Mymother was not a very strong woman, while I was a healthy strong girl, so when she tried to teach me to knit and sew, I always managed to get out of it, and she was too weak to insist. So when I went to my grandmother’s to spend the winter, and her first question was, “What sewing have you on hand now?” I was struck with horror.
“Why none”—I stammered, and seeing the look of surprise in her face, I hastened to add, “I never have any on hand.”
“Do you never sew?” she asked, in her sternest tone.
“Why—not very often,” I faltered. “I don’t like to sew.”
“Hm!” said my grandmother, “I shall have to teach you then; I am surprised! ten years old and not know how to sew! At your age, your Aunt Emily was almost an expert needlewoman; she could do overhand, hemming, felling, backstitching, hemstitching, running, catstitching, buttonholes, and a little embroidery.”
I was aghast. Had I got to learn all these mysteries of the needle! My grandmother went on.
“We’ll begin at the beginning then; I’ll prepare some patchwork for you.”
My heart sank; patchwork was the thing my mother had tried to have me do, and I hated it. I remember now some mussed up, dirty-looking blocks, stuffed behind a bureau at home—to have them lost.
True to her word, my grandmother brought out her “piece-bag” and selected a great pile of bits of colored calico and new white cotton cloth, which she cut into neat blocks about four inches square, and piled up on the table, the white pieces by themselves, the pink and the blue in separate piles, and the gray and dull colored also by themselves.
Then taking needle and thread, she began basting them for sewing, a white and colored one together. Oh, what a pile there was of basted pieces, ready for me to learn overhand, or “over ’n over” as I used to call it. I thought there was enough for a quilt. Should I have to sew it all? I was in despair. But my grandmother was much pleased with the show. “There!” she said, “when you finish those, I shall prepare some more, and if you are industrious, you will have enough for a quilt by spring, and then I will have a quilting and you can take home to your mother a sample of the work you have done.”
Somehow this picture did not allure me. I thought only of the weary, weary hours of sewing I should have to do.
Well, that very day she sent to the store and had a thimble bought for me, and that afternoon after school I began my quilt under her eye. I must have a regular “stint,” she said, and it was to be—at first—one of those dreadful blocks, at least four inches of over-and-over stitches! This was to be done the first thing after school, before I could go out to play.
I won’t tell you of the tears I shed over those blocks, of the bad stitches I had to pick out and do over, of the many times I had to go and wash my hands because of dirty thread. I thought my grandmother the most cruel taskmaster in the world.
And the patchwork was not all. When she found that I could not even knit, and that I was accustomed at home to read all the long winter evenings before my bedtime at eight, she said at once that so much reading was not good for me, and I must have some knitting. So she had some red yarn bought, and some steel needles, and “set up” a stocking big enough for my little brother, cheering me, as she thought, by telling me that if I paid proper attention to it, I could knit a pair of stockings for him before spring. My evening “stint” was six times around the stocking-leg.
These two tasks, which my grandmother never failed to exact from me, made life a burden to me. How I hated them! how naughty I was! How I used to break my needles and lose my spool of thread, and ravel my knitting to make a diversion in the dreary round, forgetting that all these hindrances only prolonged my hours of labor, for every stitch of my task must be finished before she would release me.
I brooded over my hardships till I became really desperate, and so was in a fit state to agree to a plan proposed by a schoolmate—to run away. She too had troubles at home; her mother made her help in the housework; she had to wash dishes when she wanted to play out of doors.
We compared notes and made up our minds that we were persecuted and abused, and we wouldn’t stand it any longer. We were not quite so silly as to think of a serious runaway, but we wanted to get rid of our tasks for one day at least; and besides it was spring now and the woods were full of flowers, which I loved, next to books, best of anything in the world.
So after school one day we started for the woods instead of for home. We felt very brave and grown-up when we turned into the path that led into the woods, but before the afternoon was over our feelings changed, and we began to feel very wicked, and to dread going home. I thought of my grandmother’s sharp eyes fixed on me, and dreaded what punishment she might inflict, for I knew she believed in punishments that terrified me, such as doubling my daily task, shutting up in a dark closet, and even, I feared, the rod.
Moreover my fault was made worse by the fact that I had lost my schoolbooks which I was taking home for the study-hour in the morning. I had laid them down on a log and was unable to find them again, though we spent hours—it seemed to me—in looking for them.
We did not enjoy our freedom after all, for the sense of guilt and dread took all the pleasure out of everything; besides, we had one great fright. We heard some great animal rustling among the bushes and were sure it was a bear. We turned and fled, running as hard as we could, looking fearfully back to see if we were pursued, stumbling over logs, and tearing our clothes on bushes. I lost one shoe in a muddy place, and Jenny lost her sunbonnet.
We picked flowers, and when the frail things wilted in our hot hands, we threw them away, and not till it began to grow dark did we get up courage to turn towards the village.
The piece of woods was not large, and we did not really get lost, and before it was quite dark, two very tired, shamefaced girls, with torn dresses and generally disreputable looks, stole into the back doors of their respective homes.
I never knew what happened to Jenny—she never would tell me; but I met the stern face of my grandmother the moment I stepped into the kitchen. I had tried to slip in and go to my room to wash and brush myself, and try to mend my dress before she saw me, but the moment I entered, her eye was upon me.
After one look of utter horror, she seized me by the shoulders, and walked me into the sitting-room, where the family were gathered,—my uncle who lived with my grandmother, and my three cousins, all older, and not playmates for me.
She left me standing in the middle of the room, while all eyes were turned in reproof upon me.
“There!” said my grandmother, in her most severe voice, “there’s the child who runs away! Look at her.”
Then my uncle began to question me. Where had I been? where was my shoe? how did I tear my dress? what did I do it for? what did I think I deserved? and various other questions. Before long, I was weeping bitterly, and feeling that imprisonment for life would be a fitting punishment for my crimes.
Then came my sentence in the stern voice of my grandmother: “I think a suitable punishment for a naughty girl will be to go to bed without her supper.” This was assented to by my uncle, and I was sent off in disgrace, to go to bed.
Now I had a healthy young appetite, and the long tramp had made me very hungry, so that the punishment—though very mild for my offense—seemed to me almost worse than anything.
I was tired enough, however, to fall asleep, but after some hours I awoke, ravenous with hunger. All was still in the house, and I knew the family must have gone to bed. A long time I lay tossing and tumbling and getting more restless and hungry every minute.
At last I could stand it no longer, and I crept out of bed and carefully opened the door—my room was off the kitchen. The last flickering remains of the fire on the hearth made it light enough to see my way about.
Softly I crept to the pantry, hoping to find something left from supper; but my grandmother’s maid was well trained, and I found nothing; the cookie jar, too, was empty, for tomorrow was baking-day. I was about turning back in despair when my eyes fell on a row of milk pans, which I knew were full of milk.
The shelf was too high for me to reach comfortably, but I thought I could draw a pan down enough to drink a little from it, and not disturb anything. So I raised myself on tiptoe and carefully drew it towards me.
You can guess what happened; and if I had known more I should have expected it. As soon as I got the pan over the edge the milk swayed towards me, the pan escaped from my hands, and fell with terrific clatter on the floor, deluging me with milk from head to foot.
Terrified out of my wits, I fled to my room, jumped into bed, covered my head with the bedclothes, and lay there panting. There was a moment’s silence, and then my grandmother’s voice,—
“What was that? What has happened?” and my uncle’s answer, “I’ll bring a light and see.”
Alas! a light revealed wet milk tracks across the kitchen, leading to my room. In a minute it was opened by my grandmother, who drew me out into the kitchen, and stood me up on the hearth—uttering not a word.
I was utterly crushed; I expected I knew not what, but something more than I could guess, and to my uncle’s “Why did you do it, child?” I could only gasp out with bursts of frantic tears, “I was so hungry!”
My grandmother, still silent, hastened to get me dry clothes, then left me standing on the warm hearth, sobbing violently, and feeling more and more guilty, as I saw what trouble I had made.
Then she got clean sheets and made up my bed afresh. While she was doing this, my uncle went in and spoke to her very low. But I think I must have heard or guessed that he said my sentence had been too severe, and I was not so much to blame for trying to get a simple drink of milk, for when my grandmother came out, went into the pantry and brought me a slice of bread and butter, I was not surprised, but fell upon it like a half-starved creature.
Then I was sent to bed again, and it being nearly morning, the maid was called up, and I heard her scrubbing the floor and reducing the kitchen to its usual condition of shining neatness.
I never tried to run away again; my grandmother never scolded me, but my shame as I put on the new shoes and took the new schoolbooks was punishment enough. I tried harder after that to please my grandmother, and really learned a good deal of sewing, and could knit beautifully before I went home.
“Poor little mamma!” said Kristy, as her mother paused, “you didn’t have much fun, did you? I can just fancy how you looked, all dripping with milk. Tell me another.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something that happened to Jenny soon after that. Jenny had often told me about an old aunt she had, whom she and her two cousins used to go to see very often. She wanted me to go with her sometimes, but I didn’t know her aunt, and I was shy, and didn’t like to visit strangers, so I never went.”
Onemorning three cousins were walking slowly down the village street towards the house of their Aunt Betty, where they had been invited to dine. They were eager and excited, for there was something peculiar about the invitation, though none but Jenny knew exactly what it was. Jenny began:—
“Well, I do wonder who’ll get it!”
“Get what?” asked Grace.
“Why, don’t you know? Didn’t your mother tell you?” said Jenny, in surprise. “Aunt Betty didn’t mean to have us know, but mamma told me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Grace.
“Nor I,” put in Ruth.
“Why,” said Jenny eagerly, “you know Aunt Betty has not been so well lately, and her doctor says she must have some one to live with her besides old Sam, and she’s made up her mind—mamma says—to take one of us three and give her all the advantages she can while she lives, and leave her something when she dies. Mamma says, probably her whole fortune, or at any rate a big share. It’s a grand chance! I do hope she’ll take me!”
“But,” said Ruth, “I don’t understand; why should she leave everything to one, after spending so much on her?”
“Oh, to make up to her for giving up so much,” said Jenny. “She’s so cranky, you know!”
“It won’t be much fun to live with her,” said Grace thoughtfully. “But think of the advantages! I’d have all the music lessons I want, and I’m sure she’d let me go to concerts and operas. Oh! Oh!”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Jenny. “She wouldn’t want you going out much; for my part I’d coax her to travel; I’d love to go all over the world—and I’m just dying to go to Europe, anyway.”
“What would you choose, Ruth?” asked Grace.
“I don’t know,” answered Ruth slowly, “and it’s no use to wish, for of course she won’t choose me. I don’t think she ever cared much for me, and I do make such stupid blunders. It seems as if I was bound to break something or knock over something, or dosomethingshe particularly dislikes every time I go there. You know the last time I went there I stumbled over a stool and fell flat on the floor, making her nearly jump out of her skin—as she said—and getting a big, horrid-looking bump on my forehead.”
The girls laughed. “You do seem to be awfully unlucky, Ruth,” said Jenny magnanimously, “and I guess the choice will be one of us two.”
“Well, here we are!” said Grace, in a low tone, as they reached the gate of the pretty cottage where Aunt Betty lived. “Now for it! Put on your best manners, Ruthie, and try not to upset the old lady’s nerves, whatever you do!”
“I shall be sure to do it,” said Ruth sadly, “I’m so awkward.”
Grace and Jenny laughed, not displeased with the thought that the choice would be only between two.
These three girls, so eager to leave their parents and live with Aunt Betty, had comfortable homes, all of them; but in each case there were brothers and sisters and a family purse not full enough to gratify all their desires. Aunt Betty had always been ready to help them out of any difficulty; to give a new dress or a new hat when need became imperative, or a little journey when school work had tired them. So she had come to be the source of many of their comforts and all their luxuries. To live with Aunt Betty, so near their own homes that they would scarcely be separated from them, seemed to them the greatest happiness they could hope for.
Old Sam, the colored servant who had lived with Miss Betty, as he called her, since she was a young woman, and was devoted to her, opened the door for them, a broad grin on his comely face.
“Miss Betty, she’s a-lookin’ fur you-all,” he said; “you’re to take off your things in the hall.”
“Why! Can’t we go into the bedroom as usual?” asked Grace, who liked a mirror and a brush to make sure that every curl was in place.
“No, Miss Grace,” said Sam, “y’r aunt said fur you to take ’em off here.”
Rather sulkily, Grace did as she was bid, and then, bethinking herself of the importance of the occasion, she called up her usual smile, and the three entered the sitting-room where their aunt awaited them.
Aunt Betty was a pleasant-faced lady of perhaps sixty years, but though rather infirm so that she walked with a cane, she was bright and cheery-looking. She was dressed in her usual thick black satin gown and lace mitts, with a fine lace kerchief around her neck and crossed on her breast, and a string of fine gold beads around her throat.
The few moments before Sam opened the door of the dining-room, clad in snowy apron and white gloves, and announced in his most dignified butler’s manner, “Dinner is served!” were passed by Aunt Betty in asking about the three families of her guests, and soon all were seated at the pretty round table, set out with the very best old china, of which every piece was more precious than gold, with exquisite cut glass and abundance of silver. This was an unusual honor, and the girls were surprised.
“You see, nieces,” said Aunt Betty, “this is a special occasion, and I give you my very best.”
“This china’s almost too lovely to use,” said Grace warmly. “I don’t know as I shall dare to touch it!”
“It’s all beautiful!” said Jenny eagerly; “I do love to eat off dainty dishes. Did Sam arrange the table?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Betty, “Sam did everything.”
“Well, he’s just a wonder!” said Grace. “I wish we could ever have a table like this in our house—but then we haven’t any such things to put on it,” she added, with a sigh.
“I only hope,” said Ruth ruefully, “that I shall not break anything. Auntie, you ought to have set me in a corner by myself with kitchen dishes to use; I deserve it for my clumsiness.”
“Well, niece!” said Aunt Betty, with a rather anxious look, “I hope you’ll be on your good behavior to-day, for I value every piece above gold.”
“I know you do,” said Ruth anxiously, “and that’s what scares me.”
While they were talking, Sam had served each one with a plate on which lay a small slice of fish, browned to perfection and temptingly hot. Each girl took a small taste, and then began picking at the food daintily with her fork, but not eating. Grace raised her napkin to her lips, and surreptitiously removed from her mouth the morsel she had taken. Jenny heroically swallowed, and then hastily drank from her glass, while Ruth quietly took the morsel from her mouth, deposited it on her plate, and took no more.
Aunt Betty apparently did not observe all this, but in a moment, seeing that they were toying with the food on their plates, asked quietly, “What’s the matter? Why do you not eat?”
“I don’t care much for fish,” said Grace, in her most polite manner, and, “I beg your pardon, aunt,” said Jenny, in apparent confusion, “but I must confess to having had some candy this morning, and I’m afraid I haven’t much appetite; the fish is fine, I’m sure.”
“And you, Ruth?” asked her aunt.
Ruth hesitated.
“I want the truth, niece,” Aunt Betty went on; “you know I always want the honest truth.”
“Indeed, Aunt Betty,” began Grace, “I’m sure”—She paused, and Jenny broke in, “I’m awfully sorry, Aunt Betty”—But Ruth, while a deep blush rose to her honest face, said in a low tone, “Auntie—I’m sorry to have to tell you—but I think the fish had been kept a little too long.”
Jenny and Grace looked at her in amazement, expecting some burst of indignation from Aunt Betty.
But she only said quietly, though a queer look stole over her face, “Then we’ll have it removed,” touching a bell as she spoke.
Sam appeared instantly, his broad, black face shining, and a grin he could not wholly repress displaying his white teeth.
In a moment he removed the fish and replaced it with the next course, which was turkey, roasted in Sam’s superb way, which no one in the village could equal. This was all right, and received full justice from the youthful appetites, even Jenny forgetting that candy had spoiled hers.
After this the dinner progressed smoothly till ice cream was served with dessert. Again something seemed to be out of joint. Aunt Betty noticed that her young guests did not show their usual fondness for this dish. Again she asked, “Is anything wrong with the cream?” and again she was answered with bland apologies, though some confusion.
“I’ve eaten so much,” said Grace, with a sigh.
“It’s so cold it makes me shiver,” said Jenny, laying down her spoon.
“And what ails you, Ruth?” asked Aunt Betty, with a grave look on her face.
“I’m afraid”—said Ruth timidly, “I’m really afraid Sam spilled some salt in it, auntie;” and so embarrassed was she at being obliged to say what she was sure would be a mortal offense, that in her confusion she knocked a delicate glass off the table, and it was shattered to pieces on the floor.
“Oh, dear!” she cried, “I’ve done it now! Auntie, you’ll never forgive me! I don’t know what ails me when I get among your precious things.”
“I know,” said her aunt grimly. “I believe you are a little afraid of me, my dear, and that makes you awkward. Never mind the glass,” as Ruth was picking up the pieces, tears rolling down her face, “that can be replaced; it is only the china that is precious; don’t cry, child.”
Ruth tried to dry her tears, but she was really much grieved, and her cousins exchanged a look which said plainly as words, “That settlesherchance!”
If Aunt Betty saw the look, she did not mention it, but she soon made the move to leave the table, and all gladly followed her into the other room.
“Nieces,” she said, before they had seated themselves, “did you wonder why I had you leave your wraps in the hall today?”
“It was, of course, unusual,” said Grace, “for we have always gone into the bedroom, but it did not matter in the least.”
“It did not make any difference,” murmured Jenny.
“I will show you what I have been doing to the bedroom,” said Aunt Betty, throwing open the door to that room.
It had been entirely transformed. In place of the old-fashioned set of furniture, the gorgeous flowered carpet, the dark walls and thick curtains that had been in the room ever since they could remember, were light-tinted walls, hard wood floors, with several rugs, a modern light set of furniture, pictures on the walls, lace curtains at the windows, all the latest style and very elegant. One thing only made a discord: over the dainty bed was spread a gay-colored cover. It disfigured the whole effect, but the girls apparently saw nothing out of the way.
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Jenny.
“It’s so dainty and sweet!” put in Grace. “Auntie, you have exquisite taste.”
Ruth looked her appreciation till her glance fell upon the bedspread; then she hesitated.
“Nieces, do you like it? Could you suggest any change in it?”
“It is simply perfect as it is,” said Grace warmly, while not to be outdone by Grace, Jenny added with a sigh, “Nothing could improve it, I’m sure.”
Aunt Betty looked at Ruth, who was covered with confusion, but she stammered, “I seem to be the only one to find fault to-day, but indeed, auntie—if you want my honest opinion”—
“I do,” said Aunt Betty, with a smile.
“Well then—couldn’t you—couldn’t you put on a white spread instead of that gay one? That doesn’t seem to suit the beautiful room.”
Aunt Betty smiled again. “Take it off, then, and let’s see!”
Ruth pulled off the spread, and there under it was a dainty lace one as exquisite as the rest of the room.
“I guess we’ll keep it off,” said Aunt Betty, “though Jenny and Grace seem to like it well enough; it certainly is an improvement.”
Aunt Betty’s manner was so peculiar as she said this, that the two girls who had sacrificed truthfulness to please her, began to suspect that there was more in it than they had thought; they were both rather silent when they returned to the sitting-room and Aunt Betty began:—
“Nieces, I have a little plan to tell you about, though possibly you may have suspected it”—with a sharp look at the two guilty ones. “Perhaps you have heard that I have decided, by the advice of my physician, to take one of you to live with me—provided you and your parents are willing, of course. I shall ask a good deal of the one I select, but I shall try to make it up to her. I shall formally adopt her as my own, and, of course, make a distinction in her favor in my will. I shall ask a good deal of her time and attention; but I shall not live forever, and when I am gone, she will be independent, and able to make her own life.”
The three girls were breathless with attention, and Aunt Betty went on.
“I want the one I shall choose to ponder these conditions well; there will be a few years—probably—of partial seclusion from society, and of devotion to her old auntie, and then freedom, with the consciousness of having made happy the declining years of one who buried the last of her own children many years ago.”
She paused—but not a word was spoken—and in a moment she went on.
“I did not know how to choose between you, for you are all so sweet to me, so I made a plan to find out—with Sam’s help—a little about your characteristics. The virtue I prize almost above all others, is—truthfulness, honest, outspoken truth. The bad fish, the salted cream, and the odious spread were tests, and only one of you stood the test and spoke the honest truth. I am glad thatonedid, for otherwise I should not have found, in my own family, one I could adopt and depend upon.”
She paused; not a word was said.
“Ruth,” she began again, turning to that confused, and blushing, and utterly amazed girl, “Ruth, will you come to live with me, take the place of a daughter, and occupy that room?”
“You askme?” cried Ruth, “clumsy and awkward as I am! I never dreamed you could want me!”
“I know you did not,” said Aunt Betty; “but your habit of truthfulness is far more valuable to me than the deftest fingers or the most finished manners. Will you come?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” cried Ruth, falling on her knees and burying her face in Aunt Betty’s lap, while happy tears fell from her eyes, and Aunt Betty gently stroked her hair.
“Well, well,” said Jenny, with a sigh, as the two girls walked slowly home, “I always knew Aunt Betty was the crankiest woman in the world, and if Ruth wasn’t so perfectly sincere I should almost think that she”—
She paused, and Grace broke in.
“Yes; I’m perfectly sure Ruth is not capable of putting on; besides, we always knew she couldn’t deceive to save her life.”
“Hush,” said mamma, as Kristy was about to speak. “Here comes Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson, the next door neighbor, walked in, explaining that she had come in the rain because she was all alone in her house and was lonely, and seeing Mrs. Crawford sewing by the window, thought she would bring her work and join her.
Mrs. Crawford welcomed her, but Kristy was disturbed. “Mrs. Wilson,” she began, “don’t you think a person ought to keep her promise?”
“Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“Kristy! Kristy!” said her mother warningly.
“I’m just going to ask Mrs. Wilson,” said Kristy, with a twinkle in her eye, “if she doesn’t think you ought togoon telling me stories, when you promised to do it as long as it rained. She likes to hear stories, too, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Wilson laughed. “Of course I do, and I shall be delighted, I’m sure. Your mother must be a master hand at the business, for I never knew such a story-lover as you, Kristy.”
“I’ve about told myself out,” said Mrs. Crawford. “Kristy, I think you really ought to excuse me now.”
“How will it do if I tell you one to rest mamma?” asked Mrs. Wilson. “I happen to be much interested just now in a story that is still going on in town.”
“Do tell it!” said Kristy. “I can get mamma to keep her promise this evening.”
Mrs. Wilson laughed, and first taking her sewing out of a bag she carried, she began:—
“It’s about the Home we see on the cars, going to the city.”
“Oh, yes! where we always see girls in the yard as we go by?” said Kristy.
“Yes; I’ll tell you how it began.”
Kristy settled herself more comfortably on the lounge, and the story began.
Itdoes not seem very good in the beginning—but you shall see. One cold winter night a man in the city came home crazy with drink. I will not tell you what he did to his trembling daughter who was all the family left, except one thing: he put her out of the house and told her never to come back. It was a very poor house, hardly any comforts in it, but it was the only home the child knew and she was twelve years old. When she was turned out of it, her only thought was to hide herself away where no one could find her.
This was in the edge of the city, and she wandered about a little till she came to a new barn where there was an opening in the foundations big enough for her to crawl in. When she saw this, by the light of the street lamp, she crept into the hole and far back in one corner where she thought no one would ever find her—and there she lay.
The house to which that barn belonged held two boys and a dog, and the next day, when the three were playing together, as they generally were, the dog began to act strangely. He smelled around that hole, then ran in, and barked and growled and seemed much excited.
“I guess there’s a cat in there,” said one of the boys, calling the dog out. He came, but in a minute rushed back, and barked more and seemed to be pulling at something.
This aroused the curiosity of the boys, who got down by the opening and peered in. It was so dark that they could see nothing, but the dog refusing to come out, they went into the house and brought out a candle, and by the light of that, saw what looked like a bundle of rags, which, however, stirred a little as the dog tugged at it.
Then the boys called to her to come out; they threw sticks to see if she were alive; they tried all ways they could think of, and at last they went away. But soon they came back and men with them. Nora, through half-shut eyes, could see them. She knew their blue coats and bright stars—they were policemen.
They called, they coaxed, they commanded, but she did not move. They found a boy small enough to crawl under the barn, and he went in. He found that she was alive, but she would not speak. Never a wish or a hope crossed the child’s mind, except a wish to be let alone.
At last the boy, by the directions of the policemen, pulled her towards the opening. She did not resist—she did not know how to resist; her whole life had been a crushing submission to everything.
Finally the men could reach her, and the poor, little, half-dead figure was brought to the light.
“Poor soul!” said one of the men, almost tenderly. “She’s near dead with cold and hunger.”
She could not walk. Kind though rough hands carried her to the station house, where a warm fire and a few spoonfuls of broth—hastily procured from a restaurant—brought her wholly back to life, and she sat up in her chair and faced a row of pitying faces with all her young misery.
Little by little her story was drawn from her.
But what to do with her—that was the question. She was not an offender against the law, and this institution was not for the protection of misfortune, but for the punishment of crime. They did the best they could. They fed her, made her a comfortable bed on a bench in the station house, and the next morning the whole story went into the papers.
This story was read by a lady of wealth over her morning coffee. She had lately been reading an account of the poor in our large cities, and had begun to think it was her duty to do something to help. With more money than she could use, and not a relative in the world, there was no reason why she should not make at least one child happy, and educate it for a useful life.
On reading the story of Nora, with the added statement that her father had been arrested and placed in a retreat where he would not soon get out, the thought struck her that here was her chance to make the experiment.
After her breakfast, Miss Barnes ordered her carriage and went out. After driving about a little, she ordered her coachman to drive to the B—— Street police station. He looked astonished, but of course obeyed, and in a short time, the dingy station house received an unusual visitor.
The moment Miss Barnes entered the room, she saw the child, and knew she was the one she had come to see. As for Nora, she had never seen a beautiful, happy-looking woman, and she could not take her eyes off her face.
Miss Barnes asked a few questions. Who was going to take her? Who were her friends? She learned that she had none, that her father had been arrested for vagrancy, and would be sent to the bridewell.
“Where is the child to go?” at last she asked.
“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t know, unless she goes into the streets,” said the policeman.
“I’ll take her,” said Miss Barnes.
“It’ll be a heavenly charity if you do, ma’am,” replied the man.
Miss Barnes turned to the girl.
“Nora, will you go with me?”
“Yes ’m,” gasped Nora, with hungry soul looking out of her eyes.
“Come, then,” said the lady shortly, leading the way out.
Thomas, holding the door of the carriage, was struck dumb with horror to see the apparition, but the timid little figure kept close to his mistress, and she wore such a look that the old servant dared not speak.
“To a respectable bath house,” was Miss Barnes’s order.
Thomas bowed, reached his seat somehow, and drove off.
“Not pretty, decidedly,” thought Miss Barnes, looking steadily at the wondering face opposite hers, “but at least not coarse. Dress will improve her.”
At the door of the bathing rooms, Thomas again threw open the carriage door. Miss Barnes went in with Nora, gave her into the hands of the young woman in charge, with directions to have her thoroughly bathed and combed, and otherwise made ready for new clothes that she would bring.
The amazed young woman marched off with the unresisting Nora, and Miss Barnes went shopping. She bought a complete outfit, from hat to shoes, and in an hour returned to the bath rooms, to find Nora waiting. She was soon dressed, much to her own surprise, for she hardly knew the names of half the articles she had on, and they were once more in the carriage. As for Thomas, he thought wonders would never cease that morning.
As they rolled home, Miss Barnes said:—
“Now, Nora, you’re to live with me and be my girl. You’re not Nora Dennis; you’re Nora Barnes. You’re to forget your old life—at least as much as you can,” she added, seeing a shade come over Nora’s face. “And on no account are you to speak of it to the servants in my house. Do you understand?”
“Yes ’m,” said Nora.
“I shall try to make your life happy,” Miss Barnes went on a little more tenderly. “I shall educate you”—
“Please, ma’am, what’s that?” asked Nora timidly.
“Teach you to read and write,” said Miss Barnes, wincing as she reflected how much there was to do in this neglected field.
“And, Nora,” she went on, “I shall expect you to do as I tell you, and always to tell me the truth.”
“Shall I stay at your house and be warm?” asked Nora.
“Always, poor child, if you try to do right,” said Miss Barnes.
“Are these things mine?” was the next question, looking lovingly at her pretty blue dress and cloak.
“Yes, and you shall have plenty of clothes, and always enough to eat, Nora. I hope you will never again be so miserable as I found you.”
Nora could not comprehend what had come to her. She sat there as though stupefied, only now and then whispering to herself, “Always enough to eat, always warm.”
“Thomas,” said Miss Barnes, in her most peremptory manner, as he held the carriage-door for her to alight, “I especially desire that you should not mention to any one where I got this child. I want to make a new life for her, and I trust to your honor to keep her secret.”
Thomas touched his hat.
“Indeed, you may be sure of me, Miss Barnes.”
And faithfully he kept his word, although all the household was in consternation when Miss Barnes installed the child as her adopted daughter, procured a governess for her, had a complete outfit of suitable clothes prepared, and, above all, took unwearied pains to teach her all the little things necessary to place her on a level with the girls she would meet when she went to school.
Nora soon learned the ways and manners of a lady. She seemed to be instinctively delicate and lady-like. She was pretty, too, when her face grew plump and the hungry look went out of her eyes.
Miss Barnes, though on the sharp lookout, never discovered a vice in her. Whatever may have been her original faults, she seemed to have shed them with her rags, and the great gratitude she felt for her benefactor overwhelmed everything. She seemed to live but to do something for Miss Barnes.
To Nora, life was like a dream—a dream of heaven, at that. Always warm, always fed, always safe from roughness, surrounded by things so beautiful she scarcely dared to touch them; every want attended to before it was felt. It was too wonderful to seem true. In dreams she would often return to the desolate shanty, where the winds blew through the cracks, and the rickety old stove was no better fed than her mother and herself.
Five years rolled away. Miss Barnes grew to love this child of poverty very much, and to be grieved that she showed none of the joy of youth. For Nora walked around as though in a dream. She was always anxious to please, always cheerful, but never gay. She was too subdued. She never spoke loud. She never slammed a door, she never laughed.
“Nora,” said she one day, after studying her face some time in silence, “why are you not like other young girls?”
“Why am I unlike them?” asked Nora, looking up from the book she was reading.
“You’re not a bit like any young girl I ever saw,” said Miss Barnes; “you’re too sober, you never laugh and play.”
“I don’t know how to play,” said Nora, in a low tone; “I never did.”
“Poor child,” said Miss Barnes, “you never had any childhood. I wanted to give you one, but you were too old when I took you. Why, you’re a regular old woman.”
“Am I?” said Nora, with a smile.
“I don’t know what I’ll do to you,” Miss Barnes went on. “I’d like to make you over.”
“I wish you could,” said Nora earnestly. “I try to be like other girls, but somehow I can’t. I seem always to have a sort of weight on my heart.”
“Nora, isn’t there something you would like that I haven’t done for you? Haven’t you a wish?”
“Oh!” cried Nora, “I can’t wish for anything, you make me too happy, but”—she hesitated, and tears began to fall fast—“I can’t forget my old life, it comes back in my dreams, it is always before me. I don’t want to tell you, but I must. I can’t help thinking about the many miserable girls, such as I was, living in horrid shanties, starved, frozen, beaten, wretched.”
“Then you have a wish?” said Miss Barnes softly.
“Oh, it seems so ungrateful!” Nora sobbed. “Such a poor return for the life you have given me! I have tried to forget. I can’t tell what is right for me to do. I’m sorry I said anything.”
“No, Nora,” said Miss Barnes promptly. “You should tell me all your wishes and feelings. If they are wrong, I can help you outgrow them; if right”—she hesitated—“why, I must help you.”
Nora fell on her knees with the most impulsive movement Miss Barnes, had ever seen.
“Oh, I do believe you are an angel!”
“Far from it, Nora,” said Miss Barnes smiling, “but I’ve set out to make you happy, and if I find whims and notions in your head, I suppose I’ll have to follow them out. But seriously, dear child, I must say I have had a little uneasy feeling of responsibility in my heart ever since I’ve had you. And there’s nothing to hinder my being as odd as I please, and now let me hear your plans.”
“I have no plans. I have only longings to do something for them.”
Well; plans grew fast as they always do when planners are anxious to do something. Long into the night they talked, and the very next day the work began. Nora captured a poor little girl who came to beg, and took her in to Miss Barnes, in spite of the horror of the servants. They found she had no parents, and decided to take her, and Nora went on to make her decent, with more pleasure than she had ever known.
So it went on; before the end of a month, Miss Barnes found herself more interested than she had been in anything. And Nora grew bright and happy as the months rolled by, and one after another wretched girl was gathered out of the streets and brought to a home.
As soon as one girl was trained and fitted to take a place in some one’s kitchen, or sewing-room, or nursery, a dozen places opened to her. By telling a little of her story, Miss Barnes interested her new mistress in the girl, who was thus started out in a useful, independent life.
This institution, though it never had a name, grew and flourished, and Nora still lives in the Barnes Home, manages the Barnes income, and “lends a hand” wherever needed.
“And that’s the story of how the Barnes Home came to be,” said Mrs. Wilson, in ending.
“And was that nice lady that you went to see about a maid,” cried Kristy eagerly, turning to her mother, “was she Nora?”
“Yes,” said her mother, “she was Nora.”
“That was fine!” said Kristy. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Wilson.”
“That story of a great charity, started through one poor girl,” said Mrs. Wilson, “reminds me of another that I heard lately; shall I tell it, Kristy?”
“Oh, do!” said Kristy.
Thisstory is about a girl not much older than you, who had a great trouble come upon her, some years ago. Her father who was—I’m sorry to say—a drunkard, had at last died, leaving Alice Rawson, and her brother a little older, to take care of their invalid mother.
The trouble that came upon her, as I said, was the finding that the brother, who was steady at his work, and proud to support the family, began to go out every evening. The great dread seized her that he would follow in the footsteps of his father. They had suffered so much from the father’s habits, that this was almost more than she could bear, and she felt sure that it would kill her mother.
She tried every way she could think of to entertain her brother at home, but she could not make it gay and lively as it was in the saloon where the boys met, and when she tried to coax him to stay at home, he answered her that it was awful dull in the evening after a long day’s work.
Alice could not deny this, and she had not a word to say when one evening he ended with, “You can’t expect a fellow to stay mewed up at home all the time. Now look here,” as he saw the tears come into Alice’s eyes, “you needn’t fret about me, Sis. I’m bound to take care of myself, but I must have a little pleasure after working all day. Good-by; I’ll be home by nine.”
