Emma Parker, or, Scenes in the homes of the city poor
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] EMMA PARKER; ON, SCENES iN THE HOMES OF THE CITY POOR. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WITNESSING FOR JESUS." NEW YORK: ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO., No. 770 BROADWAY, COR. OF 9th ST. page: -3[View Page -3] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO., In the Ofice of the Librarian of Congres, at Washington. 1TnhwAHn 0. J1:\;1N, R O O E R T tR U T T E R, A Y'? B! i i D a, EMMA PARKER. CHAPTER I. "RUN to the corner, Emma, and bring a loaf of bread. Never mind the young ones-for you can dress them after I am gone. Make haste, now." The speaker was a stout woman, with a plump, flushed, but not ill-natured face. Her heavy but quick step, the muscles of her bare arms, as she bustled about the small room, filling the kettle and putting a few old dishes upon the table, indicated strength and energy. The child addressed, was undoubtedly her own-in more delicate miniature. A delicacy indicative less of fewer years, than of finer temperament. The little figure was fragile-the mother's page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] quickness with more grace and lightness, as she stood holding the half-open door. "What are you waiting for, Emma?" The woman turned sharply as she set the tea-pot hard upon the stove. "Mother," replied the child, timidly, "mayn't I go to school to-day?" "No," was the short answer. Then, as if observant of the child's downcast look, the mother added, "Now, don't go fretting; you know well enough that I must be out all day that I have a job; and mercy on us wthen I don't have one. So you get that bread in no time." The child disappeared. The mother worked with more energy, knocking about the furniture of the poor room with contracted brow, as if disturbance of mind were added now to her haste. The baby woke and cried. "Johnny," called the mother, "come nurse the baby till Emma comes." Johnny, a stout four-year old, sat upon the floor of the dark bed-room, with no covering but his shirt, tugging with secret mischief to make wider the breach of his old shoe. He jumped up at the call, and dropping his shoe, his short bare legs waddled across the room to the cot where the baby lay kicking and screaming. "Hold your noise," was his cheerful salutation as he pulled himself up by the bed-clothes and plunged his frowsy head into the baby's stomach. Baby suspended crying in astonishment, and after watching Johnny's gymnastics a moment longer, continued to applaud such congenial entertainment, and laughed. Meantime Emma had arrived with the bread. It was placed upon the table with tea and sugar; no butter or milk this morning. "Mother," said Emma, as the children stood round the table with hungry impatience, "Mr. Dobson says we can't have any more bread till we have paid up." "Well, now," said the widow, filling her cup with tea and setting the pot down very page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] hard. "Things is come to a pretty pass when Dobson sets up-as though he had ever lost a cent by me yet." Emma did not venture a reply. The mother's energy had received another impetus. "It's past seven this blessed minute," she said, rising, swallowing at the same time, her second cup of tea. Then wrapping herself up in an old shawl, covering her uncombed hair with a faded woolen hood, she turned to go. Looking back, she said hurriedly, "I shan't be back till nine o'clock to night,-what you young ones are going to do, for the life of me I can't tell, I have not a penny till I get my week's wages." "Mother," said Emma, with that womanly consideration so often painfully precocious in the children of the poor, "couldn't I go to Washington Square and try to get that two dollars?" "It's no use child-I have walked there two nights, after my day's work, and once the lady was out of town, and once she was dressing for a party. Ladies don't like to be bothered till I have worked it up a little bigger." "But, mother, if I told her how it was, that we had no bread?" But you'll have to walk, child, and what would you do with the young ones. Them boys down stairs would beat Johnny to death; and I won't have the baby left in this house; everybody is down upon us." "But, mother," said Emma, running out, for the woman was half down stairs by this time, "I could take them as far as Thirty- second-street. Mrs. Dunne would mind them for an hour; she was always good to us while we lived there." "I don't care what you do," was the response, half drowned in banging the street door. Just then, a loud cry from the baby brought Emma back. Johnny had concluded his dramatics by rolling off the bed with baby in his arms. He had contrived to come down, unhurt himself, on the top page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] of his burden; but concluded it might be politic to make an equally loud noise. Emma had enough to do, now, in bathing baby's forehead, and quelling the general uproar. In process of time, the two children were dressed, if a few additional rags were worthy that title. Another child, several years older than Johnny, who had hitherto preserved a sleepy indifference to family affairs, was directed to take them down stairs a bit. "I ain't going to," was the sulky response. "Oh! Carrie, do be good!" said Emma, "just a little while, till I can tidy up the place a bit; you don't know what I am go- ing to do for you." "What?" said Carrie, peering very keenly through the straight flaxen hair which fell on her forehead. "I am going to wash our other frocks, to go to Sunday-school the day after to-morrow." "I don't want to go," said Carrie. "Ah! but Carrie you will. I have got such a love of a teacher. You don't know how sweet she talks, and what nice stories!" "She bean't sweet," said Carrie. "Oh! Carrie, if you could once see her, and hear the children sing! It's better than the circus." Carrie shook her flaxen head dogmatically. In despair of making an impression, Emma proceeded to replenish the fire, and placed upon the stove a large tin boiler, into which she poured the hot water from the kettle, then filled it quite full from the hydrant water, which she carried in a leaky wooden pail. Meantime Johnny, independent of an escort, had waddled down stairs. Carrie, for her own amusement, was making up faces at the baby, which crowed, and threw up its arms in ecstatic applause. The little housekeeper worked quietly on. She had produced two old calico dresses, and with rather more patience than skill, had mended a few rents, placed them in the tub with a bit of soap, preparatory to page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] washing. Meantime she talked to Carrie: I have a piece of bright pink ribbon, Carrie; Miss Lawson, the dressmaker, gave it to me for doing errands. I am going to trim your hat." "I guess, maybe, I'll go to Sunday school," said Carrie; growing suddenly amiable. "Will you make long ends behind, Emma?" "Yes, if there's enough. Now just draw me one pail of water, there's a good girl." Carrie growing obliging, complied. Emma worked on. It was hard for the small hands and slight strength. The calico dresses were washed at last (we would not undertake to say how thoroughly). Emma carried them to the open window, where she could conveniently reach the pulley lines, which stretched from this to an opposite fourth-story for drying purposes. Emma hung the garments on one line, while she pulled vigorously at the other, in order to draw them out into open space; she was flushed with the effort and with the sense of success, and did not observe that the rope, rotted with exposure to many storms, was just ready to give way; one or two stout pulls, and suddenly the old rope snapped, and away went the wet garments far down into the dirty court below. Poor Emma! the bright color went suddenly back from her face at this keenest trial of a washerwoman. "O, Carrie," she exclaimed in a tone of distress, then turning suddenly, she rushed down stairs, one flight, two! three! through the entry and out of the back door! A woman was standing there with a very dirty apron and very disordered hair. "Well, now," she said, as Emma darted past her and picked up the wet clothes, heavy and black with sand, "Haven't you got luck, though?" "Oh, Mrs. Jones," said Emma, half-crying, "my mother won't come till night to fix the line." "Never you mind," said the woman, taking the wet garments from the child's arms. "I'll just give 'em a rinse at my hydrant page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] and hang 'em on the fence there. I'll keep an eye on 'em-my line is full, you see, but them sheets will be dry in half an hour and then they shall have a place. Now, don't you cry," she continued, as Emma wiped her eyes, "I'll see that it's all right. The more shame to your mother to leave a young thing like you to wash." "Mother has to work out," said Emma. "Yes, but if she would let alone her glass of gin, I'd be bound she'd be a little comfortabler with all her work; but you can't help that, child, so get along; there's your Johnny roaring on the side-walk." CHAPTER II. THE roars grew nearer and louder. By the time Emma could reach the street door, Johnny was pounding at it with more noise than one would suppose possible from so small a body. There he stood with his face disfigured with dirt and tears. "What is the matter, Johnny?" said Emma, to whom this scene was no novelty. "Joe Hardy knocked me down." "I didn't," yelled Joe from across the street. "What did you do to him Johnny?" asked Emma. "I didn't do nothin'," blubbered Johnny. Just then Carrie appeared at the top of page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] the first flight of stairs screaming, "Mother said that she'd break Joe Hardy's head the first time he knocked Johnny." "Well now don't you go and tell her," pleaded Emma, as with infinite difficulty she tugged Johnny up the stairs. "Here, you little rascal," called the woman of the clothes-line coming forward and reaching up an apple, "shut up now, and Ict your sister have a few minutes' peace." Johnny's cries stopped instantly, as he munched his tears into one