 | Chapter XXIV.
A Day in the Orphan's Life. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
24. Chapter XXIV.
A Day in the Orphan's Life.
EMILY and Margaret were both early risers, and on
the Monday morning following their night's companionship,
after Harry and Fanny had been dressed and
served with their simple meal, and the two girls had also
breakfasted, they sat down to consult upon Emily's future
plans. The seamstress was mother, as well as sister, in
her interest for the orphan, and therefore it was not
strange that the latter felt relieved and strengthened in
relying upon her. It was arranged that Emily should
remain in the apartments at Foley's Barracks, so long the
home of her mother, and that, after the close of a week,
Margaret should remove from Kolephat College, to reside
with her adopted sister—not only because their dwelling
together would be more economical for both, but because
the tenant-house in which Emily resided was in a somewhat
better neighborhood, bad as it might be, than the
squalid locality under Peleg Ferret's supervision, and the
rooms, moreover, were larger and less inconvenient to
reach.
“But we must see Mr. Granby about it,” said Margaret,
smiling; “for I have promised him to be a teacher.”
“A teacher!” echoed Emily.
“Yes, dear—that is to say, a Sabbath-school teacher,
here in Kolephat College tenant-house. Don't you think
our little Fanny will be a very useful assistant?” continued
the seamstress, presently, drawing to her knee the child,
who had been conning an alphabet with Harry.
“But that is a grand idea, Margaret—a Sabbath-school
in a tenant-house!” said Emily. “What a deal of
good it would do! for, only think of the number of children
living in Kolephat College, or Foley's Barracks,
or” —
“Or any other tenant-house, Emily! yes, indeed! children
who all possess immortal souls, too, dear sister; and
yet are permitted to run wild upon the streets, never
hearing a prayer, and, many of them, knowing not if
there be a God!”
“How dreadful!” cried Emily.
“How true!” rejoined the seamstress. “Indeed, I have
often wept over it; and thought, if (God forbid!) Harry
should be left without a protector, how he might be like
other poor children that we constantly meet in these
wretched places—growing up without care, without culture,
and, indeed, like rank weeds. And so, when Mr.
Granby, yesterday, suggested that these neglected ones
might be brought together, with proper treatment, and
was good enough to say he would bear any expenses that
the school might be under, my heart was full of thankfulness,
and I seemed to see at once a sphere in which I
could be useful, and, perhaps, do a little good.”
“Oh, Margaret!” cried Emily, throwing herself, weeping,
the time. You are a blessing to all of us.”
“Hush, Emily!” said the seamstress, in her low voice,
as she kissed the orphan's forehead. “See, my child!
Harry and Fanny are crying, too.”
It was, indeed, so; for the little ones, listening to Margaret's
words, had seemed to catch their meaning, and
were now holding each other's hands, whilst tears streamed
from their eyes.
“Come—I was forgetting entirely my morning duties,
Emily!” cried the seamstress. “What a careless creature
I am, to neglect my poor old baby up stairs.”
“Poor old baby,” echoed Harry, laughingly, his grief
changing to smiles in a moment, as he heard his sister's
light tones. “That's the old miser, Margery.”
“Fie, Harry! you must not call him miser!—he is a
poor old man.”
“All the people call him miser, sissy,” persisted Harry.
“No matter—you must not, brother. But, Emily,
dear, you are wondering who we are talking about. Presently,
you shall see my patient, who is getting better,
though he has been quite sick. I must get his gruel ready.”
Saying this, the seamstress began to prepare a mixture
of oaten meal, with milk and water, which she allowed to
simmer a few moments, and then poured, steaming, into a
bowl.
“Now, come with me, Emily,” cried she gaily, and led
the way, followed by the wondering orphan, out into the
passage-way, and up the rickety staircase that led to the
room of Mallory the Miser.
The old man lay upon a rude but (thanks to Margaret)
cleanly couch, spread in the corner nearest his fireless
hearth. His thin hair was smoothed neatly back, and a
linen bandage, bound around his forehead over the wound
which he had received in his struggle with Keeley, caused
his ashy features to appear very ghastly and cadaverous.
