was punctual in his payments. It was the first bill of goods theyhad sold him, and Hartman could not go to them for assistance inlifting the note, for that would effectually cut off all hope offurther credit. He could not borrow, for there was no one to lend himmoney. There was a time when he could have borrowed thousands on hisword; but now he knew that it would be folly to ask for even hundreds. 

In a state of deep discouragement, he left his store in the evening andwent home. After tea, while sitting alone, Jessie, who came to see himoften, tapped at his door. 

"Are you not well?" she asked, with much concern, as soon as the smilewith which he greeted her faded from his face, and she saw its droopingexpression. 

"Yes, dear, " he replied, trying to arouse himself and appear cheerful;but the effort was in vain. 

"Indeed, uncle, you are not well, " remarked Jessie, breaking in upon alonger period of silent abstraction into which Mr. Hartman had fallen, after in vain trying to converse cheerfully with his niece. 

"I am well enough in body, Jessie; but my mind is a little anxious justnow, " he replied. 

"Isn't your business coming out as well as you expected?" inquired theaffectionate girl. 

"I am sorry to say that it is not, " returned Mr. Hartman. "In fact, Isee but little hope of succeeding. I have no capital, and the littlecredit I possess is likely to be destroyed through my inability tosustain it. I certainly did anticipate a better reward for my efforts, and am the more disappointed at this result. To think that, for thewant of three or four hundred dollars, the struggle of a whole yearmust prove in vain! As yet, even that small sum I cannot command. "

The face of Jessie flushed instantly, as her uncle uttered the last twosentences. 

"And will so small an amount as three or four hundred dollars save youfrom what you fear?" she asked, in a trembling voice. 

"Yes, even so small an amount as that. But the sum might as well bethousands. I cannot command it. "

"You can, uncle!" replied Jessie, with a glow of exultation on hercheek, and a spirit of joy in her voice. "_I_ have the money. Oh! it isthe happiest hour of my life!"

And sinking forward, she laid her now weeping face upon the breast ofher uncle. Her tears were the out-gushing waters of gladness. 

"_You_ have the money, child?" said Mr. Hartman, after the lapse of afew moments. "Where did you get it?"

"I have had no need to spend my salary. "

"Your salary! Have you saved it all?"

"Every dollar. I had clothing sufficient, and there was no other wantto take it from me. Dear uncle, how happy it makes me to think that Ihave it in my power to aid you! Would that the sum was tens ofthousands!"

Mr. Hartman, as soon as the first surprise was over, said, with evidentemotion--

"Jessie, I cannot express how much this incident has affected me. But, deeply grateful to you as I feel for such an evidence of your love, Imust push back the hand that would force this aid upon me. I will notbe unjust to you. I will not take your hard earnings to run the risk oflosing them. "

A shadow passed over the face of Jessie, and her voice was touched withsomething like grief as she replied--

"How can you speak to me thus, uncle? How can you push back my handwhen, in love, it seeks to smooth the pillow upon which your troubledhead is resting? Would you deny me a higher gratification than I haveever known? No--no--you cannot!"

Mr. Hartman was bewildered. He felt as if it would be a kind ofsacrilege to take the money of his niece, yet how could he positivelyrefuse to do so? Apart from the necessity of his circumstances, therewas the cruelty of doing violence to the generous love that had sofreely tendered relief. In the end, all objections had to yield, andMr. Hartman was saved from a second disaster, which would have entirelyprostrated him, by the money that Jessie had earned and saved. 

A short time after the occurrence of this circumstance, the Freemansgave a large party. Mrs. Carlton, who was present, said to Mrs. Freeman, an hour after the company had assembled--

"Where is Miss Hampton? I've been looking for her all the evening. Isn't she well?"

"What Miss Hampton do you mean?" asked Mrs. Freeman, drawing herself upwith an air cold and dignified. 

"Miss Jessie Hampton, " replied Mrs. Carlton. 

"Sure enough!" said a young man, who was sitting by, and who had beenattentive to Fanny Freeman; "where is Miss Hampton? I haven't seen herfor a long time. What can have become of her? Is she dead, or is shemarried?"

"Her uncle, I suppose you know, failed in business, and has becomepoor, " replied Mrs. Carlton. 

"True. I was perfectly aware of that, but didn't reflect that povertywas a social crime. And is it possible that so lovely a girl as JessieHampton has been excluded from the circle she so graced with herpresence, because of this change in her uncle's circumstances?"

"It is true to a very great extent, Mr. Edgar, " returned Mrs. Carlton, "though I am glad to say that there are a few who can appreciate thereal gold of her character, and who love her as truly and esteem her ashighly as ever they did. "

"A worthy few, and if I were only so fortunate as to fall in companywith her, I would be of the number. Is she here to-night?"

The young man looked at Mrs. Freeman, and became aware, from theexpression of her face, that the subject was disagreeable to her. Witheasy politeness he changed the theme of conversation; but as soon asopportunity offered, sought out Mrs. Carlton, and asked a question ortwo more about Jessie. 

"What has become of Miss Hampton? I should really like to know, " hesaid. 

Mrs. Carlton could only reply direct, and she answered, "She is living in this family in the capacity of governess. "

"Indeed! I have been visiting here, off and on, for a twelvemonth, buthave neither seen her nor heard her name mentioned. Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. I procured her the situation over a year ago, and see heralmost every week. "

"This being the case, and it also being plain that her worth is notappreciated here, our remarks a little while ago could not have beenvery pleasant to the ears of Mrs. Freeman. "

"I presume not, " was returned. 

The young man became thoughtful, and, in a little while, withdrew fromthe crowded rooms and left the house. He was the son of a wealthymerchant, and had recently come into his father's business as apartner. It was to the firm of Edgar & Son that the note of Mr. Hartman, which Jessie had aided him to lift, had been due. 

On the day succeeding the party at Mrs. Freeman's, Mr. Hartman came into purchase some goods, and, after selecting them, asked if he couldhave the usual credit. 

"Certainly, " replied old Mr. Edgar; "and to double the amount of thebill. "

Hartman thanked the merchant, and retired. 

"You know the five hundred dollar note that he paid last week?" saidMr. Edgar, speaking to his son, and alluding to Hartman, who had justleft. 

"I do. "

"Well, I heard something about that note this morning that reallytouched my feelings. Hartman spoke of the circumstances to a friend, and that friend--betraying, I think, the confidence reposed inhim--related it to me, not knowing that we were the parties to whichthe note had been paid. On that note he came near failing again. "

"Indeed! And yet you have just sold him freely!"

"I have. But such are my feelings that I would risk five thousanddollars to keep him up. I know him to be a man of strict honesty. "

"There is no doubt of that, " replied the son. 

"You remember his niece, I suppose?" said old Mr. Edgar. 

"Oh, very well. "

"When Mr. Hartman's circumstances became reduced, she, of her own freechoice, relieved him of the burden of her support, and assumed thearduous and toilsome duties of a governess in one of our wealthyfamilies, where she has ever since been. On the evening before the noteof which I spoke was due, she called to see her uncle, and found him introuble. For some time he concealed the cause but so earnest was she inher affectionate entreaties to know why he was unhappy, that he toldher the reason. He was again embarrassed in his business, and, for wantof a few hundred dollars, which one, circumstanced as he was, could notborrow, was in danger of being again broken up. To his astonishment, Jessie announced the fact that she had the sum he wanted, saved fromher salary as governess. He at first refused to take it, but she wouldlisten to no denial. "

"Noble girl!" exclaimed the young man. 

"She must be one in a thousand, " said Mr. Edgar. 

"She is one in ten thousand!" replied the son, enthusiastically. "Andyet worth like hers is passed over for the tinsel of wealth. Do youknow in whose family she is governess?"

"I do not. "

"I can tell you. She is in the family of Mr. Freeman. "

"Ah!"

"Yes. You know they gave a party last night?"

"I do. "

"Miss Hampton was not present. "

"As much as might have been inferred. "

"And yet there was no young lady in the room her equal in all that goesto make up the character of a lovely woman. "

"Well, my son, " replied the old gentleman, "all I have to say is, thatI look upon this young lady as possessing excellencies of character faroutweighing all the endowments of wealth. Money! It may take to itselfwings in a day; but virtue like hers is as abiding as eternity. If yourheart is not otherwise interested, and you feel so inclined, win her ifyou can. Another like her may never cross your path. With such a womanas your wife, you need not tremble at the word adversity. "

The young man did not reply. What his thoughts were, his actionssubsequently attested. 

After the party, to the distant coldness with which Mrs. Freeman hadtreated Jessie since she came into her house, were added certain signsof dislike, quickly perceived by the maiden. In addressing her, Mrs. Freeman exhibited, at times, a superciliousness that was particularlyoffensive. But Jessie checked the indignant feelings that arose in herbosom, and, in conscious rectitude of character, went on faithfullydischarging her duties. Since the timely aid she had been able to bringher uncle, she had a new motive for effort, and went through her dailytask with a more cheerful spirit. 

One day, about six months after the occurrence of the party which hasbeen mentioned, Jessie, a little to the surprise of Mrs. Freeman, gavethat lady notice that, at a certain time not far off, she wouldterminate her engagement with her. The only reason she gave was, thatthe necessity which took her from home no longer remained. At the timementioned, Jessie left, although Mrs. Freeman, urged by other membersof the family, who could better appreciate the young lady's worth, offered a considerable increase of salary as an inducement to remain. 

"What do you think?" exclaimed Fanny, about three weeks subsequently, throwing open the parlour door, where the family had assembled justbefore tea. "Jessie Hampton's married!"

"What!" ejaculated Mrs. Freeman. "Married?"