large bite of the apple. Say, 'thank you' Johnny," said Emma. Johnny tried to obey, but the mouth full was too much for his articulation. "Never mind his thanks," said the woman, discarding them with a wave of the hand, "it's not much I'd give his mother's son but for you; you're a heap too good for 'em, Emma." She went into her own room and slammed the door. Emma had no time to consider the compliment, for the baby having been left by Carrie to roll over on the back of its head, was screaming up stairs. It was a weary busy morning to the poor little housekeeper, and past noon before she could get the insubordinate family ready for the walk to Mrs. Dunne's, eight blocks away. At length, everything was accomplished. Emma locked the door and hid the key in the prescribed place. The stairs were descended without any new outcry, and Emma tried to rally her little army into order. No easy matter. Baby wanted to walk, tripped once or twice, then toddled off the side-walk. Emma captured the little rebel, carrying him with her small arms, turning frequently to admonish Carrie and Johnny who lagged behind. A less enterprising little woman would hardly have reached the journey's end under all these disadvantages, but Emma was enterprising, or perhaps she was only inured to that strange patience page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] and strength to which the oldest child of a poor family often attains. They had turned from the avenue, and had nearly reached the huge crowded dirty block of buildings, in a basement room of which Mrs. Dunne lived, when Carrie stopped. "Come along," said Emma. "I ain't a going to Mrs. Dunne's," was the dogged response; " her Maggie slapped me in the face." "Oh, Carrie, how you do actt! I shall tell mother." Carrie shook her shoulders and backed from the reach of her sister's arm plump against an ash barrel, which was well nigh upset. "Hallo there you, get along will you," shouted a boy rushing out of the nearest door. Carrie dodged behind her sister, and out of the way of the boy, but still shrugging her shoulders and backing. "Oh, you naughty girl! you act awfully," said Emma, catching her sister's arm and shaking her severely. Carrie resisted, and staggered at last into the gutter. Baby stood still in the middle of the sidewalk and began to cry. "What is the matter children; don't quarrel," said' a good-natured voice, and a stout woman, with a huge basket of soiled clothes, joined them. "Dear me, if it ain't Emma Parker," she said, stopping suddenly as she set down her basket. "O, Mrs. Dunne," exclaimed Emma, "we were just coming to your house." "Well, come along then," said the woman; "you are a good girl, and welcome any time." "She ain't a good girl," muttered Carrie; "she shook me and pushed me off the sidewalk." "Tut, tut," said the woman. "Oh I did, Mrs. Dunne," said Emma, bursting into tears. "Well, she deserved it, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Dunne; "but what are you crying for?" "O, I am sorry because,"-sobbed Emma page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] "Because what, child?" "Because the Sunday-school teacher said I ought not to get angry." "Pooh, pity she didn't live in these kind of houses, and have to take care of such aggravating young ones, and not half enough to eat. I bet you haven't had any dinner, come along ;" and picking up the baby under her left arm, and holding on to the basket with her right, she led the way down the stone steps to the damp basement where the fire used for washing all day could scarcely keep dry the mouldy walls. The place was clean, however, the tea kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and escaping from beneath a bright kettle cover was a savory steam of beef soup. Mrs. Dunne put the fretting baby upon the bed, and bidding Johnny, who was muttering that he was hungry, to hold his tongue, she began with great dispatch to set some plates and bowls upon the table. "You sit down, you Emma!" she said with rough but real kindness, "you look tired to death and ready to drop. Never mind, I will give you all a good dinner for once. Where is your mother working today?" It was a happy little group that good Mrs. Dunne gathered about her humble table. Emma satisfied the baby first, who fell asleep immediately in her arms, and then as her own hunger and weariness began to go off her disposition to cry went off too. She told Mrs. Dunne of her proposed journey to Washington-square, and of her desire to leave the children to her return. "Bless your heart, yes, child. Baby will sleep while you are gone, and as for Johnny," shaking her finger at him, " if he don't behave, I'll take a stick to him. Carrie'll mind them, tho' she'll never be as good a girl as you are Emma. I don't forget what a woman you was that night your poor father was brought home with both legs smashed, and what a treasure you have been to your poor mother ever since." Mrs. Dunne's honest eyes filled with page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] tears as she folded Emma in her strong motherly arms. "I thank you very much, Mrs. Dunne," said Emma, when she could get her breath from the hug. "Lor! child, you needn't thank me, but I wish I knew what made you so different from my girl. She is gone to a place, my Maggie has. But I musn't sit here (rising and pushing Emma from her), neither must you, if you are to go to Washington-square and get home with the bairns before dark." Mrs. Dunne rolled her sleeves up more securely, and began dipping the hot water from the boiler into the tub; first opening the window to let into the basement room -not the sunshine-but as much as might be of the mild October air. Emma had tied her hood and was opening the door, when Mrs. Dunne said "I hope you will get the two dollars, but I'm afeard you won't, them big folks bes hard sometimes, poor child!" she added, suspending her dipper, and looking compassionately at her. "What will you do if you have to go way home without it?" She went on dipping as if not expecting any reply, till it became evident, from the flush of Emma's cheek, and the quiver on her lip, that there was one ready. Pausing again, with some curiosity, she repeated "What will you do, child, if you do not get it?" "I will tell Jesus," said Emma, very softly. The last word fell scarcely more than a whisper. Mrs. Dunne stood still with astonishment. "Where did you learn that, child?" she asked presently. "At Sunday-school," said Emma. Mrs. Dunne went on dipping in silence. "And do you really do that-at-what you call it?" she asked at length. iY"Yes," said Emma firmly, but very softly, "every night before mother gets home, after the children are in bed, I kneel down and tell Jesus all ily troubles." Mrs. Dunne dipped vigorously with a good deal of splashing. Emma stood a page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] moment and then said "Good bye ma'am." Mrs. Dunne dropped the dipper into the boiler, faced about and looked at Emma steadily a moment, and then replied "Good bye, I'd do that myself child, if I thought it would help me any." "WHAT do you want, little girl?" said a rough female voice, as Emma ascended the brown steps of an elegant mansion. The voice came from below the steps. "Miss Lewis, if you please," said Emma, stopping. "Miss Lewis is not at home," said the voice again. "Anyway this is the door for the like of you to come to." Bewildered and mortified at her mistake, Emma was turning to retrace her steps, when she confronted a gentleman, who with graceful carelessness was lightly ascending the steps. He would have passed her indifferently, but the child, who had nearly fallen into his arms, raised her eyes page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] with such a frightened, beseeching glance, that he stopped suddenly. Scrutinizing with mingled curiosity and interest the delicate little face that was changing color every moment, he asked: "Well, little girl, what is your errand?" "To see Miss Lewis, if you please, sir." Then recollecting herself, she began descending the steps, adding, "But the girl said she was not at home." "We'll see," said the gentleman, coolly, putting his key into the lock. "Come in." Emma obeyed, and stood near the door, while the gentleman proceeded through the hall to the dining-room beyond. Here two ladies were seated at lunch. They had apparently finished the meal, but sat pleasantly talking. As the door opened, Emma heard the younger one laugh a clear light-hearted laugh. Emma's eyes involuntarily sought the face which was directly opposite the open door. It was a gay young face, and the form it belonged to elegant in its bright morning dress. Had Emma been a philosopher instead of a poor ignorant girl, she might have ruminated upon different circumstances in society-causes, results, etc. She had never laughed so thoughtlessly. The twelve years of her own poor life, had long since made her older than that young lady of seventeen. The elder of the two ladies was very dignified, and her face haughty with its somewhat weary looking beauty. "We waited half an hour for you, Harry," she said, scarcely looking up. "Sorry that you waited, sister," said the young man, lightly, as he seated himself at the table. "I've brought in a visitor." Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned towards the door and beckoned Emma to approach. "Pray, don't!" remonstrated the lady, who had caught sight of the shabby little form in the hall. It was too late. Obedient to the call, Emma's ragged shoes already pressed the rich carpet. "What do you want " said Miss Lewis, page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] her self-possession struggling with her annoyance. The frightened child tried in vain to speak, and looked with a kind of mute appeal from one to the other. The gentleman was occupied with his lunch, and there was no encouragement in the lady's cold handsome eyes, which were fixed upon her. The younger Miss Lewis was looking at her too, but without much discrimination Emma could feel that in the mingled curiosity and playfulness of the latter's glance, there was a touch of pity. Still she could not speak. "What are you here for?" again asked Miss Lewis. "I suppose you are a beggar girl." "No, ma'am," said Emma, suddenly finding her tongue. "I have only come for my mother's two dollars." "And who is your mother?" asked Miss Lewis, with some surprise. "The cleaning woman, ma'am," said Emma. "And how am I to know you are the cleaning woman's daughter? Why did she not come herself?" "She did come, ma'am, the night before last, when you was at the ball." Miss Lewis exclaimed with unfeigned astonishment: "I do not go to balls!" "A slight mistake of the waitress, doubtless," said the brother, mischievously. "A mere variation of the form ' Not at home'" "Martha hardly distinguishes between a ball and committee meeting of a benevolent society," remarked the younger sister. If there was satire in the young lady's words, there was none whatever in her clear laugh. "Do give her the two dollars," she added, a moment after. "No, Fanny," replied Miss Lewis. "It would be a bad precedent. My women are well paid at proper times. I cannot have them sending irregular demands." She turned to the servant who stood tray in hand, as if to direct the child's being conducted out. The gentleman interposed: page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] "Begging your pardon, sister, I feel a trifling responsibility for this little specimen. I brought her in, you know, against Martha's wiser intentions. Perhaps now, if you would allow me to advance the two dollars, my conscience might feel better, that is," he continued, returning Fanny's merry glance, "supposing a poor sinner like me to have a conscience." "You must do as you please," said Miss Lewis, coldly, "but I cannot approve. Very likely there is some deception, we can never tell." "Well," returned the gentleman, "I'll give her the two dollars, and take her number, and at some leisure hour Fan and I will call and see her." "Oh yes," said Fanny, clapping her hands. "You know, sister, you are always exhorting one to good works. Now just encourage Harry and me a little-who knows what prodigies of benevolence we may become?" "Ah, Fanny, you are too thoughtless." The perfect repose and self-possession of Miss Lewis' tone and manner was a commentary on the reproof. "I should be thankful indeed, Fanny," she continued, "if you would be intelligently benevolent. You have refused to join the sewing society, or teach in the industrial school, or have your name in any benevolent committee." "Have pity," began Fanny, with comical impatience. "My; dear, do not speak so," interposed Miss Lewis very gravely. "I am trying to prove to you and Harry that your occasional freaks of benevolence are mistaken. For example, when I recommended you to give poor Milly's name to the society for the relief of the sick poor, you declined, and brought the old woman here instead, into the dining-room. I found you talking with her, and the air of the room so affected by her uncleanliness, that it was necessary to have the windows opened." "Oh dear me!" said Fanny, again shrug- page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] ging her shoulders and knitting her pretty forehead with merry perplexity. "I don't care for your societies-it's of no use for me to try to do good unless I can see the object and get interested." "But Fanny, such dirty people in one's house-" "Now sister," interrupted Fanny, "you read last night at prayers about Lazarus and the rich man. No doubt Lazarus was as dirty as old Milly ." "My child, how you pervert things." Miss Lewis seemed quite shocked. Meantime Emma was standing near the door. The embarrassment which had moistened her eye and flushed her cheek was gone. It would be impossible now to judge from the motionless figure, the white cheek on which the drooping eyelashes lay in dark relief, whether or not she heeded the colnversation. The gentleman drew a memorandum-book from his pocket. "What is your name and number, little girl?" "Emma Parker, No. - West Forty-first street." "Do you go to school?" "I used to go, sir, but mother has to keep me home now to mind the children." "How many children are there?" "Four, sir." "And are you the oldest?" "Yes, sir-I am twelve." "Do you have plenty to eat?" interposed Miss Lewis. Emma's frightened look came back and her eyes fell again. "What do you have to eat? Now tell us," said Miss Fanny. The young lady's words were less guarded, her tone less perfectly modulated, yet somehow it did not frighten Emma. She looked up and answered: "Bread sometimes, molasses sometimes, butter, tea, and sugar, sometimes, and milk." "Do you never have meat?" asked the young lady, pitifully. page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] "On Sundays mother makes soup, if we can get a bone." "Have you no better shoes than those?" asked Miss Lewis. "No, ma'am." Emma's eyes fell again. "Are you ever cold?" asked Fanny, whose face was expressing more and more interest. "Sometimes, Miss, when mother leaves us without coal, and sometimes in the night." "In the night!" exclaimed the young lady with surprise. "Yes, Miss; mother pawned the blankets to pay the rent last month." The gentleman put the memorandum in his pocket and took out a wallet instead. "Some of us will come and see you before long," he said, putting a two dollar bill into her hand. Emma's "Thank you" was too low to reach any ear but his. She turned to go. "Stop a moment," said Miss Fanny, tripping lightly around the table with a silver fruit basket in her hand. "Here's an apple for you; here are some more for the other children." She filled Emma's pocket, then passing the servant, she opened the door herself. Emma could hardly reply. It was not the apples, nor yet the two dollars. She did not know what it was which made that beautiful young face and musical voice pervade her thoughts as she walked home page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] CHAPTER IV. IT had been raining all day- a cold November rain. The sky was lowering and drear. The dirty streets were dirtier than ever with mud and filth of every description. The ill-ventilated halls of the tenement house, tracked all day by hundreds of feet- feet of men, women and children who lived in the rooms, feet of ragpickers, pedlers, coal dealers and venders, of all sorts- was to-day as a laboratory of bad smells. Fumes of burnt fat, boiled cabbage and other cooking predominated. It was drawing near evening. Women were hurrying the supper, men coming home tired and cross. The little Parkers had been kept in-doors the last few hours. Carrie's ragged shoes were fairly soaked on her coming home from school. Scarlet fever being about, the widow had declared that not one of them should go down stairs again that night. It was real maternal affection which nerved the poor woman to this resolution. She had been working at home all day, and the one small room and dark bedroom were insufficient to contain her energy and the boisterousness of the children. Poor children- it was not healthful playfulness which made them bump their heads against the windows, knock over the water pail, punch and pinch each other to desperation. It was, the pent up capacities of young animal natures. "I can't keep still," roared Johnny, when his mother for the fifth time had sent him across the room by a box on the ear. "I can't keep still- it hurts to keep still- I'd rather be licked," and he rolled over on the floor kicking and sobbing, while page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] every nerve struggled to vent his fettered energies. Emma- patient little woman- strove to hold her way amid the conflicting household elements. She could not, however, have the comfort of much self-congratulation. Her voice had frequently caught the mother's sharpness. She was irritated with the pain of her tired feet, and her wrists lame with the wringing large clothes. There was not a particle of healthful color in her cheek, and her contracted brow had got almost the mother's worn look. There was something more to-day than the ordinary vexation of a toilsome life. It was the first day of the month, and a cloud darker than the rain clouds hung over the tenement houses. It was rent day. The day that was a day of doom to many careworn hearts. The widow did not speak the word- Emma did not venture to allude to it, but both knew there were only four dollars in the cupboard, and eight would be demanded. Emma had wrung out her last kettle-full of clothes. The mother was standing at the ironing table, where she expected to stand during the first hours of the night, when there was a heavy foot-step on the stairs, and then a thundering knock at the door. "Come in," said the widow, without looking round, but giving at the same time a very significant nervous twitch to the collar she was smoothing. The door opened, and a rough looking man, with his hat on one side, entered. Dropping into a chair as if he expected some detention in his errand, he said gruffly: "Well, Mrs. Parker- got any money for me to-day?" "I've only got half the rent as yet," returned the widow ironing very hard, but not looking up. "If you'd be so good as to take that; you shall have the rest early next week." "I vow I won't touch a cent of it," page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] thundered the man, pounding his fist upon his knee. "This is the way I'm dragged to death every month by the plaguy set in these houses." The children shrank to the back side of the room, even the baby clung to Emma in alarm. Emma took him upon her lap; her lips were very white. She wondered that her mother was not frightened. But Mrs. Parker was too used to hardness, too hard herself to be frightened by the same characteristic in another. She put down her iron, and faced about towards the agent with the half-controlled fury of a mastiff whose cubs are in danger. "Now, you know well enough, Mr. Higgins, that I na'ry kept you waiting a week . for your rent since I've been in this nasty house. There isn't a harder working woman in the street than I be, and I'd had the rent this minute if I hadn't been sick with a swelled face all last week, and the biggest part of the week afore." "None of your sass!" retaliated Mr. Higgins. "I'll have you out and all your traps in twenty-four hours. I calculated to put you