But a marked change was visible in the miser's eyes;
they seemed to have lost the red fire that had imparted so
hateful an expression to his furtive glances, and were comparatively
calm and gentle in their look. As the seamstress
drew near, Mallory raised his head nervously from
the pillow, but let it fall back at once, while something
akin to a smile trembled on his thin lips.
“How do you feel now, Mr. Mallory?” asked Margaret,
in her pleasant voice.
“Better, avick, much better,” replied the old man.
“You're very good to me, you are.”
“See, I have brought something nice, and you must
drink it all, for it's warm, and will do you good,” said the
seamstress. “Let me feel your pulse,” continued she,
taking his shrunken hand. “Oh! the fever is gone! and
your head—that is quite cool, and all without a doctor!
Emily,” she added, turning to her companion, “am I not
a good nurse?”
“Yes,” muttered the miser; “I am so poor, you know,
Miss! a doctor would want money, but I—I have not a
cent.” The old man's eyes began to roll, as he said this.
“You forget,” said Margaret, gently. “Don't you
know I found some silver pieces on the floor, in the
straw?”
“Yes, yes!—I've got that, avick. But it's all—it's all,
honey! It's here, you know!” He lifted his pillow, as
he spoke, disclosing a few silver coins wrapped in a bit of
gauze rag. “This is all—every penny. Musha! I'm
poor, poor—a miserable ould beggar man.”
“Well, maybe we shall all be rich, by-and-by,” said the
seamstress, pleasantly, noticing the perturbed manner of
her charge. “Now, drink some of this good gruel,
please.”
“Yes, yes! thank you—thank you, Miss. It's a good
girl you are, to come to the ould man. I wish I was rich
for your sake, avick, to give you a present.”
“There, do not talk, but drink your gruel,” said Margaret,
proffering the beverage. Then, as the old man
partook greedily of it, she began to busy herself in
arranging his pillow, and smoothing the clothes upon his
bed. Mallory, meanwhile, watched both her and her
companion, with a half-suspicious scrutiny, but, nevertheless,
did not relinquish his bowl of gruel till he had
drained its last drop. Then, sinking back on the pillow,
he muttered—
“Thank you—it's good ye are to me.”
“And our Heavenly Father is good to all of us,”
answered the seamstress, solemnly.
“What's that?” cried the old man, quickly; upon
which Margaret quietly repeated her observation.
“It's all blarney,” returned Mallory, peevishly. “Who
bid you say that to me?”
“Do you not like to hear Our Father spoken of?”
asked the seamstress, in her low, sweet tone, as she drew
glare lighted in the dotard's eyes again, and he spat with
his lips upon the bed.
“If you've nothing to tell me but that, you might keep
from me: I want no praste-craft here.”
Emily shuddered, and drew back, as her glance encountered
that of the miser; but Margaret only bent nearer,
and laid her hand softly upon his.
“You are not feeling well, now,” she said. “I will
come again when you are better. Good-morning.”
“And l'ave the religion behind, plaze,” muttered the
dotard. “D'ye mind?”
“Good-by,” said Margaret, smiling pleasantly; and
then, taking Emily's arm, hurried noiselessly from the
room, and down the stairs, while Mallory turned over
moodily on his pillow.
“Poor old man!” said the seamstress, when, with
Emily, she reached her own apartments. “I fear he is an
atheist.”
“An atheist! how frightful! what can you do, Margaret?—he
was so angry, when you spoke to him!”
“We shall see!” replied Margaret; and at that
moment, a strange but lovely responsibility, seemed to
glide into her heart—a responsibility linked with the
immortal soul of the miser, Mallory. She said no more,
however, but proceeded to make Harry, and Fanny (who
was to accompany him, for the first time), ready for the
primary school which her brother attended. Emily,
meantime, prepared to depart for Foley's Barracks,
whence she designed to go at once to her place of employment;
grief, even though dearest ones are taken from them.
