University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
WAYS AND MEANS.

“What's to be done?” muttered Stanford to
himself, as, three days after these events, he
was wending his way towards the miserable
lodgings where the young orphans abided.
Choosing to bestow the little money he could
spare upon the living rather than the dead, he
had applied to the proper public authorities for
the disposal of Mr. Loveday's mortal remains,
which were consigned to the earth at the city's
expense.

Ruth had consented passively to everything
that Stanford had advised, and, with the exception
of a few indications of gratitude towards him
for his disinterested kindness, she had remained
silent and bowed in grief. The children,
after sobbing and rejecting food for a day or
more, clustered round their elder sister, and tried
a thousand arts to console her. Arthur, who
was the elder of the two boys, was a gentle,
shy lad, about three years younger than Ruth.
Frank was a bold, forward urchin, just entering
his seventh year, a little pale for want of healthful
food and air, but displaying the elements of
a good constitution. May, the youngest of the
family, was a gay, sunny little creature, with
blue eyes and flaxen hair; in her personal appearance
quite a contrast to Ruth.

Stanford was now approaching the door of
the dingy building, where the bereaved children
were still staying. He stopped a moment before
entering, and again communed with himself:
“What's to be done? My funds are getting
low, and the abstraction of ten dollars at
the present moment would compel me to wear
this rusty hat and these old boots two months
longer than I intended. The children appear
to be quite helpless; and poor little Ruth seems
to be wholly confounded when I ask what I
shall do for her. I will have one more talk
with her, and if we can hit upon no plan for the
support of the family, I will apply to some charitable
society for aid and advice.”

Thus determining, the young painter knocked
at the door. It was opened by Ruth, and he was
surprised to see her face light up with a smile
of welcome almost cheerful as she took his hand
and pressed it to her lips.

“Good morning, Ruth; and good morning,
little ones,” said he, as the children gathered
round him, and lifted up their clean faces, beaming
with gratitude, and intelligence, and patient
affection. Stanford stooped and received their
pure kisses upon his cheek; and he thought at
the moment that a peal of Fame's longed-for
trumpet in his ears, or a sight of Fortune's
heaviest prize at his feet, could not have stirred
emotions half so sweet and thrilling as those
he then felt.

“This is well, my child,” said he, turning to
her who was now the head of this young family.
“I am glad to see that you have struggled with

your great grief, and are now resigned to the
dispensations of Heaven.”

“You believe—do you not, sir—that they, my
parents, are still living, and that they can look
down on us, and see us, and pity us, and be glad
in our goodness and happiness still?”

“Yes, Ruth, I hope it—I believe it.”

“And I know it, sir; I feel it, and nothing
could persuade me that it is not so. Such happy
dreams as I had last night! Do you not
think, sir, that the soul may in sleep do much,
and think much, and visit many places, which
it forgets when we wake?”

“I do not doubt, Ruth, that it may do so, and
that it may carry into its waking state good impressions
and influences, without knowing there
where it received them.”

“That is what I meant to say; for, though I
lay down to rest last night feeling very sad and
desolate, I awoke this morning full of hope, and
anxious to go to work immediately. Now what
time had my feelings for changing but in sleep?”

“Some deeper philosopher than I must answer
your question, my dear. Now let us talk
of what directly concerns you. Have you yet
found among your father's papers any clew to
the name which he was so anxious to communicate
in his last moments?”

“Not any, sir. I have searched everywhere
—read every scrap of paper that I could find in
his trunk, but found nothing that can give even
a hint.”

“Well, then, we must look upon that resource
as cut off, my dear. What's to be done next?

Have you thought of any plan by which you
and the little ones can be provided for?”

Ruth remained silent as if in deep thought,
and Stanford continued:

“Believe me, my dear child, had I the means,
it would be the joy of my heart to provide for
you, and save you from the rough path of daily
drudgery and labour; but I have lived upon little
else than hope for the last year, and I am
almost destitute of money. A little I have still,
which you must help me to devote to your own
good and that of—”

“Oh, no, sir!” interrupted Ruth. “You have
been too liberal, too kind already. Let us not
deprive you of what may save you from mortification
and want. I will look about instantly,
and find something to do. I am quite sure I
shall succeed. I can sew, wash, do housework
—almost everything.”

“I see you bear a brave heart, my child,
which is best of all. Would you have me find
a place for you as housemaid?”

“That would compel me to part from these
little ones. Oh, no! that will never do. Let
us keep together—pray let us keep together.
And yet, if you think it necessary—”

“How else can you manage to get along?”