"Oh yes, sure enough, " said Mr. Freeman, "I heard of it a little whilebefore I left my counting-room. And, more surprising still, she ismarried to young Edgar. "

"Oh, no!" responded Mrs. Freeman, incredulously. "It's some mistake. Never! It cannot be. "

"Oh, but it is a fact, mother, " said Fanny, with ill-concealed chagrin. "Lizzy Martin was her bridesmaid. They were married at Mrs. Carlton'sthis morning, and the whole bridal party has gone off to Saratoga. "

"He's got a good wife, " remarked the brother of Mrs. Freeman, in hisquiet way. "I always liked that young man, and like him better thanever now. I knew he was a fellow of good sense; but he has showedhimself to possess more of that sterling material than I thought. "

Mr. Freeman also gave his opinion, and in doing so, expressed himselfpretty freely in regard to the treatment Jessie had received, while inthe house. 

As for his wife, when the truth assumed an undoubted form, she sunkinto mortified silence, and Fanny felt even worse than her mother, andfor reasons that lay nearer her heart. 

In a little while the bride took her old place in society, and manywho, in her seclusion, passed her coldly, or all unnoticed, met her nowwith smiles and with warm congratulations. Of all the changes thatfollowed as a consequence of her marriage, there was none that filledher with so much delight as the improved prospects of her uncle, Mr. Hartman. Her husband became his fast friend, and sustained him throughevery difficulty. One home held them both. How purely and brightly thestream of Jessie's happiness flowed on, need not be told. 

Virtue and integrity of character had met their just reward. Inadversity she was not cast down, and when prosperity again smiled shewas not unduly elated. In either relation to society, she was adispenser of blessings to those she loved. 

It is a fact worthy of notice, that those who looked down upon Jessie, and passed her unnoticed while she was only a governess, now referredto the noble, self-sacrificing spirit that prompted her to act as shehad done, and spoke of her conduct with admiration. 

THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 

"JUST four weeks off, " said a little boy, striking his hands together, "and papa will be home!"

"Yes, four weeks more, and we shall see dear father. It will be thehappiest New Year's day we ever had; won't it, mother?" said the littleboy's sister, a bright smile playing over her face. 

"I hope so, " replied the mother. "Father has been away so long, hiscoming home would make any day in the year a happy one. "

"I wonder what he will bring me for a New Year's present?" said the boy. 

"I know what I'll get, " said the little sister. 

"What?"

"A hundred kisses. "

"Oh! I don't care much for kisses. "

"But I do; and I'm sure of getting them. "

"I wonder what mamma will get?"

"I know!" replied the sister, with an arch smile. 

"What?"

"Just what I will. " And the little girl looked at her mother, andsmiled still more archly. 

"A hundred kisses, you mean?"

"We'll see. "

The mother's hand rested from her work, and she looked at her children, with a calm, yet happy face. Their words had caused her to realize, inimagination, with more than usual distinctness, the fact of herhusband's return, which he had written would be on the first day of thecoming new year. He had been away for many months, and home had hardlyseemed like home during his absence. 

"We mustn't think too much about it, " said the mother, "or we will getso impatient for dear father's return as to make ourselves unhappy. Iam sure we will all love him better than ever we did, when he does comehome!"

"I am sure I will, " returned the little girl. 

"Oh! I think I never loved him so well in my life as I have since hehas been away. "

Thus talked the mother and her children of the return of one whosepresence was so dear to them all. 

This brief conversation took place in a farm-house. In the room sat, near the fire, a man whose appearance was any thing but pleasant to theeyes. He was a labourer, who had been hired, some months previously, bythe farmer. He did not seem to hear what was said, yet he was listeningwith reluctant attention. The mother and her children continued stillto talk of what was uppermost in their minds--the absent one, and hisexpected return--until the man became restless, and at last got up andwent out. 

"I don't wonder Mr. Foster went out of the room, " said the boy, as theperson alluded to shut the door. 

"Why, Edward?" asked his sister. 

"Can't you think, Maggy?"

"No. What made him go out?"

"Because we said we were so glad papa was coming home on New Year'sday. I'm sure he must have thought of his home. They won't be so gladto see him on New Year's day, as we are to see our dear, good father. "

"Why do you say that, my son?" asked the mother. 

"I'm sure they can't be so glad, " said Edward. "I know I wouldn't be soglad to see my father, if he was like Mr. Foster. Doesn't he spendnearly all the money he gets in liquor? I've heard you say that hispoor wife and children hardly have enough to eat or to wear, althoughhe gets very good wages, and could make them comfortable if he would. No, I'm sure they can't love him as we love our father, nor be as gladto see him come home as we will be to see our father. And he knows it, and that made him go out of the room. He didn't like to hear ustalking. "

The boy was correct in his conclusions. The man Foster, of whom hespoke, did feel troubled. He had children and a wife, and he was absentfrom them, and had been absent for many months. On New Year's day hewas to go home; but many painful feelings mingled with the thought ofseeing his long-neglected and much-abused family. Since he had beenaway, he had expended more than half his earnings upon himself, and yethis appearance was worse than when he went from home, for, in exchangefor his money, he had received only poison. 

It was evening. Without, the air was cold. The sky was clear, and themoon and stars shone brightly. Foster walked a short distance from thehouse, trying to drive from his mind the images that had been conjuredup by the words of the children and their mother; but he could not. Hisown abused wife and neglected little ones were before him, in theircomfortless home, poorly clad, and pale and thin from want of healthyand sufficient food. Did they think of him, and talk with so muchdelight of his return? Alas! no. He brought no sunshine to theircheerless abode. 

"Wretch! wretch!" he said to himself, striking his hand hard againsthis bosom. "A curse to them!--a curse to myself!"

For an hour the unhappy man stayed out in the chilly air; but he didnot feel the cold. Then he re-entered the house, but did not go intothe room where the happy mother sat with her children, but to thelonely attic where he slept. 

Twenty miles away lived the wife and three children of Foster. Theoldest boy was eleven years of age, and the youngest child, a littlegirl, just five. Three small mounds, in a burying-ground near by wherethe humble dwelling stood, marked the place where as many moreslept--more blessed than the living. The mother of these children was apale-faced woman, with a bent forth and an aspect of suffering. She hadbeen long acquainted with sorrow and trouble. Like hundreds andthousands of others in our land, she had left, years before, thepleasant home of her girlhood, to be the loving companion of one onwhose solemnly pledged faith she relied with the most unwaveringconfidence. And, for a time, the trust was not in vain. The firstgolden period of her married life was a happy time indeed! None couldhave been more thoughtful of her comfort, nor more tender of herfeelings, than was her husband. But, alas! it was with him as withhundreds and thousands of others. Not once did it cross his mind thatthere was danger to him in the pleasant glass that was daily taken. Thebare suggestion he would have repelled as an insult. On the day of hismarriage, Henry Foster received from the father of his wife thetitle-deeds of a snug little place containing thirty acres, which waswell stocked for a small farmer. He had, himself, laid by a few hundreddollars. Thus he had a fair start in the world, and a most comfortableassurance of happiness and prosperity. For several years every thingwent on pleasantly. The farm was a very garden spot, and had increasedfrom thirty to sixty acres by the purchase of contiguous lands. Then achange became apparent. Foster took more interest than formerly in whatwas going on in the village near by. He attended the various politicalmeetings held at the "Travellers' Rest, " and was a prominent man ontraining and election days. After a while, his wife began to look onthese days with a troubled feeling, for they generally sent him home ina sad plight; and it took nearly a week for him to get settled downagain to his work. Thus the declension began, and its progress was toosadly apparent to the eyes of Mrs. Foster, even before others, lessinterested than herself, observed it. At the end of ten years from thehappy wedding day, the farm, now more like a wilderness than abeautiful garden, was seized and sold for debt. There were no friendsto step in and go Foster's security, and thus save his property fromsacrifice. The father of his wife was dead, and his own friends, evenif they had not lost confidence in him, were unable to render anyassistance. 

The rented farm upon which Foster went with his family, after beingsold out, was cultivated with no more industry than his own had been oflate years. The man had lost all ambition, and was yielding himself aslave to the all-degrading appetite for drink. At first, his wifeopposed a gentle remonstrance; but he became impatient and angry at aword, and she shrank back into herself, choosing rather to bearsilently the ills of poverty and degradation, which she saw wererapidly approaching, than to run the risk of having unkindness, fromone so tenderly loved, added thereto. 

Affliction came with trouble. Death took from the mother's arms, in asingle year, three children. The loss of one was accompanied by a mostpainful, yet deeply warning circumstance. The father came home from thevillage one evening, after having taken a larger quantity of liquorthan usual. While the mother was preparing supper, he took the babethat lay fretting in the cradle, and hushed its frettings in his arms. While holding it, overcome with what he had been drinking, he fellasleep, and the infant rolled upon the floor, striking its head first. It awoke and screamed for a minute or two, and then sank into a heavyslumber, and did not awake until the next morning. Then it was so sick, that a physician had to be called. In a week it died of brain fever, occasioned, the doctor said, by the fall. 

For a whole month not a drop of liquor passed the lips of the rebukedand penitent father. Even in that short time the desert places of homebegan to put forth leaves, and to give promise of sweet buds andblossoms; and the grieving mother felt that out of this great sorrowwas to come forth joy. Alas! that even a hope so full of sadness shouldbe doomed to disappointment. In a moment of temptation her husbandfell, and fell into a lower deep. Then, with more rapid steps thedownward road was traversed. Five more years of sorrow sufficed to dothe work of suffering and degradation. There was another seizure fordebt, and the remnant of stock, with nearly all their furniture, wastaken and sold. The rented farm had to be given up; with this, the hopeof gaining even sufficient food for her little ones died in thewretched mother's mind. 

From a farmer on his own account, Foster now became a mere farmlabourer; with wages sufficient, however, to have made thingscomfortable at home under the management of his frugal, industriouswife, if all he earned had been brought home to her. But at least onethird, and finally one half, and sometimes more, went to swell the gainof the tavern-keeper. Had it not been that a cow and a few chickenswere left to them at the last seizure of their things, pinching hungerwould have entered the comfortless home where the mother hid herselfwith her children. 