Perchance, in reality, this is no hardship; as occupation
of mind or body is often an antidote for sorrow that
might otherwise consume the spirits; nevertheless, it was
not without a sigh that the young girl, a few hours after
this, resumed her place in the circle of her fellow work-women,
and began to ply her needle in the task allotted
to her. Mrs. Florette, the modiste, spoke very kindly to
her, indeed, inquiring concerning her recent bereavement,
and there were looks and words of sympathy from
some who had known affliction like herself; but still memory
would dwell upon her loss, and tears blinded the
eyes of poor Emily, as she bent them closely upon the
fabric she was sewing. At noon, Mrs. Florette came into
the little back parlor, and calling the young girl to her,
informed her that she had a pleasant commission for her
to perform.
“There is an elegant lady, one of my dear favorite
patrons,” said the Frenchwoman, somewhat enthusiastically,
“who wishes to have some dresses made up, at her
home, because she seldom comes out; and I have placed
you at her service, for which you must be very grateful,
as she is the gentlest lady in the world, and will treat you
well, my good child. It will be so much better for you,
in your trouble, than the shop—is not that true?”
“Oh, indeed, Madame Florette, I am very thankful to
you,” answered Emily, the tears rising more thickly to her
eyes. “You are very, very thoughtful and kind.”
“So you will go with this lovely lady, in her carriage,
a very good report of you.”
The other needlewomen congratulated Emily on the
good fortune, as they all esteemed it, which had befallen
her; and, in truth, it was good fortune to be permitted
to leave the hot atmosphere of that close work-room,
and breathe, even though for a brief season, in the light-some,
airy rooms that wealth and taste make common to
their possessors, but which, to the dwellers between tenant-house
walls, or in narrow places of toil, seem like
far-off Edens of social life. Then, accompanying Mrs.
Florette to the front parlor, or sales-room, as it was called,
the sewing-girl was presented to a lady, who was richly
dressed, and of much grace and beauty, but of a pale
countenance, and eyes that were full of a sorrowing
expression. Emily felt instantly attracted to this lady,
who took her hand, and said, in a low, sweetly-modulated
voice—
“Madame Florette has been speaking to me of your
skill in needlework, Miss; and she permits me to take you
home with me—if you are willing!”
“Oh, madam, I shall try to deserve,” — Emily
paused, trembling with emotion.
“We shall get along very well, I am sure,” said the
stranger, with a re-assuring smile, in noticing Emily's
agitation. “Are you quite ready now, Miss?”
Emily answered in the affirmative, and shook hands
with Mrs. Florette. Then stepping with the lady into a
private carriage, at the door, she was quickly rolled away
through busy thoroughfares, towards the upper portion of
in the boudoir of her new friend.
There are some rare natures in this world of ours, that
possess the happy power to diffuse, as it were, an aroma
of consolation and peace upon all around them; and it
was in the presence of such a nature that Emily Marvin
now found herself. The kind words, and gentle, thoughtful
manner of the lady, seemed to assert at once a sway
over the orphan's confidence, and it was not long before
she had related to her all the history of her mother's life
and death.
“You have, indeed, been sorely tried, my child,”
remarked the listener to this simple recital. “I, too,
have known the desolation of loneliness, and can sympathize
with your bereavement.” The lady sighed deeply
as she spoke, and Emily fancied that a tear trembled
on her eyelid. “But you spoke to me of a sister—or
friend,” —
“A sister! yes, indeed, Margaret is both friend and
sister!” said Emily. “She is a hard-working girl, madam,
supporting, by her needle, a young brother; but she is,
indeed, one whom I love as if she were my sister.”
In such conversation, the afternoon of Emily's first
employment in the house of her new friend, passed quickly
away, and long before twilight, the lady bade her lay
aside the needle, and sit at the little tea-table spread for
herself in the boudoir; and afterwards, when, bidding
good-night, she left the mansion, with its rich furniture
and soft carpets, and ornamented walls, to hurry homeward
to Foley's Barracks, Emily felt as if she had left
a pale face, full of sorrowful thought, but very sweet and
beautiful.