out anyhow- you've got too many brats. Them folks under you, say there is no peace day nor night, for the noise over their heads. It spiles the reputation of the house, so you mind, if you ha'n't the rent, every penny of it to-morrow morning, I'll serve a notice on you by mid-day." Having thus delivered himself, Mr. Higgins rose and readjusted the hat which he had not taken off. "Now, Mr. Higgins" demanded the widow, taking a step forward; "you'd ought to be ashamed of yourself, coming here like a mad bull-dog, as you are, when you know I'm an honest, respectable woman, and don't tell no lies. I tell you, I've been sick- these children have had nothing but a crust of bread since they were out of bed this morning. I've saved the last cent for you." "What's that to me? I want none ot your clatter. I want my rent." "It's little enough to you," retorted the page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] widow. "It's true enough you wouldn't care if we were all starved to death. You are as hard as the stones you walk on. "Now, don't be a fool," said the man; "I'm only doing my business. Ain't I working for my living as well as you? I don't own the houses. The money is no good to me. The landlord is a big business man. Ye needn't think I'm going to the gentleman's office with half the rent. A man what handles so much money as Mr. Tomkins, has no time to bother with such little sums." "O goodness me!" cried the widow; "he is such a rich man, and he gets his money out of poor folks like us. Oh goodness me! things gits worse and worse. It seems as how the rich didn't want the poor to live any more." "Now, you look here," said the agent doggedly, "Mr. Tompkins didn't ask you to live in his house, did he? You're welcome to clear out, I'm sure. You're bein' here is your own business, the rent is our'n. All you've got to do is to hold your tongue like a decent woman and pay what's due, and if you don't I'll notice you tomorrow noon- so that's the long and short of it." Having thus adjusted the subject, as he had adjusted his hat, Mr. Higgins nodded emphatically, and went out slamming the door so that the walls of the tall, but not substantial house, shook from top to bottom. This last effect was to convince the other tenants, who might have heard the altercation, that it was overruled by legitimate authority, and that the legitimate authority was mightily conscious of doing its duty. The little family left to themselves, looked at one another as if the shock of an earthquake had passed over. Then the widow forgetting her ironing, dropped into the nearest chair and sobbed passionately. All the tension of her strong nature, which had been wrought up to the highest pitch by unresting effort, by resolve and anger, had given way. The little ones who had begun page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] to whimper when the presence which awed them had withdrawn, now excited afresh by their mother's grief, sobbed loudly. Even Carrie, who often pouted, but seldom cried, joined them. Emma hastened to her mother's side. "Oh, mother, don't," she said. But the widow wept on. "Oh, please don't," pleaded Emma, dropping upon her knee and burying her face in her mother's apron. "I can bear anything till you give over, but I can't stand this." She laid her thin sallow hand on her mother's broad red one, but the sight only made the woman worse. Clasping her arms around the fragile little form, she cried, "My own child- my darling, I'm working you to death. The winter is coming on, and we shall all die together. God knows I don't care if we do. I wish we were in our graves in peace." Emma strove to recall some of the comfort she had heard at Sunday-school, but her distressed mind could not get hold of it, or somehow she could not apply it in this case. She could only embrace her mother's hand and cry again, "O mother! mother, don't." page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] THE widow Parker's paroxysm of grief and indignation did not last long. She rose presently, and shaking Emma off, and hushing the children's cries by a peremptory word and gesture, proceeded to her ironing. It was not a lack of maternal affection, but the very agony of that affection which nerved the woman to every possible expression of stern resolve. "Emma," she said, turning upon her almost fiercely, "take one of them dollars, and go to the corner for a loaf- make Dobson let you have it on trust, if you can. Now mind what I say; but if he won't do it, take the change out. We can't starve." "Git some 'lasses too," whispered Johnny. "You shut up," said the mother, "and Emma-" reaching, as she spoke, a bottle from the top shelf-" as you come back just run across to the liquor store. That fellow owes me a few cents on the last dozen collars. I'll take it in a sup of gin." "O mother, no!" pleaded Emma. "You mind what I say," returned the mother. "I'll take no more than I need. I ha'n't tasted meat these two weeks- the tea and sugar is all out, and the mercy knows when I'll git any more! I've got to stand here ironing 'till twelve o'clock, and I'm just ready to drop now. If I don't git something to stay me up I shall die, and then what'll become of you." Greatly alarmed, Emma took the bottle and hurried away. The corner grocery, as was usual at this hour, was full of customers. Women, with babies in their arms; children with market baskets almost as big as themselves; men page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] whose breath smelt of the fiery poison which they had made sure of before their bread. All presented, under the gaslight, a strange panorama. Emma shrank to one corner of the counter patiently waiting her turn. Presently a shop boy who had been having high words with a half drunken woman, came near enough to hear her timid request. "A loaf of bread on trust, eh! That's what we don't give." He turned to another customer. Emma stood silent and abashed. After a few minutes the boy, who meantime had served two or three customers called out: "Better not wait, girl, if you've no money. It's that Parker girl who wants a loaf on trust," he added, appealing to Mr. Dobson who was weighing sugar close by. The man growled an inaudible reply. Then taking a step forward to reach a paper bag, he glanced into the little white anxious face, revealed by the full blaze of gaslight from above. Had Mrs. Parker been there to argue and storm, he would have stormed back, but the silent appeal of that suffering childish face, touched the rough man's heart. He had a little girl about her size. "Give her a rye loaf," he said to the boy. '"And girl, tell your mother she needn't pay for this one." Emma seized the loaf with the avidity which only the hungry could know, and hastened away. In the hall of each floor of the house where Emma lived, there was a single gas burner, and it was the law that each of these should be lighted in the evening. A very necessary security for the life and limb of the eight families with their dozen or thirteen children. These halls and stairways, dark even in the day-time, were blackness of darkness when evening came. The gas- that it might not be wasted by the tenants, was turned off at the meter after ten o'clock. And it happened that the law to turn the gas off, was more promptly page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] regarded by the agent than the law to turn it on, and so at this season of the year, when the darkness came early, the people and children were running against each other and tumbling down stairs, or cursing the agent for his neglect, an hour or two before any light appeared. As Emma opened the door, a confused sound of angry words, shuffling feet and laughter came down from the top floor. A moment more, the rude footsteps came leaping, stumbling down, evidently followed by a broomstick hurled after them. And then Emma could see, by the gaslight reflected from across the street, through the door she held open, a large boy precipitating himself down the last flight of stairs hanging on to the banisters and turning a somersault at her feet with shouts of laughter. O Joe Hardy! what are you here for," exclaimed Emma, giving way before him. Hello! Kec!" returned Joe, prolonging the last note into the highest possible strain. Then turning another somersault, which landed him on the side-walk, he shouted again- "Hello Em.!- is that you! My eye! ain't I made your mother mad tho'?" "O Joe, what do you want to make my mother mad for?" Emma too had stepped back on to the side-walk, and the heavy door slammed to. "My eye!" said Joe again; "but it's fun tho': such an old hurricane. I wish she'd blow herself away some day!" "O Joe, you shan't talk so about my mother. You're an awful bad boy!" "Ain't I tho'," and Joe turned another somersault. This time his feet encountered a kettle of refuse, which was overturned into the gutter. "Hurra! there's one kettle emptied. Ash-men ain't been along here these three days. My mother's been blowing about it all day. They go all right and proper in the rich streets, but as for our'n, we get all our barrels and kettles full on the side-walk page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] and then if we just kind o' tip one over to get a pot to bile dinner, we get hauled up by the copps. Blases! don't I wish I was the mayor!" "You'd make a pretty mayor!" interposed Emma, contemptuously. "You'd better stop cursing, and go to Sunday-school first." Catch me!" said Joe, adjusting his cap with most rakish effect. Then scratching his head, he added with a tone of reconciliation: "Tell you what, Em.! I'm a notion to go to Sunday-school 'till after Christmas. They give candies and tin horns there, don't they? I'll go next Sunday- only you get me a tip-top teacher- none o' your stuck ups." "O Joe you're such a bad boy- I don't believe a word you say." She tried to get by him into the house. He pulled her back. "I say, Em., folks say you're going to get put out to-morrow." "What's that to you," said Emma, hall crying with vexation, and again making towards the door. "I say, Em., is this one of Tompkins' houses?" "Yes- but let me go, Joe." Joe gave another prolonged "Kee," at the highest possible pitch. "I say, Em., he's