At last Foster became so good for nothing, that he could not obtainemployment as a farm hand anywhere in the neighbourhood, and wasobliged to go off to a distance to get work. This, to him, was not feltto be a very great trial, for it removed him from the sight of hishalf-fed, half-clothed children, and dejected, suffering wife; and hecould, therefore spend with more freedom, and fewer touches, ofcompunction, the greater portion of his earnings in gratifying theinordinate cravings of his vitiated appetite. 

Thus, in general, stood affairs at the opening of our story. Let us nowtake a nearer and more particular view. Let us approach, and enter thecheerless abode of the man who, to feed an evil and debasing appetite, could heartlessly turn away from his faithful wife and dependent littleones, and leave them to the keenest suffering. 

New Year's day, to which the farmer's wife and children were lookingforward with so much delight, was but little more than a week off, andMrs. Foster expected her husband home also. But with what differentfeelings did she anticipate his arrival! He never brought a gladwelcome with his presence; although his wife, when he was absent, always looked for and desired his return. He had been away over threemonths; and was earning twenty dollars a month. But, he had only senthome eighteen dollars during the whole time. This, we need hardly say, was far from enough to meet the wants of his family. Had it not beenthat George, who was but eleven years old, went every day to a factoryin the village and worked from morning until night, thus earning abouta dollar and a half a week, and that the mother took in sewing, spinning, washing and ironing, and whatever she could get to do, theymust have wanted even enough to eat. 

It was but six days to New Year's. Mrs. Foster had been washing nearlythe whole day, --work that she was really not able to do, and whichalways so tired her out, that in the night following she could notsleep from excessive fatigue, --she had been washing nearly all day, andnow, after cleaning up the floor, and putting the confused room into alittle order, she sat down to finish some work promised by the nextmorning. It was nearly dark, and she was standing, with her sewing, close up to the window, in order to see more distinctly in the fadinglight, when there came a loud knock at the door. One of the childrenopened it, and a man, whose face she knew too well, came in. He was theowner of the poor tenement in which they lived. 

"Have you heard from Foster since I was here last?" said the man, withan unpleasant abruptness of manner. 

"No sir, I have not, " replied Mrs. Foster, in a low, timid voice, forshe felt afraid of the man. 

"When do you expect him home?"

"He will be here at New Year's. "

"Humph! Do you know whether he will bring any money?"

"I am sure I cannot tell; but I hope so. "

"He'd better;"--the man spoke in a menacing tone--"for I don't intendwaiting any longer for my rent. "

No reply was made to this. 

"Will you tell your husband, when he returns, my good woman, what Ihave just said?"

"I will, " was meekly replied. 

"Very well. If he doesn't come up to the notch then, I shall take mycourse. It is simple and easy; so you had better be warned in time. "And the man walked out as abruptly as he came in. Mrs. Foster lookedafter him from the window, where she had continued standing, and sawhim stop and look attentively at their cow, that stood waiting to bemilked, at the door. A faintness came over her heart, for sheunderstood now, better than before, the meaning of his threats. 

An hour after dark George came home with his hand in a sling. He wentup, quickly, to where his mother was sitting by a table at work, anddropping down in a chair, hid his face in her lap, without speaking, but bursting into tears as he did so. 

"Oh George! what is the matter?" exclaimed the mother in great alarm. "What ails your hand?"

"It got mashed in the wheel, " replied the boy, sobbing. 

"Badly?" asked the mother, turning pale, and feeling sick and faint. 

"It's hurt a good deal; but the doctor tied it up, and says it will getwell again; but I won't be able to go to work again in a good while. "

And the lad, from sobbing, wept bitterly. The mother leaned her headdown upon her boy, and wept with him. 

"I don't mind the hurt so much, " said George, after he had recoveredhimself; "but I won't be able to do any thing at the mill until it getswell. "

"Can't I go to work in his place, mamma?" spoke up, quickly, littleEmma, just in her tenth year. Mrs. Foster kissed the earnest face ofher child and said--

"No, dear; you are not old enough. "

"I'm nine, and most as big as George. Yes, mamma, I'm big enough. Won'tyou go and ask them to let me come and work in brother's place till hegets well?"

The mother, her heart almost bursting with many conflicting emotions, drew the child's head down upon her bosom, and held it tightly againsther heart. 

The time of severer trial was evidently drawing near. Almost the lastresource was cut off, in the injury her boy had sustained. She had notlooked at his hand, nor did she comprehend the extent of damage it hadreceived. It was enough, and more than enough, that it was badlyhurt--so badly, that a physician had been required to dress it. How themother's heart did ache, as she thought of the pain her poor boy hadsuffered, and might yet be doomed to suffer! And yet, amid this pain, came intruding the thought, which she tried to repel as a selfishthought, that he could work no more, and earn no more, for, perhaps, along, long time. 

Yes, the period of severer trial had evidently come. She did not permitherself even to hope that her husband when he returned would bring withhim enough money to pay the rent. She knew, too well, that he wouldnot; and she also knew, alas! too well that the man to whose tendermercies they would then be exposed had no bowels of compassion. 

Wet with many tears was the pillow upon which the mother's head reposedthat night. She was too weary in body and sorrowful in mind to sleep. 

On the next morning a deep snow lay upon the ground. To some a sight ofthe earth's pure white covering was pleasant, and they could look uponthe flakes still falling gracefully through the air with a feeling ofexhilaration. But they had food and fuel in store--they had warmclothing--they had comfortable homes. There was no fear of cold andhunger with them--no dread of being sent forth, shelterless, in thechilling winter. It was different with Mrs. Foster when she looked fromher window at daylight. 

George had been restless, and moaned a good deal through the night; butnow he slept soundly, and there was a bright flush upon his cheeks. With what a feeling of tenderness and yearning pity did his mother bendover him, and gaze into his fair face, fairer now than it had everlooked to her. But she could not linger long over her sleeping boy. 

With the daylight, unrefreshed as she was, came her "never ending, still beginning" toil; and now she felt that she must toil harder andlonger, and without hope. 

Though little Emma's offer to go and work in the mill in her brother'splace had passed from the thought of Mrs. Foster, yet the child hadbeen too much in earnest to forget it herself. Young as she was, thevery pressure of circumstances by which she was surrounded had made hercomprehend clearly the necessity that existed for George to go and workdaily in the mill. She knew that he earned a dollar and a half weekly;and she understood very well, that without this income her mother wouldbe greatly distressed. 

After she had eaten her breakfast of bread and milk, the child went upstairs and got an old pair of stockings, which she drew on over hershoes, that had long been so worn as to afford but little protection toher feet; and then taking from a closet an old shawl, drew it over herhead. Thus attired, she waited at the head of the stairs until hermother was out of the way, and then went quickly down. She managed toleave the house without being seen by any one, and took her way, through the deep and untracked snow, towards the mill, which was abouta quarter of a mile off. The air was bitter cold, and the storm stillcontinued; but the child plodded on, chilled to the very heart, as shesoon was, and, at length, almost frozen, reached the mill. The ownerhad observed her approach from the window, and wondering who she was, or what brought so small a child to the mill through the cold andstorm, went down to meet her. 

"Bless me! little one!" he said, lifting her from the ground andplacing her within the door. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I'm George's sister, and I've come to work in his place till he getswell, " replied the child, as she stood, with shivering body andchattering teeth, looking up earnestly into the man's face. 

"George Foster's sister?"

"Yes, sir. His hand's hurt so he can't work, and I've come to work inhis place. "

"You have! Who sent you, pray?"

"Nobody sent me. "

"Does your mother know about your coming?"

"No, sir. "

"Why do you want to work in George's place?"

"If I do, then you'll send mother a dollar and a half every week, won'tyou?"

The owner of the mill was a kind-hearted man, and this little incidenttouched his feelings. 

"You are not big enough to work in the mill, my child, " said he, kindly. 

"I'm nine years old, " replied Emma, quickly. 

"Oh yes! I can work as well as anybody. Do let me come in George'splace! Won't you?"

Emma had not been gone very long before she was missed. Her mother hadbecome quite alarmed about her, when she heard sleigh-bells at thedoor, and, looking out, saw the owner of the mill and her child. Wondering what this could mean, she went out to meet them. 

"This little runaway of yours, " said the man, in a pleasant voice, "came trudging over to the mill this morning, through the snow, andwanted to take the place of George, who was so badly hurt yesterday, inorder that you might get, as she said, a dollar and a half every week. "

"Why, Emma!" exclaimed her mother, as she lifted her from the sleigh. "How could you do so? You are not old enough to work in your brother'splace. "

"Besides, " said the man, "there is no need of your doing so; for Georgeshall have his dollar and a half, the same as ever, until he is able togo to work again. So then, my little one, set your heart at rest. "

Emma understood this very well, and bounded away into the house to takethe good news to her brother, who was as much rejoiced as herself. After inquiring about George, and repeating to Mrs. Foster what he hadsaid to Emma, he told her that he would pay the doctor for attendingthe lad, so that the accident needn't prove a burden to her. 

The heart of Mrs. Foster lifted itself, thankfully, as she went backinto the house. 

"Don't scold her, mother, " said George. "She thought she was doingright. "

This appeal, so earnestly made, quite broke down the feelings of Mrs. Foster, and she went quickly into another room, and closing the doorafter her, sat down by the bedside, and, burying her face in a pillow, suffered her tears to flow freely. Scold the child! She felt more liketaking her in her arms, and hugging her passionately to her bosom. 