At Foley's Barracks, the vision vanished all away, and
only her mother's bed, in the lone chamber, appeared,
causing the orphan to sit down, weeping bitterly, and feeling
herself desolate again. But a voice, rough, but cheerful,
interrupted the grief to which she was giving way.
“Sakes, Miss—an' it's you, sure enough! I heard your
step on the stairs, and says to 'Till, says I, `That's Emily
Marvin, I do believe!' An' how do you do, dear?
What!—not cryin' again? Well, now I do say that's
not right! Come, Miss, cheer up, cheer up. You don't
know all the news I've got to tell you But, mercy me!
it's cold as a barn here. 'Till shall make a fire for you
at once. Here, 'Till—Ma-til-da!”
Good Mrs. Dumsey's voice was nearly exhausted by her
somewhat hurried preface, so that the call for her eldest
did not reach the pitch intended, but broke down abruptly
at the second syllable of her daughter's name.
“Laws me! I do believe I'm getting short-winded,
Miss,” she said, apologetically, and was about to repeat
her summons, but Emily interposed.
“I'm not at all cold, dear Mrs. Dumsey. I was going to
call round on Margaret Winston, presently. So, I think
I'll not make up a fire to-night.”
“An' you've been to work hard all day, poor child?”
remarked Mrs. Dumsey. “You must be real tired, an'
I've jes' got a nice cup o' tea ready, down stairs. Come
right away down, and eat somethin'.”
Emily protested that she had taken tea, but Mrs. Dumsey
would hear no denial of her hospitality, averring that
“the poor child must be half starved,” and that she herself
had “all sorts o' news” to tell her; so that, in a few
moments, the orphan was obliged to be seated at the
good nurse's table, opposite to its portly mistress, with the
female scions of the race on either hand, and Master
Thomas making mouths at her, while he sulked behind
his mother's chair.
“Yes! indeed, and news enough,” cried the good
woman; “and if you was to guess and guess, you couldn't
hit upon who's been here to see you this blessed day.”
“To see me?” asked Emily, looking surprised.
“You, and nobody else—and stood full an hour talkin'
all about you. No, indeed, you couldn't guess.”
Emily admitted the correctness of this assertion, whereupon
Mrs. Dumsey, who was manifestly impatient to make
her revelation, informed the orphan that it was—“a gentleman.”
“Ah! the nicest young man—the very same that saw
you when you was a-faintin', and called to-day to ask all
about it. Deed an' truth, he is a gentleman, Miss. An'—
what else do you think? But you couldn't guess, I'll be
bound.”
Emily remained silent, not knowing how to reply to the
loquacity of her hostess, who thereupon, with many mysterious
winks and shrugs, rose from the table, and went to
her little back room, whence she returned immediately,
bearing triumphantly aloft a fragrant hot-house bouquet.
Master Tommy shouted lustily, as he caught sight of the
at once to restrain him from violent efforts to obtain
possession of them.
“They're mine, they're mine!” screamed the youthful
Dumsey, making severe demonstrations with his small
boots upon his sister Matilda's person.
“Deed an' they're none o' yours, child,” rejoined his
mother. “Jes' shet up this minute, or 'Till shall put you
to bed. No, Miss Marvin, they're all your own, and the
sweetest-smellin' bowket that ever was growed, I do
believe. Take a good sniff o' them posies, and see if it
ain't, for all the world, like a country garding.”
Saying this, the good woman handed Emily the bouquet,
after a long inhalation of its perfume, and then proceeded
to relate how the “nice young gentleman—Mr. Peyton
was his name—and sich eyes was in his head”—had left
this bunch of posies “for herself and nobody else, with his
compliments, and would call again.”
“Call again,” said Emily. “Why, dear Mrs. Dumsey,
he is a stranger—and what can he want with me?”