mighty religious man- he gin a thousand dollars to build a chapel down town; far's I know he built it all his own self. Folks says he's goin' to build another up this way." Emma was standing perfectly still now, evidently interested. At this moment a sharp female voice called from across the street: "Joe, have you got that parcel? Why don't you came along?" "My sakes! won't I catch it now," said Joe, in a kind of delightful apprehension. Then shouted in a louder tone: "All right, old woman," and disappeared towards the avenue. Emma stood where he had'left her. "I page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] wonder," she mused, "if he is really a good man. May be if he knew- he wouldn't let us be put out. If mother'd let me go and try. But I'm such a poor little thing to go to such a great man." She glanced down at her thin soiled dress, and murmured half aloud: "I got the two dollars- I might try CHAPTER VI. THE rye loaf disappeared rapidly before the hungry little Parkers. Emma could scarcely sit down to eat her share. A sense of the necessity of carrying home the shirts her mother had been ironing, and obtaining the payment, was stronger than her appetite. "Mind you, git the money now," said the widow, as she laid the shining linen into the basket, and covered it with a clean towel. "Yes, mother," said Emma. The basket was not very heavy, but it was cumbersome, and as Emma stepped out into the chill night air the old shawl would fall back. All the strength and skill of her arms were required for her burden. Her teeth page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] chattered and her limbs shook. Perhaps anxiety and mental depression were as much the cause of this as the cold. It was a long way across to Sixth avenue, and then several blocks down to where Mrs. Jenks lived. This customer was a mechanic's wife. Emmna had heard her mother say there was quite as much pride but not so mutch wealth in the family as in the grander ones for whom she had worked. Poor Emma, with a naturally delicate and timid nature, shrank from all encounters where her spirit might be wounded. She could not have explained her peculiar dread of this one. It was an instinctive fear of one who might have power to hurt her without means to compensate or delicacy to pity. Emma sat down her basket and stood a few minutes before ringing the bell. It was one of the better sort of tenement houses, situated between two stores, signalizing its pretensions by the locked street door and the oil-cloth covered halls. A servant answered the bell. She was dressed in a rather showy but not very clean green merino dress; her red hair decorated with bright pink bows. She was evidently expecting some guest of her own and was vexed at being called down from the third floor which Mrs. Jenks occupied, to admit a basket of clothes. "I guess you needn't come in," she said, taking the basket from the tired little arms. "Mrs. Jenks can't see you- one of the chil- dren's sick." "But," returned "Emma, mother said if she'd please send the money- it's a dollar and a half." "Always the money you're after," returned the girl, grossly. "Mrs. Jenks says as how you should leave the basket and come for the other clothes to-morrow night, and then she'd give you the money for both- I 'spose its the last you'll git." "The last?" inquired Emma. "Yes, I calculate to get a place as waitress or lady's maid. Mrs. Jenks is going to page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] get a stout girl to do all the work, and washing too. I'm no ways used to rough work- and won't do it." All that Emma comprehended in this speech was that her mother had lost one place, and she turned from the door with a new burden on her heart. "I can't go home," she said, half aloud, as she proceeded a few steps in the opposite direction. "O, if there was any body to help me!" She thought of different persons who had : been kind to her. There was Mr. Lewis and his sister Fanny. But there she must encounter Miss Lewis, and Emma felt that to go a second time, especially when there was no claim whatever upon this lady would be unpardonable. There was her Sunday-school teacher, but Emma did not know where she lived. Then she thought of what Joe Hardy had said of their landlord, and recalled her own soliloquy. "If he was a good man, may be he wouldn't let us be turned out." Emma did not know Mr. Tompkins' number, but she happened to know his Christian name, and slipping into a drug store easily found it in a directory. The distance was not great. Poor Emma was scarce relieved to find she had not this excuse for not trying the hazardous experiment. Half irresolute, scarcely knowing where she was, Emma threaded her way through the brilliant avenue. She did not see or care for the bright shop windows, with all their display of splendor. And the hundreds of people who jostled by her never dreamed what a brave heart, what a very martyr's spirit nerved that little shabby form. At length she reached the street she sought, yet so much feared. She feared the errand which called her there, and she feared some undefined danger, as she turned from the bright avenue into the dim, solemn street, where the long row of stately mansions on either side, with their high stone steps and elegant inflexible doors, seemed to shut in all resource, while it shut page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] her hopelessly out. She had run across the street to escape meeting a drunken man, who was evidently bewildered as to his proper way home. If he should follow and murder her would any body know or care? And if she ran up one of the steps and rang a bell, would any body protect such a poor child, or believe her story? Trembling, dodging the very shadows- sometimes running, then dropping into a walk for breath, Emma reached at last the residence of Mr. Tompkins. Unwilling to make the mistake she had made at Miss Lewis' door, she rang the area bell. There was a few minutes' silence. Presently the heavy door, on the other side of the area lattice opened, and Emma could see a stout woman with a handkerchief on her head. "What do you want?" the woman demanded. Emma was trembling with cold and excitement. She could scarcely ask: "Is Mr. Tompkins at home?" "Bless me!" exclaimed the woman. "What do you want of Mr. Tompkins?" Emma tried to speak, but her teeth only chattered. Moved by curiosity, and the impulse of a naturally kind nature, the woman drew nearer and looked intently through the lattice. "Why, you poor thing, you're just froze to death. You needn't be after seeing Mr. Tompkins, for he's got a dinner party up stairs; but I don't mind if you come into the kitchen a minute and get warm." She unfastened the area door, and Emma followed through the hall into the spacious kitchen. It was brightly lighted, and filled with delicious odors of roast beef and oysters. She discovered, however, that the viands were not there, dinner having just gone up. The servants were mostly in attendance on the guests. The cook, who had let her in, being relieved of her important duties, and having achieved the triumphs of a most elaborate dinner, was in a state of amiable self-complacency. She drew a chair close to the range and made Emma sit down and take off her hood and shawl, Wvhich was wet. It had not been page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] raining for the last two or three hours, but the cold fog which hung over all things, had dampened every thread of her thin apparel. "You poor little thing," said the cook again, "have you got any mother?" "O yes, ma'am;" said Emma. "She must be hard hearted," said the cook, "to send such a wain as you out o'nights." "She can't help it," replied Emma. But by this time, the crowd of painful memories, the unexpected tone of kindness, and the sudden change of temperature from the street to the warm kitchen, quite overcome the child, she grew sick, and would have fallen from the chair had not the cook observed and caught her. "You poor young'un, you are just going to die on my hands," and between alarm and real compassion, the woman did not know what to do. Emma recovered herself enough to ask for a drink of water, and to have her chair drawn away from the fire; this, with a draught of air admitted from the back door, soon restored her. In answer to her new friend's repeated inquiry, she was able to tell her story. "Well now," said the cook, standing before Emma with her arms akimbo, "that's a hard case anyhow! But, I'm beat if I know what you can do. I knows poor folks afore now come here who was going to be put out, and I have heard Mr. Tompkins say he never interferes with his agent. I might lose my place if I went up-stairs when there's gentlemen to dinner!" "Oh! I suppose it's no use," said Emma, "what shall I do?" "I don't see as you can do anything," replied the cook, "but get money to pay the rent. I am right sorry I bought that shawl with my last month's wages, and there's no more due till week after next. But I'll tell you what!" she continued thoughtfully. "I'll find some way to-morrow to let Miss Clara know all about it. Miss Clara, she's just the tenderest hearted little Miss you ever did see. She would give page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] away all her allowance, if her mamma did not watch her. You tell me your number again, I'll be bound Miss Clara'l1 help you. So cheer up." Emma tried to cheer up under the kind assurance, but the danger was too imminent. "Could Miss Clara be told to-night?" "Oh no! bless you! She's at dinner with her papa. But wait a minute, you must have a bit to eat." Emma had risen to go. "Wait," said the cook, "the soup's coming down, you shall have a sup to warm you up." She filled a bowl with the hot fragrant nourishment. Emma, though she had not realized that she was hungry, ate it with much relish. Then thanking the kind-hearted woman, she went out again into the damp and the darkness. CHAPTER VII. A CARRIAGE was standing in front of Mr. Tompkins' door. Emma's eyes, not yet accustomed to the change from the bright kitchen light to the dimmer street light, did not at first recognize the gentleman who stood by it. It was Mr. Lewis. He had lifted Miss