But he was not home by nine, nor by ten, and the clock had struck eleven when Alice heard his step. She hurried to the door to let him in. His face was flushed, and his breath—alas!—reminded her of her father’s.
He made some excuse and hurried off to bed, and Alice sank into a chair in the sitting-room. She was shocked. She was grieved. This was the first time Jack had showed signs of being under the influence of strong drink, and she felt as if she could not bear it.
A month before, they had laid in a drunkard’s grave their father, and over his terrible death-bed, Jack had promised their mother that he would not follow in his steps.
“Yet now—so soon—he has begun,” thought Alice, sitting there alone in the cold. “And how can I blame him, poor boy!” she went on, “when it is so dull and stupid for him here? It’s no wonder he prefers the pleasant warm room, the lights, the gay company, the games that he gets at Mason’s. Oh, why aren’t good things as free as bad ones!” she cried out in her distress.
“But what can I do?” was the question to which her thoughts ever came back. “I must save Jack, for he’s all mother and I have; but how?”
“What can one girl do, without money and without friends—almost?” thought Alice, remembering, with a shudder, that a drunkard’s daughter is apt to have few influential friends.
Alice Rawson was clear-headed though young. She thought the matter over during the next day, as she went about her work in the house, waiting on her invalid mother, making the cottage tidy, and cooking their plain meals.
“It’s no use to talk,” she said to herself; “Jack means to do what’s right. And it’s even worse to scold or be cross to him, for that only makes him stay away more.” And she gave the pillow she was stirring up a savage poke to relieve her feelings.
“I know, too,” she went on, pausing with the other pillow in her hand, “that when he’s there with the boys, it’s awful hard never to spend a cent when the others do. It looks mean, and Jack hates being mean;” and she flung the pillow back into its place with such spirit that it went over on to the floor.
“What are you banging about so for?” asked her mother, from the next room.
“Oh, nothing. I was thinking, mother,” she answered. And she went on thinking.
“What would be best would be to have some other place just as pleasant, and warm, and free as Mason’s,—somegoodplace.” Alice sighed at this thought.
“It can’t be here at home, because it takes so much money to have it warm and light; and besides, his friends wouldn’t feel free to come, and it would be lonely for him.”
“Alice, whatareyou muttering about?” called Mrs. Rawson.
“Nothing, mother; I’m only making a plan.”
“If I could get books and papers,” she went on, closing the door, and starting for the kitchen; “but Jack is too tired to read much.”
Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue.
“I wonder—I do wonder why a place couldn’t be fixed—a room somewhere! I believe people would help if they only thought how good it would be for boys. That would be splendid!” And she looked anything but a statue now, for she fairly beamed with delight at the thought.
“I don’t suppose I can do much alone,” she said later, as the plan grew more into shape; “but it’s for Jack, and that’ll help me talk to people, I’m sure, and at least I can try.”
She did try. Without troubling her mother with her plans,—for she knew she would be worried and think of a dozen objections to it,—in her delicate state of health,—Alice hurried through with her work, put on her things, and went to call first on Mr. Smith, a grocer. She happened to know that at the back of Mr. Smith’s store was a room opening on a side street, which he had formerly rented for a cobbler’s shop, but which was now empty.
Alice’s heart fluttered wildly a moment, when she stood before the grocer in his private office, where she was sent when she asked of the clerk an interview with Mr. Smith.
“You are Rawson’s daughter, I believe,” was Mr. Smith’s greeting.
“Yes,” said Alice, “I am Alice Rawson, and you’ll think I am crazy, I’m afraid, when I tell you my errand,” she went on, trembling. “But oh, Mr. Smith! if you remember my father before—before”—
“I do, child,” said the grocer kindly, supposing she had come to ask for help.
“Then you’ll not wonder,” she went on bravely, “that I am going to try every way to save my brother.”
“Is your brother in danger?” asked Mr. Smith. “And what can I do?”
“He is in danger,” said Alice earnestly, “of doing just as father did, and so are lots of other boys, and what you can do is to let me have Johnson’s old shop, free of rent for a little while, to make an experiment—if I can get help,” she added warmly.
“But what will you do? I don’t understand,” said Mr. Smith.
“What will I do? Oh, I’ll try to make a place as pleasant as Mason’s saloon, that shan’t cost anything, and I’ll try to get every boy and young man to go there, and not to Mason’s. If they could have a nice, warm place of their own, Mr. Smith, don’t you think they would go there?” she asked anxiously.
“I don’t know but they would,” said the grocer; “but it’s an experiment. I don’t see where you’ll get things to put in, or your fire, or anything to make it rival Mason’s. However, I’m busy now and can’t talk more, and as you’re in earnest and the cause is good, I’ll let you have the room to try the plan.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Alice.
“Here’s the key,” taking that article down from a nail. “Say no more, child, I couldn’t rent it this winter anyway,” as she tried to speak.
Alice walked out with her precious key, feeling as if the whole thing was done. But it was far from that.
Her next visit—she had carefully planned them all out—was to a man who sold wood; for in that village wood was the only fuel.
This man, Mr. Williams, had a son who was somewhat dissipated, therefore he was ready to listen patiently to Alice’s pleading, and to help in any really practical plan. He listened interestedly, and promised to give a cord of cut wood to begin with, and if it proved a success, to give enough to run the fireplace—there was no stove—all the evenings of that winter.
Next, Alice went to the finest house in the village, where lived Mrs. Burns, a wealthy lady, whose son was wild and gave her anxiety.
“She must pity mother and me,” thought Alice, as she walked up the broad walk to the house, “and I’m sure she’ll help.”
She did. She was surprised at Alice’s bravery, but warmly approved of her plan. “You’ll want books and papers,” she said, “and you must have hot coffee always ready.”
“I hadn’t dared to think of so much,” said Alice.
“But you must have coffee,” repeated Mrs. Burns, “or they’ll miss their beer too much; and you must charge enough to pay for it, say two cents a cup; I think it could be made for that.”
“But then we must have some one to make it,” said Alice thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Burns, “and I think I know the very woman—Mrs. Hart. She is poor, and I know will be glad, for a little wages (which I shall pay her), to spend her evenings there, making coffee. She’s a jolly sort of a person, too, and I think would be just the one to make the boys feel at home.
“And I’ll do more,” went on the kind-hearted woman, “I’ll give you an old-fashioned bookcase I have upstairs, and some books to start a library. Other ladies will give you more, and you’ll have it full, no doubt.”
After leaving Mrs. Burns, Alice’s work was much easier, for that lady gave her a little subscription book, in which she entered Mr. Smith’s gift of the room-rent, Mr. Williams’s gift of the wood, and her own of the hire of the woman to tend it, a dozen books in a bookcase, and two comfortable chairs.
Alice called at nearly every house in the village, and almost every one gave something. Several gave books; two or three others agreed to send their weekly papers when they had read them; many gave one chair each; three or four gave plain tables, games,—backgammon and checkers,—and two or three bright colored prints were promised.
Red print curtains for the windows, and cups and saucers for the coffee, came from the village storekeeper, a teakettle to hang over the fire, and a tin coffee-pot, came from the tin-shop; cheap, plated teaspoons from the jeweler; two copies of the daily paper and promise of lots of exchanges, from the editor of the only paper.
In fact, a sort of enthusiasm seemed to be aroused on the subject, and when Alice went home that night, her little book had a list of furniture enough to make the room as pleasant as could be desired.
The next day was quite as busy. The woman Mrs. Burns had engaged came to put the room in order, and after it had a thorough scrubbing, Alice went out to collect the furniture. The village expressman, who owned a hand-cart, had subscribed his services to the plan, and Alice went with him, book in hand, and gathered up the gifts.
The floor was covered with fresh sawdust—the butcher sent that; the gay curtains were up, the bookcase full of books was arranged, some tables were covered with papers, and others with games, a rousing fire was built in the fireplace, the tea-kettle was singing away merrily, and at a side table with cups and coffee things, sat Mrs. Hart, when Alice asked Jack to go somewhere with her. He consented though a good deal surprised. She brought him to this room.
“What’s this?” asked Jack, as they turned down the street. A sign was over the door (Mr. Dover, the sign-painter gave that) of “Coffee-Room.”“Thisis something new.”
“Yes,” said Alice, “let’s go in.”
Jack was too surprised to reply, and followed his sister as she opened the door.
There sat smiling Mrs. Hart, with knitting in hand, a delightful odor of coffee in the air, and a sign over her table which said “Coffee two-cents.”
“Let’s have some,” said Jack; “how good it smells!”
“Since you went out, Miss Alice,” said Mrs. Hart, as she poured the two cups, “a big package of coffee—ten pounds at the least—and another of sugar has most mysteriously appeared;” and she nodded towards the grocer’s part of the house, to indicate the giver.
“Why, what have you to do with it?” asked Jack, looking sharply at Alice.
“She!” exclaimed Mrs. Hart. “Don’t you know? She got it up; it’s all her doing—everything in this room.”
“No, no, Mrs. Hart,” protested Alice, “I didn’t give a single thing.”
“Except your time and the plan, and everything,” said Mrs. Hart warmly.
“What does it mean? Tell me, Alice,” asked Jack; and she told him. “And the room is for you, Jack, and the other boys; and every evening there’ll be a bright fire and hot coffee, and Mrs. Hart to make it, and I hope—oh, I do hope—you’ll come here and have a good time every night,” she ended.
Jack was touched. “Ally, you’re a trump! and I’ll do it sure.”
And he did. At first when the story got out, all the boys came from curiosity to see what one girl had done; and after that they continued to come because it was the pleasantest place in town and all their own.
No irksome restraints were put upon the boys, and there were no visitors who came to give them temperance lectures or unwelcome advice; no boy was asked to read book or paper, and no one was told how much better for him was coffee than beer. This, each one found out for himself, in the best way—by experience.
Every evening, before it was time for the boys to begin to come, Alice would run down to see that everything was right, that the fire was bright, the coffee ready, and Mrs. Hart in her place. Then she would open the bookcase, select three or four of the most interesting looking books, and lay them around on the tables, in a careless way, as if they were accidentally left there.
Nor did she let people forget about it. As often as once a week, she went to the houses of those most interested, and received from one the weekly papers that had been read, from another a fresh book or magazine, and from a third some new game or a pretty print to put on the wall.
Coffee and the things to put in it, Alice had no need to ask for. The two cents a cup proved to be more than enough to pay for it.
Promptly at half-past nine Mrs. Hart gathered up the things and washed the cups and saucers, and as the clock struck ten she put out the lights and locked the door.
Books and papers did their silent work, and before spring the young men grew ashamed of owing their comforts to charity, so they agreed among themselves to pay a small sum weekly toward expenses. It was not binding on any one, but nearly every one was glad to do it, and by this means, before another winter, the coffee-room was an independent establishment.
The power it was among those boys could not be told, till years afterwards, when it was found that nearly every one who had spent his evenings there had become a sober, honest citizen, while those who preferred the saloon, filled drunkards’ graves, or lived criminals, and a pest upon society.
On Jack himself, the effect was perhaps the most striking. As Alice had started the thing, he could not help feeling it his business to see that the boys had a good time, and also, to keep order among them. Mrs. Hart soon found that he was a sort of special policeman, always ready to settle difficulties, and make the boys behave themselves if necessary—which it seldom was.
Feeling the responsibility of his position and influence, brought out in him a manliness of character he had never before shown, and when he became a man in years, no one could have the slightest fear that Jack Rawson would ever follow in the downward steps of his father. And all this he owed to the fact that Alice tried what one girl could do.
It is Shakespeare who says,—