Mrs. Dumsey only smiled, and remarked that “people
took likings sometimes, and no wonder to her, for somebody
she knew was good and pretty enough to be a queen,
like Cinderella and the glass slipper;” and then she
patted the orphan's cheek, and bent her good-natured
face down, to take another “sniff” of the “posies,” while
Emily remained silent, half-frightened at receiving the
gift, and yet not displeased, in her young heart, at the
thought of having inspired an interest in the stranger who
had left it. Neither unnatural nor unfeminine was her
pardon the innocent vanity that made her smile, even
through tears, as she looked at the fragrant flowrets.
A little while afterwards, when Tommy had been
“pacified” by summary incarceration in the back room,
and Mrs. Dumsey had enjoyed a parting inhalation of the
bouquet, Emily bade good-by to her hostess, and passing
down the staircase of Foley's Barracks, and out upon the
streets, clasping the flowers under her shawl, hurried
towards the dwelling of her friend and sister, Margaret.
She had not proceeded far, however, before her name was
uttered by a man who followed closely, and turning, she
recognized in the light of a street-lamp—for it was now
dusk—the well-known figure of Mr. Jobson.
“Ah, little lady! where are you travelling to, so fast?”
said the agent, with a smile that was intended to be peculiarly
affable, as he brought his cane and patent-leather
boots on a line with the little feet that had stopped suddenly,
when their owner's name was called.
“Good-evening, sir!” said Emily, respectfully, as the
agent took her hand. Then, answering his question, she
remarked that she was going but a short distance, to call
upon a friend.
“If that be the case, I must walk with you, little lady.
You mustn't mind me, you know—I'm an old friend of the
family, you know. Where have you been these two or
three days, Miss? for I've called several times to see you.”
Emily's heart sank, as she heard this; for she was
aware of a month's rent being in arrears, and feared that
Mr. Jobson had called in relation to that.
“Please, sir,” she said, hesitatingly, “if it would not
be asking too much, I shall earn enough by next week;
and” —
“Oh!—I did not call about money, my dear Miss!
Oh, no, indeed—wouldn't have you suppose it. Mrs.
Dumsey told me about the scamp that stole your purse,
you know; and—oh! don't, I beg, trouble yourself about
the rent, Miss.”
Emily raised her glance, in wonder, at the agent's face,
as he walked beside her; for this unusual manifestation
of forbearance on the part of one proverbial, in the
tenant-house, for exacting the uttermost farthing of
rent, on the very morning when due, appeared a real
miracle of benevolence. But, if she desired to express a
grateful sense of her appreciation of Jobson's kindness,
the wish was checked suddenly, as she noticed the peculiar
look with which the broker was regarding her—a look
beneath which her own gaze sank instantly abashed; and
she felt troubled and perplexed—she knew not why.
“Mrs. Dumsey said you was out at work, Miss. I'm
really afeard you work too hard, now—ain't it so?”
Emily replied that she liked to be employed, whereupon
Mr. Jobson remarked that “all work and no play made
Jack a dull boy,” and that a young lady ought not to kill
herself for other people.
“You ain't got your mother on your hands now, Miss,
you know; and a young, intelligent lady, like yourself,
ought not to be a slave, you know.” —
“But I must work, to live, Mr. Jobson,” said Emily.
“And I am very sure I am much happier in being employed
without work.”
“Oh, yes!” answered the agent. “But, then, you
know, you had to leave school, where you was getting
educated, as Mrs. Dumsey says, and now you must go out
every day, you know, Miss, rain or shine. It ain't quite
pleasant, is it, Miss?”
Emily said she did not mind it.
“But, you'd a leetle rather stayed at school?”
“Yes—I love school,” said Emily, sighing, in remembrance
of pleasant hours, ere the illness of Widow Marvin
had rendered it necessary for her daughter to take up the
routine of daily toil. “I was very, very happy at school.”
Jobson slackened his pace, and spoke in a low tone.