Fanny from the carriage, and was assisting another lady to alight as Emma came up. This lady was taller than the other; a slight, graceful figure, in deep black. She raised her veil just as Emma reached the spot, and their eyes met. "Oh, my teacher!" cried the child, throwing herself forward in the sudden abandonment of joyful recognition. She had forgotten all other presence, and was actually embracing the muffled form page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] "Hey day! Who is this?" said the gentleman pleasantly. "Look here, Fanny,! this must be our little protege, whom we promised to visit so long ago!" "The more shame to you, Harry, that we have not been!" replied the young lady. "It is all your fault, that you never will keep your promise to go with me." "I plead guilty," replied the gentleman; "but my office is very absorbing. Possibly Miss Ellis will supplant us both. She seems to have some share in the concern." "It is one of my Sunday scholars, and Industrial school as well," said the lady appealed to. Then, returning the child's embrace, she said very gently: "Where have you been all these weeks that I have missed you from school?" "Mother cannot spare me any more on Saturdays; and -"Emma hesitated to confess that she had withdrawn from Sunday-school because of the shabbiness of her dress. Miss Ellis seemed at once to comprehend. "I shall see about that," she said with a smile. Emma raised her head again, from which the old hood fell. Her teacher's hand was putting the soft brown hair from the expansive forehead. Mr. Lewis and his sister were intently regarding the little upturned face; but Emma was lost to everything but the precious Sunday-school influence, associated with Miss Ellis's sweet look and tone. It was the only moral light her spirit had ever known, and in this happy moment it seemed beaming upon her, and reflecting its spiritual beauty from eye and brow. "Really! Miss Ellis," said the gentleman, now stepping forward, "it is my duty to disturb this conference. We are already too late. This damp air will increase your cough. You are intrusted to my care, you know." He offered her his arm. "Yes, Emma," said the lady, "I must go; but I will soon come and see you. Good bye, my child." Emma reluctantly released her hold of the ladies' cloak. A sudden page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] sense of her own distress and great necessity came over her. It was a passing opportunity of appealing for help; but Emma did not know how to begin. "Oh, Miss Ellis!" she said. But though the lady turned back kindly, the bewildered child could not go on. The opportunity of telling her teacher what she had no doubt would be kindly heard was passing. Mr. Lewis was drawing her away. Emma tried again to catch hold of the cloak, but it was now out of her reach. "Miss Ellis," she faintly cried again; but the lady had reached the top of the steps, and did not hear this time. A servant had been holding open the door. The party passed into the lighted hall, and the door was shut again, and the opportunity was gone. "Oh, my teacher," Emma moaned, as she shrank upon the bottom step. "Oh, she has gone! What shall I do!" It was as if heaven had suddenly opened and shut again upon her despairing sight. She must go back to the poor home that was soon to be taken away, to meet perhaps her mother's displeasure, to hear the children cry, to be cold and hungry, and above all, her childish fancy suggested she would never see her teacher any more. Who could tell what part of the city she might be driven to before the promised call. "Move on, little girl," said a voice of command close by. Emma looked up quickly, and was startled to see a police officer at her side. "Station house is the place for you," he said, stooping to take hold of her arm. "Oh no, sir," exclaimed Emma, I am going home." Meantime another carriage had stopped at the door and a gentleman had stepped out, just as Emma exclaimed in terror: "Please, sir, don't take me to the station house. I will go right home." "What has the child done?" he asked. "Oh, nothing," said the officer. "Only there are plenty of vagrants about nights, and gentle-folks don't fancy them on their steps." page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] The gentleman would have spoken again, but Emma, released from the officer's grasp, was flying in terror towards the avenue. Just as she reached it a number of carts and hacks entangling one anotler's way had com- pletely blockaded the crossing. Horses were struggling and plunging; drivers vociferating; and mud splashing. Emma stopped at the edge of the gutter through which the water ran in a turbid stream. Having discovered that she was not pursued, she stood patiently waiting for an opportunity to cross the avenue, and for her beating heart to grow more quiet. A gentleman leading a little girl about her own age, stood also waiting to cross. The little girl was beautifully dressed, and wrapped in soft furs. The gentleman, evidently her father, held her by the hand, looking down kindly upon her, and smiling or speaking now and then, as if to assure her of safety. Emma drew close behind them, that she might share their opportunity of crossing. Presently the confusion on the avenue seemed slightly to abate. The gentleman looked down and said "Now, my darling." The child looked down at her handsome boots, at the muddy water, and then up into her father's face. She did not speak, but the unmistakable expression of confidence was, 'I cannot cross, but you know all about it and will help me.' A moment more and the strong arm had liited the slight form across the gutter, and half supporting, half leading her, was threading the way among carts and horses safely to the other side. Emma tried to follow, but was quickly separated from them, and driven back to her first standing place. "Oh, what shall I do," she cried, wringing her hands. "I shall be killed, and mother never know where I am. Oh! if I only had a father like that little girl. She has got a father, and he looks so kind, and calls her darling; but there is nobody to care for me." Emma was speaking half aloud through her sobs and tears page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] "What are you crying for, girl?" said a policeman close by. Emma started in terror, but a second glance showed her it was not the one who had warned her off the steps, and that he looked kind. "I can't get across," she replied, trying very hard to stop crying. The officer advanced, beckoning Emma to follow him; extending his arms with perfect assurance; he checked the horses right and left, while Emma trembling and running close to him, made her way through the mud safely to the opposite side. "Thank you, sir," she said, stepping up on the sidewalk; but the officer was gone again. Emma went on picking her way; her shoes were soaked with water, and her dress splashed with mud, but she did not think of these. As she entered the more familiar scenes of the poorer streets, the home cares were settling back again upon her young heart, and her step grew heavier in sympathy. She had just turned the last corner, when her attention was attracted by a half drunken man reeling from a liquor-shop near by. Emma darted aside, but not in time to prevent his staggering against her, muttering inarticulate sounds. Fearing to press her way past him, Emma ran into the middle of the street. "Hallo! Em., what are you scared about;" shouted a voice she knew. Emma turned back, and encountered Joe Hardy coming up to the scene with long cautious strides, and eyeing the object of her terror with some such satisfaction as a cat might manifest at the sight of a mouse. "I say, Em., you needn't be afeared of that gentleman, I'll pepper and salt him for you." Joe gave a shrill and prolonged whistle, a signal to other boys. Emma came back to the sidewalk. The poor inebriate was infuriated with helpless rage against the page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] boys who were beginning to dart round the corners looking, in the night light, with their dirty faces and ragged clothes, like an army of imps. He made a dive at Joe with both fists clenched; the boy leaped aside, and the poor wretch, hiccuping an oath, fell forward on his face. "Oh, Joe," remonstrated Emma, "that's poor old Watson, that lives in the house with us. What do you want to hurt him for?" "He's hurt his own self," said Joe,amid shouts of laughter. The poor man, meantime, had picked himself up to a sitting posture . "Joe," said Emma, trembling between fear of the noisy rabble and her own deter- mined purpose, "if you don't go away from old Watson, I'll call a policeman. I will so! I think the Watsons' have got trouble enough already." But the boys had, themselves, caught sight of an officer's uniform, and were scampering away with hoots and yells. Emma saw old Watson in the officer's custody, and then hurried home. She dreaded to meet her-mother without whose knowledge the unsuccessful expedition to Mr. Tompkins had been undertaken. But poor Mrs. Parker, although she reproached her for her long delay, and groaned when she heard Mrs. Jenks had sent no money, asked no further questions. She had enough else to think of. Carrie and the baby were both developing symptoms of scarlet fever; the coal was out, and the fire too low for heating more irons. Emma was directed to make some gruel with some oatmeal that had been borrowed, while the mother busied herself preparing a poultice for baby's throat. Johnny, who had fretted himself asleep on the floor, must be undressed. The shirts which had been dampened for ironing, must be unfolded and hung on the line across the kitchen lest they should mildew in the night. The fire was insufficient for making the gruel, the room was dirty and disorder page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] -ed and full of feverish and unwholesome smells. Poor Emma! Could Miss Ellis look into her careworn face now, she would hardly have known it was the same which an hour before was raised to her own so radiant with spiritual beauty. All the Heaven had gone out of Emma's dull horizon, and her childish heart had not philosophy or experience enough to expect it again. It was very late before the moaning children were hushed to sleep. The widow saw them all in bed and laid herself down half i undressed and fell into a heavy sleep of sorrow. An hour or two after she woke suddenly with a sense of chilliness. The storm had been clearing for some hours, and now the clouds had broken away from the southern sky and the moon was shining through the curtainless window clear and cold. She started up and lifted Carrie from the lounge into the bed in the dark bedroom, occupied by herself and two little ones; covering them as well as possible with the scanty clothing, she then proceeded to Emma's little cot, in the larger room, and stooped down to discover if she manifested any symptoms of the dreaded fever, but the child lay with her thin white cheek on her hand, breathing softly and naturally. The little face had lost again its expression of worldly care, it was so pure and peaceful, revealed in the moonlight with the clustering brown hair falling upon the pillow, the mother gazed half awed. Then she groaned, and taking the light form in her arms, murrnured- "My poor lamb." Emma opened her eyes, saying, "Mother, is it you?" "Yes, dear, are you cold?" "Yes, I am very cold, but I thought it was somebody else here." "No child, only me and the children." Emma sat up and looked round the room. She and her mother had been speaking in a low voice so as not to waken the little ones. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] "Mother,' she whispered, "I thought our Saviour, Jesus Christ, was here." "Oh, my. What you talk that way for? "But, mother, let me tell you all about it. After you made me go to bed; I lay still and cried. I felt so bad for thinking where we will sleep to-morrow night, and how I haven't got any father like the little girl I saw on the avenue, and then I thought I would pray to Jesus, but I couldn't think of any words, so I said the little verse Miss Ellis taught me- ' Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child, ' Pity my simplicity'- "Then I got so sleepy, the last line wouldn't come, and I kept saying 'Simplicity' over and over. You know mother, that means not to know much. But in a minute I forgot everything. Then somebody opened the door, and it was Miss Ellis, and she came in and stood right there where the moonlight is lying on the floor. She looked so sweet, mother, just as she does in Sunday-school with the pretty fur about her neck, like she wore Iast winter. I was so sorry there was no seat, and I wanted to get up to take the things off the chair; but she held up her finger to me to keep still. And while I look- ed, it was not Miss Ellis any more. But it was Jesus." "Now hush! child, you never see Jesus." "Oh, but mother, I know how he looks. If I should get into heaven, I'd know Him if it was ever so full of angels." "Oh, mercy on us," groaned the mother "if you talk that way, I'll think you are going to get the scarlet fever and die." "No," replied Emma, "Jesus will not make me die; but let me tell you, He stood there and looked so kind, he held both his arms out and said, 'My darling,' just like that little girl's father said to her, and then I got down on the floor to creep to his feet, but he took me in his arms, and then I opened my eyes, and it was only you. But I am so happy now, I won't mind if Mr. Higgins puts us out, or about the cold, or hav- page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] -ing no father, if Jesus will take me in his arms." Emma laid her head on her mother's bosom, that shook with passionate sobs. "Oh, my child, my poor lamb, don't you be gitting too good for the earth." "No, mother, no," said Emma, firmly, "don't cry so. It's not that- but I do wish you could go to Sunday-school and learn about Jesus." CHAPTER VIII. THE morning dawned clear and cold. Emma woke late; her mother had kindled a fire. A pail of coal was standing by the stove; a loaf of bread and brown paper parcels were on the table. Emma's thoughts struggled confusedly between some sweet dreamy memories and the rushing back of dull realities. "Mother," she said, with some surprise, "where did you get coal and bread?" "At the grocery, of course," was the reply. Emma rubbed her eyes. She was oppressed by painful recollections of yesterday, with the scarcely less painful consciousness that the comforts of a fire and breakfast page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] must have decreased the four dollars in the cupboard. The baby was moaning in the cradle with its eyes half closed. Emma walked to it while fastening her dress. "Is he asleep?" she asked. "No," said her mother, "but he is very sick." Carrie was better of the cold which had alarmed them the day before; but she was waking cross and unreasonable, as might be expected of a child that had been sleeping all night in impure air. She demanded Emma's assistance to dress her, and then slapped and pushed her away. Breakfast was prepared at length, amid the usual difficulties. While they were eating, the mother said: "You must make haste, Emma, I have to send you out to look for, rooms while I finish the ironing." "Where shall I go, mother?" "You can go to Isaacs', up on the Eighth avenue; it's a little below Thirty-ninth street; I don't know just where; he is a Jew, and owns lots of houses; very likely some on 'em is empty. Make haste now, we're mighty late this morning; I overslept." Refreshed by her breakfast, and cheered by the hope of finding a room before Mr. Higgins should come again, Emma tied her hood with alacrity. Her mother called her back from the door. "Be sure," she said, "you don't tell Isaacs how many children I've got." "Why, mother?" "Pity if you don't know. Landlords won't let folks in that has got children." "The folks down stairs has got more children than we have," remarked Emma; "I heard them say they were going to move into one of Isaacs' houses." "Yes, but that man has regular work, and good wages. We always paid regular when your father was alive, though we were awful pinched sometimes to do it." Emma hurried away. She had proceeded but a few steps from her home when she was arrested by a shout; turning round, she saw page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] Joe Hardy running towards her, munching some bread and molasses, which he held in both hands. "Where going, Em.?" he asked, half intelligibly. "I'm going to try to get a room, Do you know, Joe, where Mr. Isaacs lives?" "My Golly!" exclaimed Joe, drowning the expression in another huge bite from his breakfast. "Don't you know?" asked Emma, impatiently. "I bet I do," returned Joe. "Why don't you tell me, then?" Joe took another bite. "Tell you what, Em.; you had better look somewhere else for a house, you won't get none of his." Why not?" asked Emma. "Cause Isaacs' houses are very respectable, he won't have no young 'uns in 'em." Emma's face expressed pain and perplexity. They walked down Ninth avenue and across it. Joe meantime had finished his breakfast, and began to whistle. "Are you going to show me where Isaacs lives?" asked Emma. "Yes," said Joe. They walked on the Eighth avenue, Joe whistling, Emma shivering in the keen morning air. The avenue was waking up to its morning activity; the clerks were taking down the shutters, or arranging goods for display. Women and disabled men and ragged children were setting out their stands of fruit and other commodities. Emma and Joe turned the corner and walked on; presently they reached the large fancy store of Mr. Isaacs. This gentleman was a thrifty well-to-do enterpriser in the various schemes for worldly gains; not the least of these was a huge block of tenement houses, situated in the direction of the North River. In common with most tenement house landlords, Mr. Isaacs chose that this branch of his business should be as remote as possible from the spot honored by his more constant presence, and most respectable influence. The block, when purchased by himself a few page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] years before, had a reputation of a very low order, filthy and crowded with wretchedness; the very sidewalk avoided by decent passers by. Mr. Isaacs, without much consideration for the miserable tenants whom he cleared off the premises like cattle, but with a very keen eye to his own advantage, had wrought a great change. The block had been repaired and cleansed. The deficiency of water accommodations and other conveniences supplied, rents raised above the reach of the poor families who had been expelled. All this Mrs. Parker knew very well, but she knew also that in the rear of this improved block, Mr. Isaacs had left untouched a smaller row, with low basements, together with two or three shanties. This little settlement was hidden from the immediate view of the street. The situation not being eligible for much improvement, Mr. Isaacs with the most indefatigable industry in turning everything to account, let them to the best advantage he could. They were, however, the source of much trouble to himself, for the poor people driven from better places, unable often to pay even the small sum required there, were turned out at the end of almost every month to be superseded by others, to share in their turn the same fate. Mrs. Parker knew all this; her object was merely to secure one of these places until she could produce security for a better one. Mr. Isaacs was at his counter when the two children appeared before him. Emma timidly made known her errand. "The widow Parker," said the man, thoughtfully, "I know her; she's washed for my wife. Turned out! is she? That looks bad." "No, Sir," interrupted Joe, "she's going out of her own self; it's a first-rate family; 'aint got no children, only this big girl; got lots of rich friends that will pay the rent right down. Any gentleman what knows what's good for his'self 'ud let 'em in a front house." "You hold your tongue," growled Mr. page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] Isaacs, eyeing the boy suspiciously. Then turning to Emma. "All I want of your mother is that she should pay the rent right down. She's a hard-working woman- if she can pay the rent down every month, or give me some security from