University of Virginia Library

17. Chapter XVII.
The Adopted Sisters.

THE funeral was over, and Fanny's mother slept, not
in Potter's Field, but amid the shady walks of Greenwood.
Bob the Weasel had ridden in a coach, holding
Fanny's hand in his, while the good gentleman, Mr.
Granby, sat on the opposite seat, talking to them in mild
tones, which Bob could never forget, he knew, in all his
future days. Fanny had wept, and clung with sobs to his
side, when the coffin was taken from the hearse and put
away into a dark vault beneath the snowy bank. But
Mr. Granby said that, in the spring-time, all that snow
would melt away, and make the flowers grow lovelier and
fresher on the turf, and that then the children should
come again to Greenwood, and weave a garland of the
sweetest blossoms, to lay upon the mother's grave. And
when, after all was over, they entered the carriage again,
the kind old gentleman clasped their cold hands together,
and taught them to repeat after himself a prayer to the
dear Lord in Heaven, with whom, he trusted, Fanny's
mother dwelt in peace; and Bob the Weasel, after that
simple prayer, and in listening to his benefactor's gentle
words, felt as if he were younger even than Fanny, and

was only now beginning to perceive and learn some pleasant
knowledge of the world in which he had lived unknowing
and unknown since babyhood. And when, that
evening, the orphan Fanny was left with Margery, the
kind seamstress, and Bob returned with Mr. Granby to
his new home, to eat heartily of supper, whilst old Samson
talked to him of the newsboys, his late comrades, and he
related to the wondering negro how often he had slept in
areas and under wagons; and when, after that, he went
with Samson to Mr. Granby's library, and made a bow to
Mrs. George, and then knelt down, with the rest, to evening
prayers; and, finally, when he ascended, once more, to
his little dormitory, and felt the warm quilts covering him,
and a soft pillow under his head, it may well be conceived
that Rob Morrison thought himself a very happy boy.

Meantime, Fanny, left with her new friend, sat quiet
and reserved on a stool near the seamstress, who plied her
needle, as usual. The child was clad in a black frock,
which, with her pale features, and eyes swollen by weeping
all the day, recalled unceasingly, to Margery's tender sympathy,
the sad bereavement of her little charge. Harry,
with his brown curls all disordered by play, tilted in his
tiny rocking-chair, at one side of the fire-place, holding
a purring kitten in his lap; and his large eyes, full of
affection, rested by turns upon his sister and the young
stranger. At length he asked—

“Sissy Margery, may Fanny be my sissy, too?”

“Why do you wish Fanny to be your sister, dear?”

“'Cause she cries, like you, Margery, and looks so sorrowful.”

“And do you think you will make her very happy, if
she becomes your sister, Harry?”

“Yes, dear Margery! I'll give her all my playthings,
and she may play with kitty all the time; and I'll show
her all the letters that I know! Won't that be nice,
Fanny?” he asked, looking archly towards the orphan,
who smiled faintly, and nodded her poor little head.

“Perhaps Fanny knows her letters,” remarked the
seamstress; but Harry rejoined, quickly—

“No, indeed, she don't—but I told her I'd teach her
this morning, when she was crying, and she said I might
—didn't you, Fanny?”

Fanny's eyes filled with tears, and she murmured—

“My mother wanted me to go to school, but I had no
frock when I was old enough. Mother tried to teach me
a good many times, but she got sick, and then I went out
to sell matches.”

“Poor child! such a young creature as you to sell
matches!” exclaimed Margery.

“Oh, I used to sell a good many, before mother got
very sick. Sometimes, I'd make a whole shilling. Rob
said `that was famous luck, though.”'

“Rob! who is Rob?”

“He's a newsboy, please, ma'am. He went to my
mother's funeral to-day, and he's gone home with Mr.
Granby and Samson.”

“Samson was a strong man, in the Bible,” here interrupted
Harry, with a wise look. “Didn't you ever hear
of Samson and the Philistines, Fanny?” asked he, recailing
suddenly a recent Sabbath-school lesson. Fanny

answered that she had not, whereat Harry expressed
great astonishment, and inquired—

“Don't you know who Moses was?”

“Is he in the Bible?”

“Yes,” replied the boy. “He was in Egypt—I should
think you'd heard of him.”

“O yes! I have. Mother told me about Moses, and
about our Saviour,” said the little orphan.

“About God?”

“Yes, indeed! and I know how to pray to God! I
know `Our Father!”'

“That's real good,” cried Harry, approvingly. “Sister
Margery! mayn't Fanny and me pray to Jesus alone
to-night?”

“Yes, darling! but I fear you will not recollect your
prayers—you have never said them alone.”

“O, yes, Margery—I know 'em! Fanny! we must
kneel down, you know! Don't you want to?”

“O, yes!” returned the weeping child. “It'll make
me feel better—I know it will.”

The seamstress laid down the work on which she had
been stitching, and leaned her forehead upon her hand. The
innocent prattle of the children stirred within her bosom
many varying emotions. She thought of the child Fanny,
deprived of a mother's love, and of the little care the
poor trembler had experienced even in her parent's life—
forced out, as she had been, by penury, to seek precarious
livelihood upon the great thoroughfares, among busy wayfarers
or pleasure-seekers, amid whose changing crowd her
baby form might scarce be noticed. And woven ever

with the orphan's unprotected fate arose the bitter fear
that Harry, darling of her lonely heart, might thus be
cast abroad, so helpless and unfriended. Yet, as if in
mild rebuke of all her apprehensions, the artless accents
of the little ones beside her, asking permission to address
their Heavenly Father, fell upon her ears, and sunk into
her heart, with soft and soothing influence. She wiped
away the tears that had risen to her eyes, and clasping
the children's fingers together, pointed their small hands
upward, and with a swelling bosom listened to their simple
prayer.

There was no rude interruption now to Fanny's orisons,
as there had been when her cold hands were clasped in
those of Rob Morrison, beside the rigid corpse of her
mother. All was very still in that humble tenant-house
apartment, and the childish voices, commingled in sweet
distinctness, rose, like fragrant offerings as they were, in
the language of that beautiful invocation which, alike for
the baby in its cradle and the monarch on his throne, is
still, as at the hour when our Saviour breathed it, unequalled
in simplicity, in tenderness, and in power. Blessed
and ever beautiful it has descended to our day, and still
shall the generations of men be calmed and strengthened,
through the ages to come, in breathing heavenward, with
lowly hearts, the prayer that Jesus offered to “Our Father.”

Then Margery kissed her brother and the orphan, and
when they had been wrapped in little night gowns, made
by her own untiring hands, she said “good-night” to
both, with another kiss, and led them away to the small
chamber.

“Sissy! please leave the door open!” said Harry, calling
after her from beneath the warm coverlid.

“Yes, dear Harry!—go to sleep!”

But Harry was not yet prepared to close his dark
brown eyes; and his sister, when she had resumed her
sewing, could hear, for half an hour, the whispering voices
of the children. But at last the murmur grew still, and
Margery, bending over the dim candle, which was her only
light, pursued her nightly toil.

Many feet passed and repassed her room, as the seamstress
sat, silent and thoughtful, at her task; feet of
drunken men, staggering through the dark passages, and
of weary laborers, returned from work, slowly mounting
the steep staircase. At length, a light footstep paused at
the door-sill, and a low knock startled Margery from her
reflections. She opened the door, and in a moment was
clasped in the arms of a sad-faced girl, clad in black, who
entered hurriedly. “Margaret!” “Emily!” were the only
words spoken, and then the visitor fell, weeping, upon the
neck of the seamstress.

“My poor girl! what has happened?” asked Margery,
tenderly, and pressing her lips to the other's forehead.
“Your mother” —

“She's dead!—she's dead! Oh, Margaret—I am all
alone in the world!” exclaimed Emily, in a voice choked
with sobs, as she clung convulsively to her friend's
bosom.

“Poor child!—dear Emily! Come, my poor girl, sit
down!” cried the seamstress, kissing the orphan again and
again, and leading her gently to a chair, while her own

tears began to flow, and her voice trembled with emotion.
“There, dear! lay your head on my lap.”

She sat down beside the maiden, then, and twined her
arms lovingly about her neck. Emily, meanwhile, bowed
her head upon her friend's knees, while low moans broke
incessantly from her lips, and gushing tears relieved her
overburdened heart. It was some moments before this
burst of sorrow, to which, upon the breast of her sympathizing
companion, Emily unrestrainedly gave way, was
calmed sufficiently to admit of speech. But, at last, the
paroxysm became subdued, and then the brief story of
bereavement was poured into ears as attentive, and responded
to by a heart as kind, as heaven ever permitted
to console an orphan. And, as the sweet, though tearful
face of Emily was uplifted to that of her friend, and the
latter's meek eyes looked down with unspeakable pity,
there fell also an influence of calm and confidence upon
the orphan's spirit, and she felt that she was not all alone
in the wide world.

“Oh! Emily! there has been death here, too, my
child!” said the seamstress, after a pause. “Death and
orphanhood, also! A little child, motherless, and without
a friend who knows aught concerning her, is sleeping in
that room with my own poor Harry! Ah! dear! we
do not know how many orphans, like yourself, are weeping,
at this very hour, over the cold remains of their last and
nearest friend on earth.

“'Tis true, dear Margaret,” replied Emily, endeavoring
to staunch her tears. “But, oh! it is hard to bear! No
friends!—O, mother! mother!”

Once more her head drooped, and sobs broke painfully
from her breast. Margaret gently laid her hand upon the
mourner's hair, that, loosed from its folds, fell in disordered
masses, upon her shoulders, which, contrasted with the
black stuff dress she wore, appeared like alabaster in their
whiteness.

“Dear Emily!” said the seamstress, “is not our Heavenly
Father the orphan's friend! Does not that thought
console you, dear?”

Emily raised her tearful eyes again. “It does—it
does!” she answered. “Dear Margaret, your voice seems
like poor mother's. I do feel confidence in God! I know
He will not desert me!”

“There whispers your dear mother's spirit, Emily.
Perhaps, indeed, it hovers near us, listening to our
words, before it wings its upward way to peace eternal.
Emily! my mother, you know, died but two short years
ago, and I have loved since to believe that her guardian
care attends me. She was your mother's friend, Emily!
and perhaps, even now, as we are weeping together, our
mothers are embracing in heaven, and looking down in
love upon their children. Is it not a sweet thought,
Emily?”

“O, my sister! my dear sister!” murmured the orphan.

“Sister, indeed, darling! Let us be so to each other!
for we are both fatherless and motherless!”

The two friends tenderly embraced, and Emily whispered:—“I
have always looked upon you, Margaret, as
an elder sister, and now I feel that God has made you so
indeed.”

For some moments, then, they remained silent, twined
by each other's arms, their hearts beating together, and
tears mingling on their wet cheeks. Still the feet of
tenants sounded from without, stumbling through the
passages of Kolephat College; still, at intervals, doors
were closed, with jarring clang, in the distance, and
voices of men and women, intermingled occasionally with
coarse laughter, echoed from neighboring rooms, or from
the alley below—all distinctly audible through the dilapidated
shells, which served for walls or partitions; for, in
a crowded tenant-house, no quiet ever reigns, save when
midnight sleep brings temporary silence. But, in the
deep abstraction of their sympathies, the sisters, as they
now felt themselves, heeded not the outward world, but,
listening with their inner natures, seemed to hear the
tones of angel voices, and the wings of heavenly messengers,
fluttering through superior ether, in a life beyond
and far above the homes of poverty and woe.

“Come, sister!” at length said Margaret, when the
two again unclasped their arms. “Come, and see poor
Harry and my other orphan!” She rose, in saying this,
and taking the candle in her hand, led Emily to the bedroom,
where reposed the children. “Look!” she continued,
shading the light with her hand, and turning down
the coverlid, disclosing the two little ones, locked in each
other's arms, like babes of one mother. Harry's brown
curls were intertwined with Fanny's silky hair, and the
flushed and healthful cheek of the boy pressed closely
against the sweet but paler face of his new companion.

“How beautiful they are!” said Emily, stooping to kiss
the sleeping infants.

“The poor child's mother died, without a soul near to
assist her. No one appears to know anything about them,
as they were tenants here but a few weeks! O Emily! it
is terrible to think of such a thing as to die utterly friendless,
and without a human being to offer a last prayer!”

Margaret turned from the bed, as she spoke, hastily
wiping her eyes, to which tears were again springing,
in spite of her fortitude.

When they were again seated together in the outer room,
Emily, now soothed into calmness, related to her friend
the incidents following her mother's death, embracing the
loss of her purse, with nearly all her scanty stock of money.
The undertaker's assistant, on returning with the coffin,
had been boldly charged, by Mrs. Dumsey, with the perpetration
of the theft, which he as stoutly denied, and retorted
so defiantly upon the nurse, with threats of suing her for
slander, that she, albeit of legal experience, was fain to
drop the unsupported accusation, and content herself with
sundry epithets, muttered before the lad, and loudly
repeated in the bosom of her family, which, applied to the
cadaverous youth, attested her belief in his possession of
all the crimes and vices usually dispersed over an entire
State-prison calendar; ending with the declaration, enforced
by emphasis, that “the gallus would never get its
due till that same young villyan danced on nothin', with
his shoes on.”

Nevertheless, the good Mrs. Dumsey, in her indignation
against the wicked youth, who, she averred, would “steal

the coppers off his own father's eyes, and never wink at
it,” did not lose sight of the fact that her young neighbor's
scanty fund remaining was insufficient to meet the
expenses necessary to her mother's funeral. On the contrary,
in her blunt, yet kindly way, as soon as the undertaker's
assistant had again departed, Mrs. Dumsey descended
to her own quarters, and soon returned with a
canvas bag, in which was snugly tied a little hoard of
silver, in federal halves and quarters of the dollar, the
accumulation of many years of thrifty savings. This,
with much honest pride exhibited in her face, she announced
as “her own, and nobody's else, and kept for
rainy days,” and then, and without more ceremony, proceeded
to inform the orphan, that “Mrs. Dumsey, and
Mrs. Dumsey alone, for the sake of she that's dead and
gone, and a good woman she was, and as kind a neighbor
as ever breathed the breath o' mortal life, was a-going to
bury the Widow Marvin at her own expense, and two
carriages, and not a cent for Emily to trouble herself to
pay.” This determination, resolutely communicated to
her young neighbor, was received with tearful gratitude,
and a hope expressed by Emily that she might soon be
able to repay the unexpected kindness, which relieved her
of a load of uneasiness at that hour; to which the generous
nurse replied, that “she needn't give herself a morsel
of trouble,” adding, with a smile, to raise the orphan's
spirits, that “when she should marry a coach-and-four,
she might refund the same.” All this, with many tears,
and blessings invoked upon her kindly neighbor, Emily
now related to Margaret, concluding her recital by informing
her that her mother's funeral would take place upon
the morrow, which was the Sabbath, and earnestly requesting
her new sister to accompany her parent's remains to
their last resting-place. The seamstress promised to be
ready; and then, after another embrace of her friend,
Emily prepared to depart.

“It is nine o'clock,” she said, “and good Mrs. Dumsey
is waiting up for me. O Margaret! I am so sorry to go
away from you. Bless you! bless you, dear friend! for
you are a blessing to every one! O! I wish I were like
you!”

“We are to be sisters, you know,” said Margery.

“And we must live together, for the future, Margaret!
“You must come with me. It will be more comfortable
for you than this place, and we can be so quiet together,
all our lives.”

“Perhaps so,” said the seamstress, with a sad smile;
for she felt, even at that instant, a sharp pain in her side,
which made her grow faint for a moment.

“O, indeed, yes, dear Margaret! we must be together!
Now, good-night, sister! God bless you forever!”

“May the Almighty have you in his keeping, dear
Emily!” answered Margaret; and then, with another kiss,
the two friends separated, and the seamstress returned to
her task. But her eyes were blinded with suffusing tears,
her breath grew painfully thick; and she bowed her poor
head upon the table, her heart heavy with sorrow, of
which the world knew nothing.