“How would you like to go to school again, Miss? I
was a-thinkin' we might arrange it for you very nicely—
so you could go to school, and live like a lady. I ventur'
to say, I could find the money to pay for a little girl's
schooling—if she'd only love me a bit for it.”
Emily glanced again at Jobson, who had paused in the
walk, and fixed his eyes upon her face. The agent's countenance
was full of amiability—his lips smiling, his eyes
very benevolent in their expression; and, as he raised his
cane to his chin, and drew up his portly frame, he might
have been taken, from the top of his shining beaver to the
soles of his polished boots, as an incarnation of philan-thropic
tenant-house brokerage and orphanage protection.
Nevertheless, there was an unaccountable something
about the worthy agent, as he thus displayed himself to
the young sewing-girl, that impressed her with emotions
expressed in his language. She felt, indeed, that she
would rather be away from the side of this smooth gentleman
in broadcloth, who had declared himself “an old
friend of the family;” that she would rather be, that
moment, in the little room of her friend the seamstress,
with Margaret's clear eyes shining down upon her; and,
unconsciously, as it were, at the same time, she pressed to
her bosom the bouquet that she held beneath her shawl,
as if she would rather think of that, and its fragrance,
than of the words which Jobson had just spoken so softly
to her. Perhaps the contact of those sweet flowers
imparted strength to Emily—perhaps their perfume made
her less fearful of the agent; for, the next moment, she
found courage to say—
“Mr. Jobson, I shall never go back to school! I am
a poor girl, but my dear mother taught me not to be
ashamed to work for my living. I shall never forget her
counsels, and God will protect me while I try to be good
and contented.”
Mr. Jobson, the broker, who was used to meet with
“all sorts of tenants,” as he himself remarked, and who
never failed, as he boasted, in frightening any of them,
when he “set out to do it,” appeared, at this moment,
standing beside the fragile sewing-girl, to be shorn of half
his usual swelling proportions. The tone in which Emily
uttered her last words was so distinct, and her clear eyes
rested so calmly upon his own, that, albeit he was landlord
and she tenant—he creditor and she delinquent debtor
—he, man of means and authority, and she timid, shrinking
felt bereft of his dignity, and humbled in the presence of
poverty and weakness. He walked a few steps farther,
beside the sewing-girl, and essayed a remark or two,
interjected with attempts to clear his throat, but he was
glad when the next corner was reached, giving him an
opportunity of bidding his “little lady” an abrupt goodbye,
after which, with some violent rappings of his cane's
ferule against the pavement, he walked hastily away,
leaving Emily to hurry onward in the direction of Kolephat
College, where she soon arrived, and threw herself,
breathless and weeping, into the arms of the kind seamstress.
A recital of the day's incidents, poured into the attentive
ears of her friend, relieved the orphan's heart; for Margaret's
gentle nature responded entirely to her yearnings for
sympathy, while the stronger faith of one who had been
more sorely tried than herself was well suited to sustain
her spirit, agitated by conflicting emotions. Perhaps it
was the memory of other days, in her own experience,
that imported a sorrowing cast to the smile with which
Margaret took from Emily's hand the bunch of flowers
that she had kept close in her bosom; perchance the sigh
which the seamstress heaved had much to do with blossoms
that once nestled near her own heart, but had withered
since, leaving only the ashes of their crumbled leaves
as tokens that they once existed.
But if aught of bitterness was recalled to Margaret's
recollection, as she now listened to Emily's relation, no
shadow fell from her transparent forehead upon her young
kindly.
“Beautiful flowers!” she murmured; “so fresh and
sweet in this cold winter month!”
“Dear Margery! let me and Fanny smell,” said Harry,
running to his sister's side. “Oh! Fanny! isn't it sweet!
Oh! what real pretty flowers! Wouldn't you like to
have a bunch like that, Fanny?”
“I'd like just one little rosy,” ventured the child.
“To put in water, Fan?” asked Harry.