Ruth moved her fingers thoughtfully across
her forehead, and replied:

“Here is Arthur, who is full of eagerness to
help us. I am quite sure he can earn a dollar
a week. As for Frank—”

“Frank will make as much as that too,” said
the boy, who had been listening intently to the

conversation. “Don't I know how that lummocks,
Sam Stuggs, makes his money, and ain't
I as good as he?”

“Hush, Frank! Where did you learn such
words?” said Ruth, blushing at the urchin's outbreak.

“Learn them? In our alley, to be sure!” replied
Frank.

“Do you know how much your father was
charged for this apartment?” inquired Stanford.

“Eight dollars a month, in advance,” returned
Ruth. “A new month will commence the
day after to-morrow.”

“Indeed! How true it is that the poor have
to pay the highest rents! Now hear me, Ruth.
For that amount you can procure, in the upper
part of the city, two nice rooms. It will not
answer for you to stay in these close, filthy, unwholesome
quarters, surrounded by such people
as occupy other portions of this house. You
shall, to-day or to-morrow, go yourself in search
of rooms somewhere in a clean, open neighbourhood,
where there is a free sweep of fresh air, and
where there is not so much encouragement as
there is here for the visits of pigs. I will move
the little furniture your father has left; supply
you with such additional comforts as a few dollars
can buy; pay your landlord a month's rent
in advance, and leave you to try your talents
for housekeeping and getting along.”

Ruth's heart was too full to reply to this generous
offer by words, but her looks eloquently
spoke her gratitude.

“And now,” said Stanford, in continuation,
“you shall take your first lesson to-day. You
shall search out such apartments as I have recommended,
and I will come here early to-morrow
morning and learn the result of your inquiries.
Be not rebuffed or disquieted should you
meet with rude discouragements or derisive interrogations.
Your object is a high and sacred
one, and, with trust in God, you shall have
strength and sagacity beyond your years in accomplishing
it.”

“You are right, sir—quite right,” exclaimed
Ruth, with a tone of decision and animation
which seemed new to her nature.

“Good-by, then, Ruth; and good-by, May,
Arthur, and Frank. What is it, Frank? What
big thought is in your brain?”

“By George! I wish I was a man.”

“And why so?”

“I'd have a fine house in Broadway, and you
should come and live with us.”

“Well, Frank, be a good boy, and you will
be nearer a man than you think for, young as
you are. Aid sister Ruth all you can, and obey
her promptly. Once more farewell, my children.
Remember, in all your trials, this great
truth: Heaven helps those who help themselves.
Good-by till to-morrow.”

The young painter quitted the house, followed
until he was out of sight by the eyes and
blessings of the children. Ruth speedily re-entered
the room, and prepared for her day's enterprise.
Her wardrobe was scanty indeed.
An old bonnet of faded pink silk, which had belonged

to her mother, was carefully drawn from
a bandbox which had long reposed upon the
uppermost shelf of the closet. The once bright
ribands were removed, and a black silk apron
afforded the means of trimming it with the signs
of mourning. Another precious relic, being a
clean linen cape, was pinned about her neck.
A coarse calico gown of a dark hue, and a cloak
which had seen more winters than the wearer,
completed her equipments. The arrangement
upon which Ruth had decided was to leave May
at home under the care of Arthur, and to take
Frank along with herself.

It was no easy matter to dispose Frank's habiliments
so as to prevent his wearing the appearance
of a young desperado, who had been
fighting until every square inch of cloth upon
his limbs was in tatters. His shoes looked as
if he had been amusing himself for the last few
days with kicking against a rough stone-wall.
His hat, it cannot be denied, was a shocking
bad one, and yet there was a knowing twist in
the manner in which it was set upon his head,
that gave it a character altogether its own. To
tell the truth about that hat, it had belonged, in
years past, to his father. Frank, on inheriting
it, exerted his powers of invention for its improvement.
He began by cutting it in two in
the middle, and slipping down the crown several
inches nearer to the rim; then, finding the
circumference too large for his head, he cut out
a strip from the side, and sewed up the aperture,
thus contracting its dimensions.

As the hat had originally been bell-shaped,

these reformations gave to it a singularly original
appearance; and this characteristic was
increased in the course of a few months by
Frank's peculiar fashion of jamming it on his
head, so that, at the period of which I am writing,
there was something so very striking in its
aspect, that Ruth looked at it with real dismay,
and apprehended, not without reason, that it
would attract attention even in the crowded
thoroughfares, where strange sights and strange
people were no novelty. After many attempts
to press it into a shape less startling and monstrous,
she abandoned the task as hopeless; and
taking the wearer's hand, and bidding May
and Arthur to be of good cheer till her return,
she went forth with Frank on her important errand.