To know that the small income her boy's labour had produced was not tobe cut off, proved a great relief to the mind of Mrs. Foster; but, in alittle while, her thoughts went back to the landlord's threat and thereal distress and hopelessness of their situation. To the period of herhusband's return she looked with no feeling of hope; but, rather, witha painful certainty, that his appearance would be the signal for thelandlord to put his threat into execution. 

Sadly the days went by, each one bringing nearer the time towards whichthe unhappy woman now looked forward with a feeling of dread. That thelandlord would keep his promise, she did not, for an instant, doubt. Without their cow, how could she, with all her exertions, feed herchildren? No wonder that her heart was troubled. 

At last the day before the opening year came. 

"Papa will be home to-morrow, " said Emma. "I wonder what he will bringme for a New Year's gift. "

"I wish he would bring me a book, " said George. 

"I'd like a pair of new shoes, " remarked the little girl, more soberly, looking down at her feet, upon which were tied, with coarse strings, what were called shoes, but hardly retained their semblance. "And mammawants shoes, too, " added the child. "Oh! I wish papa would bring her, for a New Year's gift, a nice new pair of shoes. "

The mother heard her children talking, and sighed to think how vainwere all their expectations. 

"I wish we had a turkey for father's New Year's dinner, " said Emma. 

"And some mince pies!" spoke up little Hetty, the youngest, clappingher hands. "Why don't we have mince pies, mamma?" she said, taking holdof her mother's apron and looking up at her. 

"Papa likes mince pies, I know; and so do I. Don't you like mince pies, George?"

George, who was old enough to understand better than the rest of themthe true cause of the privations they suffered, saw that Hetty'squestions had brought tears to his mother's eyes, and, with athoughtfulness beyond his years, sought to turn the conversation intoanother channel. 

But the words of the children had brought to the mind of Mrs. Foster amemory of other times, --of the many happy New Years she had enjoyedwith her husband, their board crowned with the blessings of the year. Her dim eyes turned from her neglected little ones, and fell upon asmall ornament that stood upon the mantle. It was the New Year's giftof her husband in better days. It reminded her too strongly of thecontrast between that time and the gloomy present. She went quicklyfrom the room, to weep unheard and alone. 

New Year's morning at length broke clear and cold. Mrs. Foster was upbetimes. It was no holiday to her. Early in the day her husband was tocome home, and though she could not help looking and wishing for him tocome, yet the thought of him produced a pressure in her bosom. She feltthat his presence would only bring for her heart a deeper shadow. 

The children had grown eager for him to come. The younger ones talkedof the presents he would bring them, while George thought of a book, yet dared hardly hope to receive one. At last, Emma descried her fatherfar down the road, and announced, in a loud voice, his coming. Theheart of the mother throbbed quicker at the word. She went to thewindow, where the children crowded, feeling troubled, and yet withsomething of the old gladness about her heart. She strained her eyes tosee him, and yet dreaded to fix them upon him too intently, lest moreshould be seen than she wished to see. He came nearer and nearer, andshe was yet at the window, her heart beating audibly. Could her eyesdeceive her, or was it indeed so? His form was erect and his step firm, and, though his clothes were the same, they did not look so untidy. 

"Thank God!" she ejaculated silently, yet fervently, as he came nearerstill--"he is sober. "

Yes, he was sober. 

"Henry!" she could not say another word, as she took his hand when hecame in. Her eyes were full of tears. He pressed her thin, small, labour-worn hand tightly, and then turned and sat down. He, too, wasmoved as well as she. But the children gathered around him, and seemedgladder to see him than when he was last home. There was a reason forthis. Seeing the hand of George in a sling, he inquired the cause, andwhen told of the accident, appeared deeply grieved, and said he shouldnot go back to the mill any more. The heart of his wife fluttered. Wasthere a meaning deeper than a momentary impulse? At last little Hetty, who had climbed upon his knee, said, "Where's my New Year's gift, papa?"

The father put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a smallpicture-book, and gave it to the child who was wild with joy in amoment. He had a larger book for Emma, and Robinson Crusoe for George. 

"And what for mother?" asked Emma, looking earnestly at her father. "Haven't you brought dear mother a New Year's gift, too?"

"Oh, yes, " replied the father, "I've got something for her also. " Hisvoice was a little unsteady as he said this. Then he put his hand intohis pocket again, and, after keeping it there for a moment or two, drewout a large folded piece of paper that looked like a title-deed, andhanded it to his wife, who took it with a trembling hand. She openedit, read a few words, and, bursting into tears, turned and went quicklyfrom the room. Hers were tears of joy--unutterable joy. 

Was it then a title-deed of property that her husband had given her, filling her heart with gladness at the thought of relief from toil, andprivation, and suffering? No, it was better than that, and brought afuller and more perfect joy. It was a _New Year's gift_ such as she hadnever dared hope to receive--the dearest gift in the power of herhusband to bestow. Already blotted with tears, it was tightly pressedto her heaving bosom. 

What was it? What could it be but the blessed temperance pledge, signed, in a firm hand, with her husband's name. 

That was indeed a happy New Year's day to the wife and mother, who, when the morning dawned, felt that she was entering upon the darkestdays of her troubled existence. But a brighter day unknown wasbreaking. It broke, and no gloomy clouds have since arisen to obscureits smiling skies. 

AUNT MARY'S PRESERVING KETTLE. 

"I DECLARE, if these preserves haven't been working!" exclaimed AuntMary, as she opened a jar of choice quinces, and perceived that, sincethey were sealed up and carefully stored for the winter, fermentationhad taken place. 

"And the peaches, too, as I live!" she added on examining another jar. "Run, Hannah, and bring me my preserving kettle. I shall have to dothem all over. "

"Mrs. Tompkins borrowed it, you know, yesterday, " Hannah replied. 

"So she did, I declare! Well, you must run over to Mrs. Tompkins, Hannah, and tell her that I want my preserving kettle. "

Hannah departed, and Aunt Mary proceeded to examine jar after jar ofher rich store of preserves, and, much to her disappointment, foundthat all of her quinces and peaches, comprising some eight or ten jars, had commenced working. These she took from their dark corners in thecloset, and, placing them on the large table in the kitchen, awaitedpatiently Hannah's return. In about fifteen minutes her help entered. 

"But where is the kettle?" inquired Aunt Mary, eagerly. 

"Why, ma'am, Mrs. Tompkins says as how she ain't quite done with ityet; she's finished her pears; but then she has her mamlet to do. "

Aunt Mary Pierce was a good woman, and her heart was full of kindfeelings towards others. But she had her foibles as well as herneighbours, and among these was an almost passionate admiration of herbeautiful bell-metal preserving kettle, which was always kept as brightas a gold eagle. Nothing tried Aunt Mary more than to have to lend herpreserving kettle. But as in reading her Bible she found itwritten--_Of him that would borrow of thee turn thou not away_--shedared not refuse any of the applications that were made for it, and inpreserving time these were enough to try the patience of even a betterwoman than Aunt Mary. The fact was, that Aunt Mary's preserving kettlewas the best in the village, and there were at least a dozen or two ofher neighbours, who did not think their sweetmeats good for any thingif not prepared in this favourite kettle. 

"Ain't it too bad!" ejaculated Aunt Mary, lifting her hands and thenletting them fall quickly. "Ain't it too bad! But it is always so! Justwhen I want my own things, somebody's got them. Go right back, Hannah, and tell Mrs. Tompkins that my preserves are all a working, and that Imust have my kettle at once, or they will be ruined. "

Hannah started off again, and Aunt Mary stood, far less patiently thanbefore, beside the table on which she had placed her jars, and awaitedher return. 

"Well, " she asked eagerly, as Hannah entered after the lapse of someten minutes, "where is the kettle?"

"Mrs. Tompkins says, ma'am, that she is very sorry that your preserveshave commenced working, but that it won't hurt them if they are notdone over for three or four days. She says that her mamlet is all readyto put on, and as soon as that is done you shall have the kettle inwelcome. "

Poor Aunt Mary was, for a few minutes, mute with astonishment. Onrecovering herself, she did not storm and fret. Indeed, she was neverguilty of these little housewife effervescences, usually taking everytrouble with a degree of Christian meekness that it would have beenwell for many in the village, even the minister's wife, to haveimitated. 

"Well, Hannah, " she said, heaving a sigh, "we shall have to wait, Isuppose, until Mrs. Tompkins has finished her marmalade. But I amafraid all these preserves will be spoiled. Unless done overimmediately on their beginning to work, they get a flavour that is notpleasant. But we must wait patiently. "

"It's a downright shame, ma'am, so it is!" said Hannah, "and I wonderyou take it so quietly. If it was my kettle, and I wanted it, I reckonI'd have it too quick. Only just say the word, ma'am, and I will get itfor you if I have to take it off of the fire. "

"Oh no, no, no, not for the world, Hannah!" replied Aunt Mary, to herindignant help. "We will try and wait for her, though it is a littlehard to have one's things always a-going, and never to be able to putyour hands on them when you want them. "

All the next day Aunt Mary suffered the jars of fermenting preserves toremain on the kitchen table. Every time her eye rested upon them, unkind thoughts would arise in her mind against her neighbour, Mrs. Tompkins, but she used her best efforts to suppress them. About themiddle of the next day, as the preserving kettle did not make itsappearance, Hannah was again despatched, with directions to urge uponMrs. Tompkins the pressing necessity there was for its being returned. In due time Hannah made her appearance, but without the kettle. 

"Well?" inquired Aunt Mary, in a tone of disappointment. 

"Mrs. Tompkins says, ma'am, " replied Hannah, "that you needn't be insuch a fever about your old preserving kettle, and that it is not atall neigh-hourly to be sending for a thing before it is done with. Shesays she won't be through with her mamlet before day after to-morrow, and that you can't have the kettle before then. "

"Well, it is a downright shame!" said Aunt Mary, with a warmth ofmanner unusual to her. 

"And so I told her, " responded Hannah. 

"You did! And what did Mrs. Tompkins say?"

"Oh, she fired right up, and said she didn't want any of my imperdence. "

"But you oughtn't to have said so, Hannah. "

"How could I help it, ma'am, when my blood was boiling over? It is ashame; that's the truth. "

Aunt Mary did not reply, but she thought all that Hannah had said toMrs. Tompkins, and a good deal more. Indeed, her forbearance was sorelytried. Never since she could recollect, had she felt so unkindlytowards any one as she now did towards her neighbour and fellow churchmember. Often did she try to put away these unkind and troublesomethoughts; but the effort was vain. Mrs. Tompkins had trespassed so farupon her rights, and then put such a face upon it, that she could nothelp feeling incensed at her conduct. 

After a while "day after to-morrow" came, which was on Saturday. 

"I must have that kettle to-day, Hannah, " said she, and Hannah startedoff to Mrs. Tompkins. 

"You needn't come after that kettle to-day, " spoke up Mrs. Tompkins, asHannah entered, "my marmalade is not all done yet. "

"But we must have it to-day, Mrs. Tompkins. Mrs. Pierce says as how Imustn't come home without it. The preserves are nearly ruined now, andall because you didn't send home the kittle when we first wanted it. "

"I want none of your impudence, " said Mrs. Tompkins, going off at onceinto a passion, for she was rather a high-tempered woman, "and so justshut up at once. If Mrs. Pierce is so fussy about her old worn-outkettle, she can have it and make the most out of it. A prettyneighbour, indeed! Here, Sally, " calling to her help, "empty thatkettle and give it to Hannah. "

"Where shall I empty it?" asked Sally. 

"Empty it into the slop barrel, for what I care; the whole kettle ofmarmalade will be spoiled any how. A pretty neighbour, indeed!"

Sally, who understood her mistress's mood, knew very well that herorders were not to be literally obeyed. So she took the preservingkettle from the fire, and poured its contents into a large pan, insteadof the slop barrel. 

"Here's the kettle, " said she, bringing it in and handing it to Hannah. It was black and dirty on the outside, and within all besmeared withthe marmalade, for Sally cared not to take the trouble of cleaning it. 

"There, take the kettle!" said Mrs. Tompkins in an excited tone, "andtell Mrs. Pierce that it is the last time I'll borrow any thing fromher. "

Hannah took the kettle, and started for home at full speed. 

"So you've got it at last, " Said Aunt Mary, when Hannah entered; "and apretty looking thing it is! Really it is too bad to have a thing senthome in that predicament. "

"But ain't she mad though!" remarked Hannah, with something ofexultation in her tones. 

"What in the world can she be mad about?" asked Aunt Mary in surprise. 

"Mad because I would have the kittle. Why, there she had her mamlet onthe fire, boiling away, and said you couldn't have the kittle. But Itold her you must have it; that your preserves were nearly all spoiled, just because you couldn't get your own kittle. Oh, but didn't she bileover then! And so she told Sally to pour the mamlet into the slopbarrel, as it would all be spoiled any how, by your unneighbourlytreatment to her. "

Poor Aunt Mary was dreadfully grieved at this. She loved the goodopinion of her neighbours, and it always gave her pleasure to obligethem; but, in this case, she had been tried beyond endurance. She hadlittle heart now to touch her preserves, and so went off to her chamberand sat down, overcome by painful feelings. 

In the mean time, Hannah went to work, and, by dint of half an hour'shard scouring, got the kettle to look something like itself. She thenwent up and told Aunt Mary that every thing was now ready for doing thepreserves over again. 

"I reckon we'll not boil them over to-day, Hannah, " she replied. "It'sSaturday, and you've got a good deal of cleaning to do, and I don'tfeel much like touching them. The preserves won't get much worse byMonday. "

Hannah, who understood her mistress's feelings, and sympathized withher, because she loved her, did not urge the matter, but at oncewithdrew and left Aunt Mary to her own unpleasant reflections. It sohappened that the next day was the Communion Sabbath; and this fact hadat once occurred to Aunt Mary when Hannah repeated the words of Mrs. Tompkins, and stated that she was very angry. Mrs. Tompkins was amember and communicant of the same church with her. After sittingthoughtfully in her chamber for some time, Aunt Mary took up thecommunion service and commenced reading it. When she came to the words, "Ye who do truly and earnestly repent of your sins, _and are in loveand charity with your neighbours, _" &c. &c. , she paused and satthoughtful and troubled for some time. 

"Am I in love and charity with my neighbours?" she at length askedherself, aloud, drawing a heavy sigh. 

"No, I am not, " was the mental response. "Mrs. Tompkins is angry withme, and I am sure I do not feel right towards her. "

During all that afternoon, Aunt Mary remained in her chamber, in deepcommunion with herself. For the last twenty years she had never, on asingle occasion, stayed away from the Lord's table; but now she feltthat she dared not go forward, for she was not in love and charity withher neighbours, and the injunction was explicit. Night came, and at theusual hour she retired, but not to sleep the sweet refreshing sleepthat usually locked up her senses. Her thoughts were so active andtroubled, that she could not sink away into a quiet slumber until longafter midnight. In the morning she felt no better, and, as church timeapproached, her heart beat more heavily in her bosom. Finally, the nineo'clock bell rang, and every stroke seemed like a knell. At last thehour for assembling came, and Aunt Mary, cast down in heart, repairedto the meeting-house. The pew of Mrs. Tompkins was just in front ofAunt Mary's, but that lady did not turn around and smile and give herhand as usual when she entered. All this Aunt Mary felt. 

In due time the services commenced, and regularly progressed to theirconclusion, the minister preaching a very close sermon. The solemn andimpressive communion service followed, and then the members went up topartake of the sacred emblems. But Aunt Mary did not go up as usual. She could not, for she was not in love and charity with her neighbours. This was noticed by many, and particularly by the minister, wholingered after all had successively approached the table and retired, repeating his invitation, while his eye was fixed upon Aunt Mary. 

"What can be the matter?" asked Mrs. Peabody of Mrs. Beebe, the momentshe got outside of the church door. "Aunt Mary didn't go up. "

"Indeed! It can't be possible?"

"Yes, but it is. For I sat just behind her all the time. She seemedvery uneasy, and I thought troubled. She hardly looked up during thesermon, and hurried away, without speaking to any one, as soon as thecongregation was dismissed at the close of the communion service. Whatcan be the matter?"

"It is strange, indeed!" responded Mrs. Green, who came up while Mrs. Peabody was speaking. 

"I took notice myself that she did not go up. "

"I wonder if she has done any thing wrong?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then what can be the matter?"

"I would give any thing to know!"

"Something is wrong, that is certain, " remarked one of the littlecrowd, for the group of two or three had swelled to as many dozens. 

Many were the suggestions made in reference to Aunt Mary's conduct;and, before Sabbath evening, there was not one of, the members that didnot know and wonder at her strange omission. 

After Aunt Mary returned from church, she felt even worse than before. A sacred privilege had been deliberately omitted, and all because shehad let unkindness spring up between herself and her neighbour. 

"And yet how could I help it?" she argued with herself. "I was tiredout of all patience. I only sent for my own, and because I did so, Mrs. Tompkins became offended. I am sure I was not to blame. "

"But then, " said another voice within her, "you could have gone over onSaturday and made up the matter with her, and then there would havebeen nothing in the way. One duty neglected only opened the way foranother. "

There was something in this that could not be gainsaid, and poor AuntMary felt as deeply troubled as ever. She did not, as usual, go to theafternoon meeting, for she had no heart to do so. And then, as theshades of evening fell dimly around, she reproached herself for thisomission. Poor soul! how sadly did she vex her spirit byself-condemnation. 

That evening several of the society called in at the minister's house, and soon Aunt Mary's singular conduct became the subject ofconversation. 

"Ain't it strange?" said one. "Such a thing has not occurred for theseten years, to my certain knowledge. "

"No, nor for twenty either, " remarked the minister. 

"She seemed very uneasy during the sermon, " said another. 

"I thought she did not appear well, as my eye fell upon heroccasionally, " the minister added. "But she is one of the best ofwomen, and I suppose she is undergoing some sore temptation, out ofwhich she will come as gold tried in the fire. "

"I don't know, " broke in Mrs. Tompkins, who was among the visitors, "that she is so much better than other people. For my part, I can't saythat I ever found her to be any thing extra. "

"You do not judge of her kindly, Mrs. Tompkins, " said the ministergravely. "I only wish that all my parish were as good as she is. Ishould feel, in that case, I am sure, far less concern for souls than Ido. "

Thus rebuked, Mrs. Tompkins contented herself by saying, in anunder-tone, to one who sat near her--

"They may say what they please, but I am well enough acquainted withher to know that she is no better than other people. "

Thus the conversation and the conjectures went round, while the subjectof them sat in solitude and sadness in her own chamber. Finally, theminister said that he would call in and have some conversation with heron the next day, as he had no doubt that there was some trouble on hermind, and it might be in his power to relieve it. 

Monday morning came at last, and Aunt Mary proceeded, though with butlittle interest in her occupation, to "do over" her preserves. Shefound them in a state that gave her little hope of being able torestore them to any thing like their original flavour. But the trialmust be made, and so she filled her kettle as full as requisite of aparticular kind, and hung it over a slow fire. This had hardly beendone, when Hannah came in and said--

"As I live, Mrs. Pierce, there is the minister coming up the walk!"

And sure enough, on glancing out, she saw the minister almost at thedoor-step. 

"Bless me!" she exclaimed, and then hurried into her little parlour, toawait the knock of her unexpected visitor. At almost any other time, acall from the minister would have been delightful. But now, poor AuntMary felt that she would as soon have seen any one else. 

The knock came in a moment, and, after a pause, the door was opened. 

"How do you do, Aunt Mary? I am very glad to see you, " said theminister, extending his hand. 

Aunt Mary looked troubled and confused; but she received him in thebest way she could. Still her manner embarrassed them both. After a fewleading observations, the minister at length said--

"You seem troubled, Aunt Mary. Can any thing that I might say relievethe pain of mind you evidently feel?"

The tears came into Aunt Mary's eyes, but she could not venture toreply. The minister observed her emotion, and also the meek expressionof her countenance. 

"Do not vex yourself unnecessarily, " he remarked. "If any thing hasgone wrong with you, deal frankly with your minister. You know that Iam ever ready to counsel and advise. "

"I know it, " said Aunt Mary, and her voice trembled. "And I need muchyour kind direction. Yet I hardly know how to tell you my troubles. Onething, however, is certain. I have done wrong. But how to mend thatwrong I know not, while there exists an unwillingness on my part tocorrect it. "

"You must shun evil as sin, " the minister remarked in a serious tone. 

"I know, and it is for that reason I am troubled. I have unkindthoughts, and they are evil, and yet I cannot put these unkind thoughtsaway. "

For a moment the minister sat silent, and then, looking up with asmile, said--

"Come, Aunt Mary, be open and frank. Tell me all the particulars ofyour troubles, and then I am sure I can help you. "

Aunt Mary, in turn, sat silent and thoughtful for a short period, andthen, raising her head, she proceeded to relate her troubles. She toldhim how much she had been tried, year after year, during the preservingseason, by the neighbours who had borrowed her preserving kettle. Itwas the best in the village, and she took a pride in it, but she couldhave no satisfaction in its possession. It was always going, and neverreturned in good order. She then frankly related how she had been triedby Mrs. Tompkins, and how nearly all of her preserves were spoiled, because she could not get home her kettle, --how the unkind feelingswhich had suddenly sprung up between them in consequence had troubledher, and even caused her to abstain, under conscientious scruples, fromthe communion. 

The minister's heart felt lighter in his bosom as she concluded hersimple narrative, and, smiling encouragingly, he said--"Don't let ittrouble you, Aunt Mary; it will all come right again. You havecertainly been treated very badly, and I don't wonder at all that yourfeelings were tried. "

"But what shall I do?" asked Aunt Mary, eagerly. "I feel very muchtroubled, and am very anxious to have all unkindness done away. "

"Do you think you can forgive Mrs. Tompkins?"

"Oh, yes. She has not acted kindly, but I can forgive her from myheart. "

"Then you might call over and see her, and explain the whole matter. Iam sure all difficulties will end there. "

"I will go this day, " Aunt Mary said, encouragingly. 

The minister sat a short time longer, and then went away. He had nosooner gone, than Aunt Mary put on her things and went directly over toMrs. Tompkins. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Pierce, " that lady said, coolly, as her visitorentered. She had always before called Aunt Mary by the familiar name bywhich she was known in the village. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Tompkins. I have come over to say that I am verysorry if I offended you on Saturday. I am sure I did not mean to do so. I only sent for my kettle, and would not have done that, had not someseven or eight jars of preserves been working. "

"Oh, it was no offence to send for your kettle, " Mrs. Tompkins replied, smiling. "That was all right and proper. I was only a little vexed atyour Hannah's impudence. But, Aunt Mary, 'let has-beens be has-beens. 'I am sorry that there has occurred the least bit of coolness betweenus. "

Aunt Mary's heart bounded as lightly as if a hundred-pound weight hadbeen taken from it; she was made happy on the instant. 

"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so, Mrs. Tompkins, " shesaid, earnestly. "It has removed a load from my heart. Hereafter, Ihope nothing will occur again to disturb our friendly feelings. You mayhave the kettle again, in a day or two, in welcome, and keep it as longas you please. "

The breach was thus easily healed; and had Aunt Mary gone over onSaturday to see Mrs. Tompkins, she would have saved herself a world oftrouble. 

Still, nothing of this was known to the other members of the church, who were as full of conjecture as ever, touching the singular conduct, as they called it, of Aunt Mary. The minister said nothing, and Mrs. Tompkins, of course, said nothing; and no one ventured to question AuntMary. 

On the next Sabbath, Aunt Mary came to church as usual, and all eyeswere instantly upon her. 

Some thought she still looked troubled, and was paler than before, while others perceived that she was really more cheerful. In due time, the minister arose and announced his text:

"Give to him that asketh, and of him that would borrow of thee, turnthou not away. "

"My dear friends, " said he, on drawing near to the close of hissubject, "the text teaches us, besides that of simple alms-giving, theduty of lending; but you will observe, it says not a word aboutborrowing. Under the law laid down here, we may lend as much as weplease, but it gives no license to borrow. Now, as far as I have beenable to learn, a number of my congregation have not been veryparticular on this point. They seem to think that it is helping theirneighbours to keep this injunction to lend, by compelling an obedienceto the precept, whether they are inclined to obey or not. Now, this iswrong. We are justified in lending to those who need such kind offices, but not to put others to the inconvenience of lending when we are fullyable to supply our own wants. This is going beyond the scope of theDivine injunction, and I hold it to be morally wrong to do so. Some ofyou, I am credibly informed, " and his voice fell to a low, distinct, and solemn tone, "are in the habit of regularly borrowing Aunt Mary'spreserving kettle--(here Aunt Mary looked up with a bewildered air, while her face coloured deeply, and the whole congregation stared inamazement; but the minister went calmly on)--and this, too, withoutregard to her convenience. Nor is this all--the kettle is hardly everreturned in a good condition. How thoughtless! how wrong! In this, AuntMary alone has been faithful to the precept in my text, while you havedeparted widely from its true spirit. Let me hope that you will thinkbetter of this matter, and wisely resolve to let your pastshort-comings suffice. "

And thus the sermon closed. It may well be supposed that for some daysthere was something of a stir in the hive. The ladies of thecongregation who were among the borrowers of the preserving kettle, andthey were not a few, including the minister's wife, were for a timedeeply incensed at Aunt Mary, and not a few at the minister. But thistemporary indignation soon wore off, for Aunt Mary was so kind and goodthat no one could feel offended with her for any length of time, moreespecially where there was really no cause of offence. One by one, theycalled upon her, as they were enabled to see how really they had beenguilty of trespassing upon good nature, and, after apologizing, enjoyedwith her a hearty laugh upon the subject. And, finally, the whole thingcame to be looked upon as quite an amusing as well as an instructiveaffair. 

After this, Aunt Mary was allowed to possess her beautiful bell-metalpreserving kettle in peace, which was to her a source of no smallsatisfaction. And what was more, in the course of the next preservingseason, a stock of twenty or thirty brass, copper, and bell-metalkettles, that had been lying for years on the shelves of ahardware-dealer's store in the village, almost uninquired for, were allsold off, and a new supply obtained from Boston to meet the increaseddemand. 

HOME AT LAST. 

"WE'RE home at last, and I am so glad!" exclaimed a little girl, notover ten years of age, as she paused at twilight with her mother beforea small and mean-looking house, one evening late in the month ofNovember. 

The mother did not reply, but lifted the latch, when both passed in. There was no light in the dwelling, and no fire on the hearth. All wascold, dark, and cheerless in that place which had been called "home" bythe little girl; yet, cold, dark, and cheerless as it was, she stillfelt glad to be there once more. 

"_I_ will get a light, mother, " said she, in a cheerful tone, runningto a closet, and taking thence a candle and a match. 

In a moment or two afterwards the candle was burning brightly, andthrowing its light into every corner of that meanly-furnished room, which contained but few articles, and they the simplest that wereneeded. An old pine table, without leaves, three or four old chairs thepaint from which had long since disappeared, a bench and a waterbucket, with a few cooking utensils, made up the furniture of theapartment. 

A small fire was soon kindled on the hearth, over which the mother hunga tea-kettle. When this had boiled, and she had drawn some tea, sheplaced upon the table a few slices of bread and a piece of cheese, which she took from a basket that she had borne on her arm. Then themother and child sat down to partake of their frugal meal, which botheat with a keen relish. 

"I'm so glad to get home again!" the little girl said, glancing up intoher mother's face, with a cheerful smile. 

The mother looked upon her child with a tender expression, but did notreply. She thought how poor and comfortless that home was which seemedso desirable. 

"I don't like to go to Mrs. Walker's, " said the child, after the lapseof a few moments. 

"Why not, Jane?"

"Because I can't do any thing right there. Amy scolds me if I touch athing, and John won't let me go any place, except into the kitchen. I'msure I like home a great deal better, and I wish you would always stayat home, mother. "

"I would never go out, Jane, if I could help it, " the mother replied, in the effort to make her daughter understand, that she might acquiescein the necessity. "But you know that we must eat, and have clothes towear, and pay for the house we live in. I could not get the money to doall this, if I did not go out to work in other people's houses, andthen we would be hungry, and cold, and not have any home to come to. "

The little girl sighed and remained silent for a few moments. Then shesaid, in a more cheerful tone, "I know it's wrong for me to talk as I do, mother, and I'll try not tocomplain any more. It's a great deal harder for you than it is for meto go into these big people's houses. You have to work so hard, and Ihave only to sit still in the kitchen. But won't father come home soon?He's been away so long! When he was home we had every thing we wanted, and you didn't have to go out a working. "

Tears came into the mother's eyes, and her feelings were so moved, thatshe could not venture to reply. 

"Won't he be home soon, mother?" pursued the child. 

"I'm afraid not, " the mother at length said, in as calm a voice as shecould assume. 

"Why not, mother? He's been gone a long time. "

"I cannot tell you, my child. But I don't expect him home soon. "

"Oh, I wish he would come, " the child responded, earnestly. "If he wasonly home, you would not have to go out to work any more. "

The mother thought that she heard the movement of some one near thedoor, and leant her head in a listening attitude. But all was silentwithout, save the occasional sound of footsteps as some one hurried by. 

To give the incidents and characters that we have introduced their trueinterest, we must go back some twelve years, and bring the history ofat least one of the individuals down from that time. 

A young lady and one of more mature age sat near a window, conversingearnestly, about the period to which we have reference. 

"I would make it an insuperable objection, " the elder of the two said, in a decided tone. 

"But surely there can be no harm in his drinking a glass of wine orbrandy now and then. Where is the moral wrong?"

"Do you wish to be a drunkard's wife?"

"No, I would rather be dead. "

"Then beware how you become the wife of any man who indulges in evenmoderate drinking. No man can do so without being in danger. The vilestdrunkard that goes staggering past your door, will tell you that oncehe dreamed not of the danger that lurked in the cup; that, before hesuspected evil, a desire too strong for his weak resistance was formed. "

"I don't believe, aunt, that there is the slightest danger in the worldof Edward Lee. He become a drunkard! How can you dream of such a thing, aunt?"

"I have seen much more of the world than you have, Alice. And I haveseen too many as high-minded and as excellent in character as EdwardLee, who have fallen. And I have seen the bright promise of too manygirls utterly extinguished, not to tremble for you. I tell you, Alice, that of all the causes of misery that exist in the married life, intemperance is the most fruitful. It involves not only externalprivations, toil, and disgrace, but that unutterable hopelessness whichwe feel when looking upon the moral debasement of one we haverespected, esteemed, and loved. "

"I am sure, aunt, that I will not attempt to gainsay all that. If thereis any condition in life that seems to me most deplorable andheart-breaking, it is the condition of a drunkard's wife. But, so faras Edward Lee is concerned, I am sure there does not exist the remotestdanger. "

"There is always danger where there is indulgence. The man who willdrink one glass a day now, will be very apt to drink two glasses in atwelvemonth; and so go on increasing, until his power over himself isgone. Many, very many, do not become drunkards until they are old men;but, sooner or later, in nine cases out of ten, a man who allowshimself to drink habitually, I care not how moderately at first, willlose his self-control. "

"Still, aunt, I cannot for a moment bring myself to apprehend danger inthe case of Edward. "

"So have hundreds said before you. So did I once say, Alice. But yearsof heart-aching misery told how sadly I was mistaken!"

The feelings of Alice were touched by this allusion. She had neverbefore dreamed that her uncle, who died while she was but a littlegirl, had been a drunkard. Still, nothing that her aunt said caused herto entertain even a momentary doubt of Edward Lee. She felt that he hadtoo much of the power of principle in his character ever to be carriedaway by the vice of intemperance. 

Edward Lee had offered himself in marriage to Alice Liston, and it wason the occasion of her mentioning this to her aunt that theconversation just riven occurred. It had, however, no effect upon themind of Alice. She loved Edward Lee tenderly, end, therefore, had everyconfidence in him. They were, consequently, married, and commenced lifewith prospects bright and flattering. But Edward continued to useintoxicating drinks in moderate quantities every day. And, while thetaste for it was forming, he was wholly unconscious of danger. He wouldas readily have believed himself in danger of murdering his wife, as indanger of becoming a drunkard. He was a young merchant in a goodbusiness when married, and able to put his young wife in possession ofa beautifully furnished house and all required domestic attendance, soas to leave her but a very small portion of care. 

Like the passage of a delightful dream were the first five years of herwedded life. No one was ever happier than she in her married lot, ormore unconscious of coming evil. She loved her husband tenderly anddeeply, and he was all to her that she could desire. One sweet childblessed their union. At the end of the period named, like the suddenbursting of a fearful tempest from a summer sky, came the illness anddeath of her aunt, who had been a mother to her from childhood. 

Scarcely had her heart begun to recover from this shock, when it wasstartled by another and more terrible affliction. All at once it becameapparent that her husband was losing his self-control. And theconversation that she had held with her aunt about him, years before, came up fresh in her memory, like the echo of a warning voice, nowheard, alas! too late. She noticed, with alarm, that he drank largelyof brandy at dinner, and was much stupified when he would rise from thetable--always retiring and sleeping for an hour before going back tohis business. Strange, it seemed to her, that she had never remarkedthis before. Now, if she had desired it, she could not close her eyesto the terrible truth. 

For many weeks she bore with the regular daily occurrence of what hasjust been alluded to. By that time, her feelings became so excited, that she could keep silence no longer. 

"I wouldn't drink any more brandy, Edward, " said she, one day at thedinner table; "it does you no good. "

"How do you know that it does not?" was the prompt reply, made in atone that expressed very clearly a rebuke for interfering in a matterthat as he thought, did not concern her. 

"I cannot think that it does you any good, and it may do you harm, " thewife said, hesitatingly, while her eyes grew dim with tears. 

"Do me harm! What do you mean, Alice?"

"It does harm, sometimes, you know, Edward?"

"That is, it makes drunkards sometimes. And you are afraid that yourhusband will become a drunkard! Quite a compliment to him, truly!"

"O, no, no, no, Edward! I am sure you will never be one. But--but--but--"

"But what?"

"There is always danger, you know, Edward. "

"Oh yes, of course! And I am going to be a drunken vagabond, if I keepon drinking a glass of brandy at dinner time!"

"Don't talk so, Edward!" said Mrs. Lee, giving way to tears. "You neverspoke to me in this way before. "

"I know I never did. Nor did my wife ever insinuate before that shethought me in danger of becoming that debased, despised thing, adrunkard!"

"Say no more, Edward, in mercy!" Mrs. Lee responded--"I did not mean tooffend you. Pardon me this once, and I will never again allude to thesubject. "

A sullen silence followed on the part of Lee, who drank frequentlyduring the meal, and seemed to do so more with the evil pleasure ofpaining his wife than from any other motive. So sadly perverting is theinfluence of liquor upon some men, when opposed, changing those who arekind and affectionate into cruel and malicious beings. 

From that hour Mrs. Lee was a changed woman. She felt that the star oflove, which for so many happy years had thrown its rays into the verymidst of their fireside circle, had become hidden amid clouds, fromwhich she looked at every moment for the bursting of a desolatingstorm. And her husband was, likewise, a changed man. His pride andself-love had been wounded, and he could not forgive her who had thuswounded him, even though she were his wife. Whenever he was under theinfluence of liquor, he would brood over her words, and indulge inbitter thoughts against her because she had presumed to insinuate thatthere was danger of his becoming a drunkard. 

At last he was brought home in a state of drunken insensibility. Thishumbled him for a time, but did not cause him to abandon the use ofintoxicating drinks. And it was not long before he was again in thesame condition. 

But we cannot linger to trace, step by step, his downward course, norto describe its effects upon the mind of his wife; but will pass overfive years more, and again introduce them to the reader. 

How sadly altered is every thing! The large and comfortable house, inan eligible position, has been changed for a small, close, ill-arrangedtenement. The elegant furniture has disappeared, and in its place arebut few articles, and those old and common. But the saddest change ofall is apparent in the face, dress, and air of Mrs. Lee. Her pale, thin, sorrow-stricken countenance--her old and faded garments--herslow, melancholy movements, contrast sadly with what she was a fewyears before. 

A lot of incessant toil is now her portion. Lee has, in consequence ofintemperance, causing neglect of business, failed, and had every thingtaken from him to pay his debts. For a while after this event, hecontributed to the support of his wife and child by acting in thecapacity of a clerk. But he soon became so dissipated, that no merchantwould employ him, and the entire support of the family fell upon hiswife. That was, in the very nature of things, an exceedingly meagresupport. Mrs. Lee had never looked forward to such a condition in life, and therefore was entirely unprepared for it. Ordinary sewing was allthat she could do, and at this she could make but a small pittance. Thelittle that her husband earned was all expended in the accursed poisonthat had already ruined himself and beggared his family. 

After having suffered every thing to sink to this condition, Lee foundso little attractive in the appearance of a heart-broken wife andbeggared child, and so much about them to reprove him, that he leftthem without a word, and went off to a neighbouring city. 

How passing strange is the effect of drunkenness upon the mind andcharacter of a man! Is it not wonderful how the tender, affectionate, and provident husband and father can become so changed into a worsethan brutal insensibility to all the sacred duties of life? Is it notwonderful how the man, who would, to-day, sacrifice even life itselffor the safety of his family--who thinks nothing of toil, early andlate, that he may provide for every want, can in a few years forsakethem, and leave them to struggle, single-handed, with sickness andpoverty? But so it is! Instances of such heartless abandonment arefamiliar to every one. "Surely, " as it has been said, "strong drink isa devil!" For he that comes under its influence is transformed into aworse than brutal nature. 

For a time after Lee went away, his wife was enabled, by sewing, tomeet the scanty wants of herself and child. The burden of his supporthad been removed, and that was something gained. But a severe illness, during which both herself and little Jane suffered much for the want ofnourishing food, left her with impaired sight. She could no longer, bysewing, earn the money required to buy food and pay her rent, and wascompelled to resort to severe bodily toil to accomplish that end. 

From several of the old friends of her better days, she had obtainedsewing, and necessity compelled her to resort to them for still humbleremployment. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Lee! I have been wondering what in the world hadbecome of you, " said one of those former friends, a Mrs. Walker, as thepoor woman called to see her, after her recovery. 

"I have been very sick, " replied Mrs. Lee, in a low feeble voice, andher appearance told too plainly the effects of the sickness upon her. 

"I'm sorry to hear it. But I am very glad you are out again, for mysewing is all behindhand. "

"I'm afraid that I shall not be able to do any more sewing for a goodwhile, " said Mrs. Lee, despondingly. 

"Indeed! And why not?"

"Because my eyes have become so weak that I can scarcely see. "

"Then what do you expect to do? How will you get along, Mrs. Lee?"

"I can hardly tell myself. But I must do something. "

"What can you do besides sewing?"

"I don't know of any thing, unless I take in washing. "

"Take in washing! You are not fit to stand at the washing tub. "

"I know that, ma'am. But when we are driven to it, we can do a greatmany things, even though we gradually fail under our task. "

A pause of a few moments ensued, which was broken by Mrs. Lee. 

"Will you not give me your washing to do, Mrs. Walker?" she asked, hesitatingly. 

"Why, I don't know about that, Mrs. Lee. I never put my washing out ofthe house. "

"You hire some one in the house, then?"

"Yes, and if you will come for what I pay my present washerwoman, why Isuppose I might as well throw it in your way. "

"Oh yes, of course I will. How much do you give?"

"I give half a dollar a day. Can you come for that?"

"If you will let me bring my little girl along. I could not leave heralone. "

"I don't know about that, " replied Mrs. Walker, musingly. "I have somany children of my own about the house. "

"She will not be at all troublesome, ma'am, " the poor woman urged. 

"Will she be willing to stay in the kitchen?"

"Oh yes, I will keep her there. "

"Well, Mrs. Lee, I suppose I might as well engage you. But there is onething that I wish understood. The person that I hire to help do thewashing must scrub up the kitchen after the clothes are all out. Areyou willing to do that?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. I will do it, " said Mrs. Lee, while her heart sankwithin her at the idea of performing tasks for which her feeble healthand strength seemed altogether insufficient. But she felt that she mustput her hands to the work, if she died in the effort to perform it. 

Three days afterwards, she entered, as was agreed upon, at half adollar a day, the kitchen of Mrs. Walker, who had but a few yearsbefore been one of her friends and companions. 

It is remarkable, how persons of the most delicate constitutions willsometimes bear up under the severest toil, and encounter the mosttrying privations, and yet not fail, but really appear to gain somedegree of strength under the ordeal that it seemed, to all humancalculation, must destroy them. 

So it was with Mrs. Lee. Although she suffered much from debility andweariness, occasioned by excessive toil for one all unaccustomed tohard labour, yet she did not, as she feared, sink rapidly under it. Bytaking in as much washing and ironing as she could do, and going outtwo days in the week regularly, she managed to procure for herself andchild the bare necessaries of life. This she had continued for abouttwo years at the time when first introduced to the reader's attention, as returning with her child to her comfortless home. 

The slight movement near her door, which Mrs. Lee had thought to beonly an imaginary sound, was a reality. While little Jane spoke of herfather, and wondered at his absence, a man, comfortably clad in coarsegarments, stood near the door in a listening attitude. Once or twice helaid his hand upon the latch, but each time withdrew it and stoodmusing in seeming doubt. "Oh, I wish father would come home!" fell uponhis ear, in clear, distinct, earnest tones. 

He did not hear the low reply, though he listened eagerly. Only for amoment longer did he pause. Then swinging the door open, and steppingin quickly, he said in an earnest voice, "And I have come home at last, my child!--at last, my dear Alice! if you will let me speak to you thustenderly--never, never again to leave you!"

Poor Mrs. Lee started and turned pale as her husband entered thusabruptly, and all unexpected. But she saw a change in him that was notto be mistaken; and all her former love returned with overwhelmingtenderness. Still she restrained herself with a strong effort, andsaid--

"Edward, how do you come?"

"As a sober man. As a true husband and father, I trust, to my wife andchild; to banish sorrow from their hearts, and wipe the tears fromtheir eyes. Will you receive me thus?"

He had but half finished, when Mrs. Lee sprang towards him, and fellsobbing in his outstretched arms. She saw that he was in earnest, shefelt that he was in earnest, and once more a gleam of sunshine fellupon her heart. 

Years have passed, and no cloud has yet dimmed the light that thendawned upon the darkness of Mrs. Lee's painful lot. Her husband is fastrising, by industry and intelligence, towards the condition in lifewhich he had previously occupied; and she is beginning again to findherself in congenial associations. May the light of her peaceful homenever again grow dim. 

GOING HOME. 

"IT'S nearly a year, now, since I was home, " said Lucy Gray to herhusband, "and so you must let me go for a few weeks. "

They had been married some four or five years, and never had beenseparated, during that time, for twenty-four hours at a time. 

"I thought you called this your home, " remarked Gray, looking up, witha mock-serious air. 

"I mean my old home, " replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of anger. "Or, to make it plain, I want to go and see father and mother. "

"Can't you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?" askedthe young husband. 

"I want to go now. You said all along that I should go in May. "

"I know I did. But I thought I would be able to go with you. "

"Well, why can't you go? I am sure you might, if you would. "

"No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now. But if you are veryanxious to see the old folks, I can put you into the stage, and youwill go safe enough. Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, nodoubt. How long a time do you wish to spend with them?"

"About three weeks, or so. "

"Very well, Lucy; if you are not afraid to go alone, I will not say aword. "

"I am not afraid, dear, " said the wife, in a voice changed and softenedin its expression. "But are you perfectly willing to let me go, Henry?"

"Oh, certainly, " was the reply, although the tone in which the wordswere uttered had something of reluctance in it. "It would be selfish inme to say, no. Your father and mother will be delighted to receive avisit just now. "

"And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?"

"Oh yes, very well. "

"I should like to go, so much!"

"Go, then, by all means. "

"But won't you be very lonesome without me?" suggested Lucy, in whoseown bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be felt atthe bare idea of a separation from her husband. 

"I can stand it as long as you, " was Gray's laughing reply to this. "And then I shall have our dear little girl. "

Lucy laughed in return, but did not feel as happy at the idea of "goinghome" as she thought she would be, before her husband's consent hadbeen gained. The desire to go, however, remaining strong, it wasfinally settled that the visit should be paid. So all the preparationswere entered upon, and in the course of a week Henry Gray saw his wifetake her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret at parting, whichrequired all his efforts to conceal. As for Lucy, when the moment ofseparation came, she regretted ever having thought of going without herhusband and child; but she was ashamed to let her real feelings beknown. So she kept up a show of indifference, all the while that herheart was fluttering. The "good-bye" was finally said, the drivercracked his whip, and off rolled the stage. Gray turned homewards witha dull, lonely feeling, and Lucy drew her veil over her face to concealthe unbidden tears from her fellow-passengers. 

That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little. How could he? His Lucy wasabsent, and, for the first time, from his side. On the next morning, ashe could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down and wrote to her, telling her how lost and lonely he felt, and how much little Lucymissed her, but still to try and enjoy herself, and by all means towrite him a letter by return mail. 

As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two whole days, she cried fullyhalf of the time, and when she got "home" at last, that is, at herfather's, she looked the picture of distress, rather than the daughterfull of joy at meeting her parents. 

Right glad were the old people to see their dear child, but grieved, atthe same time, and a little hurt, too, at her weakness and evidentregret at having left her husband, to make them a brief visit. The realpleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the aces of her parents, whom she tenderly loved, was lot strong enough to subdue and keep inconcealment, except for a very short period at a time, her earningdesire again to be with her husband, for whom she never beforeexperienced a feeling of such deep and earnest affection. Severaltimes, during the first day of her visit, did her mother find her intears, which she would quickly dash aside, and then endeavour to smileand seem cheerful. 

The day after her arrival brought her a letter--the first she had everreceived from her husband. How precious was every word! How often andoften did she read it over, until every line was engraven on hermemory! Then she sat down, and spent some two or three hours inreplying to it. As she sealed this first epistle to her husband, fullof tender expressions, she sighed, as the wish arose in her mind, involuntarily, that she could only go with it its journey to thevillage of ----. 

Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to Henry Gray. It was thesixth day of trial before Lucy's answer came. How dear to his heart wasevery word of her affectionate epistle! Like her, he went over it sooften, that every sentiment was fixed in his mind. 

"Two weeks longer! How can I bear it?" he said, rising up, and pacingthe floor backwards and forwards, after reading her letter for thetenth time. On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, Mr. Graysat down to write again to Lucy. Several times he wrote the words, ashe proceeded in the letter--"Come home soon, "--but as often obliteratedthem. He did not wish to appear over-anxious for her return, on herfather's and mother's account, who were much attached to her. But, forgetting this reason for not urging her early return, he hadcommenced again writing the words, "Come home soon, " when a pair ofsoft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, by some one who hadstolen softly up behind him. 

"Guess my name!" said a voice, in feigned tones. 

Gray had no need to guess whose were the hands, for a sudden cry of joyfrom a little toddling thing, told that "Mamma" had come. 

How "Mamma" was hugged and kissed all round, need not here be told. That scene was well enough in its place, but would lose its interest intelling. It may be imagined, however, without suffering any particulardetriment, by all who have a fancy for such things. 

"And father, too!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, after he had almostsmothered his wife with kisses, looking up, with an expression ofpleasure and surprise, at an old man who stood looking on, with hisgood-humoured face covered with smiles. 

"Yes. I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade home, " replied the oldman, advancing and grasping his son-in-law's hand, with a hearty grip. "She did nothing but mope and cry all the while, and I don't care ifshe never comes to see us again, unless she brings you along to keepher in good-humour. "

"And I never intend going alone again, " Mrs. Gray said, holding alittle chubby girl to her bosom, while she kissed it over and overagain, at the same time that she pressed close up to her husband's side. 

The old man understood it all. He was not jealous of Lucy's affection, for he knew that she loved him as tenderly as ever. He was too glad toknow that she was happy with a husband to whom she was as the apple ofhis eye. In about three months Lucy made another visit "home. " Buthusband and child were along, this time, and the visit proved a happyone all around. Of course, "father and mother" had their jest and theirlaugh, and their affectation of jealousy and anger at Lucy for her"childishness, " as they termed it, when home in May; but Lucy, thoughhalf-vexed at herself for what she called a weakness, neverthelesspersevered in saying that she never meant to go anywhere again withoutHenry. "That was settled. "