“No! not for myself,” said Fanny, earnestly.
“Why, who for, then?” cried the boy. “Oh, I know!
—for Rob.”
“No! not for Rob—for—for” —
“Well, dear,” said Emily encouragingly, as she noticed
that the child hesitated, and raised her dove-like eyes
timidly towards the seamstress.
“I'd like to give it to the poor old gentleman up stairs,
that's sick. He's so lonesome, please.”
“Bless you, you darling, you shall have all you like!”
exclaimed Emily, the tears gushing to her eyes, as she
quickly disengaged a portion of the bouquet. Margaret
was likewise much affected, and whispered to her friend—
“Fanny went with me this afternoon to see the poor
man, and he seemed much attracted by her. She is a
very thoughtful child.”
Harry received a bud and some green leaves, with
which he was greatly pleased, but immediately tendered
them to his little companion to add to her own. It was
then agreed that Fanny should accompany Margaret,
Mallory's room; meantime, Emily and the seamstress
continued their conversation, the former dwelling much
upon that kind lady who had engaged her services in
making up dresses in the fine house up town. The young
girl became, indeed, voluble in expressing her admiration
of this new friend.
“Oh, indeed, dear Margaret! she is all I describe—so
lovely, and sweet-tempered, and yet so melancholy! though
how a lady so rich, with everything elegant around her,
can be sad, I cannot imagine.”
“Ah, Emily! we know not how much misery may be
the lot of the rich!—perhaps the harder to bear because
in contrast to the luxury around them. Is this lady
married?”
“Oh, yes! her husband is a very fine man—immensely
rich, and very handsome! I saw his portrait on the wall.
And Mrs. Richmond must be very much attached to him,
for” —
“Sissy, oughtn't Fanny to tie up her flowers?” here
interrupted Harry. Margaret did not answer, and presently
the boy screamed loudly, and ran to her knee.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! sissy is going to faint!” he cried,
piteously; and at the moment, Margaret's form relaxed,
and she would have fallen from her chair, had not Emily
caught her in her arms.
There was an instant consternation in the little circle,
Harry clinging to his sister's arm, and Fanny beginning to
weep, while Emily felt the greatest alarm in witnessing
her friend's pallid face, closed eyes, and parted lips, as she
in placing the insensible seamstress in a recumbent position,
her head sustained by a pillow that Harry brought
immediately, together with a vial of hartshorn, which
restorative she applied to the poor girl's nostrils and
temples. At the same time, she spoke soothingly to the
boy, assuring him that his sister would quickly revive.
“Oh, I'm so 'fraid sissy 'll die,” sobbed Harry. “She
said, sometime she might die in a faintin'-fit.”
“Does she have them often?” asked Emily, much agitated
at Margaret's situation.
“'Most every week,” answered the child. “Once she
was faintin', on the floor, when I came from school, and I
thought she'd never come to! O, dear Miss Emily, won't
you make her open her eyes? Oh! I'm afraid she'll die.”
And, indeed, it was a long time before the seamstress,
breathing a heavy sigh, slowly awoke to consciousness.
At last, however, Harry's eyes grew bright through their
tears, and Fanny's hands, that had been clasped in mute
terror, were permitted to touch the neck of her kind protectress.
But, when the seamstress, still pale and weak,
leaned back in her chair, and said that she “was subject”
to these fainting-fits, and that they were “soon over,”
though, indeed, the doctor feared they would “sometime
be fatal,” then Emily realized—though she made no remark—how
much of lonesome suffering, how much of
patient endurance, must have been the portion of this
uncomplaining one, toiling, through long days and nights,
and sinking at times from exhaustion upon the floor, while
her infant brother was at school. “But she shall not be
will be near this good creature, who never thinks of herself,
but always of others.” And it was with deeper
sisterly affection than she had before felt that Emily kissed
her friend's lips, and clasped to her bosom with renewed
interest the now happy and prattling children.
| Chapter XXIV.
A Day in the Orphan's Life. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |