University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY.

Most punctiliously was all Stanford's advice
obeyed by the little family of orphans. Such a
sprinkling of cold water, and such a ventilation
of rooms as were had the next morning in their
garret, would have satisfied the severest observer
of the rules of health.

Before seven o'clock order was restored, and
the “breakfast things” were cleared away.

“And now, boys,” said Ruth, “what's to be
done? We must to-day begin to get our own
living, and it will not do to be idle a moment.
What was that plan which you had in your head,
Frank?”

“Give me a dollar to start with, and I will
tell you when I come home to-night,” replied
Frank.

“There it is,” said Ruth, placing the money
in his hand. “But before you go, Frank, let
me beg you not to get into any trouble. Take
care of yourself, and think how worried we
shall all be unless you return home in good
season.”

“I won't get into a fight if I can help it,
Ruth,” returned Frank. “You may be sure of
that. I shall be too busy in trying to make
this one dollar two.”

“Well, I will rely upon your affection, Frank,
to obey me, when I charge you to avoid all

quarrelsome company, and to lay out your
money prudently. You are a very little boy to
be trusted in this way; but necessity makes us
older than time.”

“I know a thing or two, Ruth, so don't worry
about me. Now good-by till nightfall.”

Saying thus, Frank clapped on his redoubtable
hat, the sight of which made Ruth shudder
with apprehension, and adroitly placing the
dollar bill in some mysterious pocket near his
left shoulder, he started on his secret expedition.

Poor Arthur was puzzled to devise some kind
of employment for himself. Unlike his brother,
who was fond of activity and bustle, he had a
taste for study and for reading. He was never
so happy as when poring over some book,
which either added to his store of knowledge,
or fed his sense of the beautiful. Had he been
capable of envy, he would have almost envied
Frank his boldness and alacrity, his defiance
of oppression, his self-reliance and unhesitating
fearlessness of address.

“What shall I do, Ruth?” asked Arthur.
“You know that I am willing and anxious to
work.”

“Ay, but the work will not come to us; we
must go to the work,” replied Ruth. “I think
you would better take a walk through Grand-street
and the Bowery, and inquire of the shopkeepers
if they can give you employment.”

“I do so hate to be harshly answered or
slighted!” said Arthur. “I cannot bear to ask
a favour.”

“It is no favour which you ask, my dear
brother; it is not very probable that any one
will engage you unless he means to make you
useful, and get out of you the value of your
wages—perhaps more.”

“You are right, Ruth. I will go, and do my
best. So good-by till I return.”

Arthur quitted the room, and the two sisters
were left alone.

“And now, May Loveday, what can you do
to help along?” asked Ruth, kissing the little
one's cheek.

“Let me think. I can sew almost as well as
you can—can't I, Ruth?”

“That you can, my dear, and will soon sew
a great deal better, I hope. Well, you shall
employ yourself to-day in mending the boys'
shirts and stockings. By-and-by, perhaps, we
can get work for you that shall bring us money.”

“When may I begin, Ruth?”

“At once. Here are the clothes, and here
needles and thread.”

As soon as Ruth had, in this manner, found
occupation for all her little family, she sat down
and thought long and intently as to what means
of employment she could discover for herself.
In plain sewing she was sure that she could
give satisfaction, but, from consulting with Mrs.
Bangs, she learned that there were so many
poor girls seeking for work of that kind, that
it was difficult to procure it even at the lowest
price. Ruth thought that she could assist Mrs.
Bangs at the wash-tub; but the latter assured
her that she would hazard her health in the attempt,

as her constitution was delicate. Even
if she could wash and iron, Mrs. Bangs could
not give her employment, as she did not have
more than enough for herself and girls.

Most earnestly did Ruth think and think,
striving to hit upon some plan for exerting her
faculties, to obtain a maintenance. She was
almost in despair as Mrs. Bangs left the room
without having been able to aid her in her efforts.
She thought over all the various ways
of getting a living of which she had ever heard,
but no one seemed to present encouragement
to her.

Resolving not to be idle with her hands, however,
even while her thoughts were busy, she
opened the desk that had belonged to her father
to find some needles that she remembered to
have placed there. As she was rummaging
among the old papers and account-books with
which it was filled, her hand encountered some
little square blocks of rosewood, and she drew
them forth. They were relics of her father's
art of an engraver. Several of them were blank,
but others were covered with very beautiful
drawings, in readiness to be engraved. Two
or three of them had been partially engraved
by Mr. Loveday, and required only a few hours'
work with the graver to be completed.

Ruth examined them for some moments in silence,
while softened recollections of both her
parents stole over her mind. Suddenly she
started as if a happy thought had occurred to
her. She had often watched her father while
he was at work with his graver. He had sometimes

permitted her to make a few indentations
upon a block with her own hand. She had
once marked the lines that represented an elephant's
trunk in so fine a manner, that Mr. Loveday
declared he could not have done it better
himself. She had also drawn figures in India
ink upon wood, and, before her father had been
reduced by penury, and domestic cares claimed
all her attention, she had frequently found
amusement for days in her pencil.

As these reminiscences passed rapidly through
Ruth's mind, she asked herself the question,
“Why cannot I complete these engravings, and
sell them? What if it is not exactly a woman's
work, cannot I make it so? And if it be well
done, will the purchaser care by whom it may
have been executed? Oh! what a lucky, lucky
idea! I will set to work straightway.”

“What is the matter, Ruth?” asked May,
looking up from her sewing as her sister suddenly
gave her a kiss that almost took away
her breath, and then danced around her like a
spirit of joy.

“I have found it! I am so happy!” was all
that Ruth could reply.

My readers are probably aware that engraving
on wood, though a very delicate operation,
and one in which great talent and ingenuity
should be exercised, is still extremely simple.
The graver is a little chisel, pointed much like
an ordinary penknife. After the picture is
drawn on the wood, all the white places in it
are dug out with this chisel, and the dark lines
are left raised above them, varying in fineness

and direction according to the style of the drawing
and the disposition of shade. To be a
good engraver on wood, an acute mechanical
touch, a keen eye, a nice taste, and a patient,
persevering temper are requisite.

In the desk Ruth found several of the little
chisels used in the art, neatly done up in paper.
With these, and a shelf raised near the window,
on which to place the block, she would be in
readiness to go to work. The shelf was arranged
by placing one chair upon another in a
suitable light. Rapidly effecting her preparations,
she selected one of the partially engraved
blocks, and concentrated all her faculties upon
the task of completing the cut.

Minutes and hours flew rapidly by. About
two o'clock the girls made a hearty dinner upon
a couple of ship-biscuit and a bowl of milk, and
then resumed their tasks. Twilight came on,
but they were hardly aware of its approach until
it grew too dark to see distinctly. Then
Ruth carefully laid aside the engraving upon
which she had been engaged, examined little
May's achievements with the needle, praised her
for her industry and skill, lit a candle, and prepared
a warm supper for the boys, whom she
now every moment expected. It was not long
before Arthur arrived. He had not been successful
in his search for employment, and returned
sad and desponding. Ruth soon cheered
him, however, by her own rose-coloured
thoughts and sunny hopes, showing him the
work she had done, and encouraging him to
“try again.”

“But where can Frank be all this time?” said
she, as she looked out at the starry heavens
and the gathering shades of night.

“Where can he be?” echoed May.

The clock struck nine, and still no Frank
came. The children grew anxious, then alarmed.
Another hour rolled drearily by, during
which they went every other moment to the
window, looked for his appearance, and listened
for his footfall.

Who has not felt the pain of such solicitude
as the young Lovedays now experienced—the
sickness of the heart produced by the unaccountable
delay of a beloved object? What
accidents, and dangers, and dreary contingencies
does Fancy conjure up, as minute after minute
passes, and no sign of his coming is seen or
heard! Hark! the door opens. He is come!
No! it is not the expected one. What figure
is that in the dingy distance? It is his! No!
it turns in a direction different from that which
he would have pursued. Why does he not return?
He must know how anxious we are.
He surely would not willingly keep us in this
terrible suspense. Some accident must have
befallen him. Perhaps he went on the water,
and is drowned. Perhaps he has been run over
by a cart. Perhaps—but why conjecture, where
conjecture is boundless in its scope?

After waiting till it was past ten o'clock,
Ruth and Arthur put on their cloaks, and, leaving
May in bed, sallied forth in search of their
missing brother. The night was cold, though
clear, and they wandered from street to street,

inquiring of all the watchmen they encountered
if they “had seen anything of a little boy with
a big hat on his head.”

“Are you sure the hat was on his head?”
asked one of them, in reply.

Arthur unsuspectingly answered in the affirmative.

“Was he a very small boy?”

“About half a head shorter than I am.”

“Didn't he have pantaloons on, and a jacket?”

“Yes, yes,” said Ruth, eagerly.

“Were his shoes rather dirty?”

“It is very likely. Pray tell us what has happened
to him.”

“Was his hat a very big black hat?”

“Oh, yes! Where is he?”

“Well, I don't recollect having seen any such
boy;” and, saying thus, the man laughed heartily,
as if he flattered himself he had been very
funny.

The children turned away surprised and disappointed.
By others, of whom they made inquiries,
they were kindly treated. But, after
traversing the streets for two hours, they were
obliged to return home unsuccessful in their
search. Frank had not made his appearance.
Weary and sad, Ruth and Arthur retired to bed,
but could not compose themselves to sleep.

The next day was Sunday, and a sad Sunday
it was for the three orphans. They renewed
their search for Frank, but it was still unavailing,
and another miserable night rolled laggingly
by. Monday came, but still Frank was looked
for in vain.

On Tuesday morning, as, silent and disconsolate,
they were sitting down to breakfast, a
noise was heard on the stairs, and—

But the event is worthy to form the subject
of a new chapter.