some rich gentleman, all right! There's a vacancy in a front house; top floor, back room; rent- only nine dollars; best tenement house in New York; water and gas in the halls, all the the way up." "Would you take half the rent, please sir?" said Emma. "Mother'll pay the rest next week." "No, I won't; I can get plenty of respectable tenants without bothering with such as you. Tell your mother, if she can pay the rent down to-day, and give me good security for the future, she can come- that is, if you've not a swarm of young ones. I shouldn't wonder if you lied about that," in a smothered voice, looking at Joe. "Pon my word," said Joe, "you're the first gentleman ever said I lied." . "Please sir," said Emma, raising her finger to hush Joe, "might there be a vacancy in the rear houses?" "Yes, said Mr. Isaacs, "there is a nice basement there for six dollars; family go out to-day. Tell your mother to come and see about it herself. I've no time to bother with you." He turned towards a customer who had just come in, and the children left the store. "Joe," said Emma, as they walked towards home, "you did tell Mr. Isaacs a lie." "What o' that," said Joe, "I'll tell him another the first chance I get. Taint wicked for poor folks to tell lies. Rich folks 'spects us to tell lies. Couldn't live if we didn't tell lies. Tell you what, Emma, you don't know much; your mother she telled a monstrous lie to get into Higgins' house." Emma's brow contracted with painful perplexity. They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Joe said: "Em.! Higgins will set you right on the side-walk to-morrow." page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] "Oh dear! what shall we do?" replied Emma. "Lor!" laughed Joe, "its fun to get put out; we were set out last winter and the winter afore, and the winter afore that." "But the baby's sick," said Emma. "Mother says Mr. Higgins has got no heart." "Heart!" shouted Joe, "Phew! them agents haint got no hearts. Won't I pay off old Higgins the next April-fool day. I'll pin a streamer on his coat tail that'll reach from here to the City Hall." Just then a low whistle from one of Joe's comrades, made him stop and look around. "I'm off, Em.," he said; "Mother says you can put some of your traps in our place till you get a chance to turn around." Joe disappeared. In a few minutes more Emma had reached home; the morning air had brought a little color to her cheek, but all its freshness and beauty could not charm away the load of care that was far too heavy for so young a heart. On entering her mother's room, Emma met Mr. Higgins just coming out. He took no notice of her, and she had no eyes for any one but her mother, who stood in the middle of the floor with a paper in her hand. She was striving with some difficulty to decipher the concise legal terms which comprehended the order to make her and her helpless children homeless the following day. Emma delivered the message from Mr. Isaacs. "What will you do?" she asked, lifting her troubled face to her mother who was still studying the paper. "I shall take the basement at six dollars. You must go and ask the Dispensary doctor to come and see the baby, and then hurry back and help me iron; we must get the money for these clothes, for I have nothing to move with. I have little more than three dollars, and we must pay the six down or Isaacs won't let us in. "But mother, Joe says that Mr. Higgins would move us out." "Aye, that he will!" said the mother; "he'll set us on the side-walk fast enough. page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] Little he'll care whether we get any further. No carman will take us over short of twenty shilling or three dollars." CHAPTER IX. SEVERAL days had passed since the moving; days that were as weeks to Emma, so crowded had they been with labor, change, and anxiety. She was sitting alone vith the sick baby in the basement which was now their home. It was not Mr. Isaacs' basement. Emma scarcely realized how her mother's determined purpose of securing a place up town, near to her customers, and in the healthier part of the city, had been defeated. From the small window of the room she could see little but the stone wall and the broken stone steps ascending to the court above: this court was the yard of the rear houses, to which the basement belonged. It was closely inclosed by the great page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] tenement block in front, and the walls of the adjacent yard. Sunshine could only glance into this yard for an hour or two in the day; there could be no free circulation of air. The tenements were crowded with filthy, quarrelsome people, and swarming with wild-looking children; Carrie and Johnny were already choosing their companions among these. Emma went to the door to look for them. She could not see from the low landin, and was ascending the steps for a better view, when a little barcfooted girl, her face surrounded with frowsy black hair, came run nng towards her. The child had the colorless face, and the nervous voice, and manner often found among the children of such houses. These are often children of the best mental capacity, those who under better circumstances would be found more sensitive, and intelligent. "Emma Parker," she exclaimed, with hurried gesticulations; "carriage out front; full 'o rich folks; want you! Hurry up; you git something now, I bet a penny!" "Who is it?" asked Emma. "I dunno. Tall lady, dressed black; little lady, all silk, an' splendid. You git something; hurry up! "Here the wild little messenger, with a flourish of her hand, was ieading the way into the dark alley leading from the rear court through the basement of the front block to the street. "Jenny," called Emma, "come back." The child turned reluctantly, her eagerness to see the carriage again, stimulated by some half-dozen other children, who were rallying from every direction. "Jenny," called Emma, again, "its my Sunday-school teacher; she don't know we've got the scarlet fever." "Don't you up and tell her," said Jenny, turning back; "they'll go right off- ye won't git nothin'." "I will tell her," said Emma, resolutely, following Jenny. "You're a fool!" shouted Jennie. page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] "You're a fool!" echoed her satellites, the number of which was each moment increasing. Then, finding Emma's purpose likely to prevail, Jenny suddenly changed her own, and said, "Tell her myself." .Away she ran through the dark alley, but Jenny could not run very fast for she stumbled on the trailing rags of her dress, an over the less active boys and girls that crowded about her. Muttering bad words against them, and bent, at all hazards, in keeping the precedence of Emma, Jennie reached at length the end of the alley, and a moment more her queer little head appeared at the top of the front basement steps, level with the side-walk. "She's got scarlet fever! Yard full o' scarlet fever!" screamed the excited child. The other children were yelling in imitation, not knowing, however, what they were saying; the whole was but a wild babel of inarticulate sounds. The carriage was standing in front of the block, a footman holding open the door. The two ladies had just alighted, confused and frightened by the noisy salute- they were evidently irresolute. "Miss Ellis," called Emma from the top of the steps. She called twice before her voice reached the lady above the confusion; then Miss Ellis turned and walked towards her. Emma was standing on the top step. "Oh, Miss Ellis!" she said, "don't come, baby's got the scarlet fever." The lady turned back suddenly, and spoke earnestly for a moment to her companion; meantime the children's noise had subsided into silent curiosity. Emma could hear that Miss Ellis was urging her companion to leave her and return in the carriage. Anxious for the teacher's safety, yet eager to speak with her, Emma unconsciously drew a little nearer. She now discovered that the young lady was Miss Fanny Lewis, and that she was refusing to go back in the carriage, unless Miss Ellis would accompany her. Miss Ellis remonstrated in a low voice; then Miss Fanny said aloud, "You are far more delicate than I am." page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] "Perhaps, for that reason," replied the other, "I'm in less danger. I never take a fever, but you, in your perfect health, are more susceptible." The young lady still demurred. Miss Ellis gently pressed her into the carriage, and closed the door herself, as she said to the footman, "Come back for me in half an hour." The carriage drove away, and Miss Ellis stood alone upon the narrow, dirty sidewalk, with the wild-looking children around her. She opened her bag and distributed a few apples among them; then held out her hand to Emma, who hesitated to come forward. "Show me where you live, my child," she said, with a smile. Emma trembled with pleasure and timidity as she took the proffered hand. "We live back in the rear," she said, turning to lead the way. Miss Ellis' gentle face expressed pain, as she descended into the dark alley- some ill-smelling water, from a defective sewer, having made a pool directly in their path. "Be careful, Miss Ellis," said Emma, "don't wet your feet." They succeeded in getting safely over the pool, but the whole place was noxious with dampness and impurity. "My poor child, why did you come here to live," asked Miss Ellis. "We couldn't get a better place," replied Emma. They walked in silence through the alley into the court beyond; then the lady spoke again, "I could not find out from the people in the house were you used to live exactly where you had gone; they knew the street, but not the number. Some one else had been searching for you, too, from Mr. Tomkins, I believe." "That must be the good cook," said Emma, looking up. They had now descended into her own basement. She had not been absent more than five minutes. The baby was lying just page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] as she left it moaning and throwing its little hands in pain. Miss Ellis looked more than ever distressed, as she glanced around the small, dark, damp room. "This is a dreadful place, Emma: you'll all be sick here. I feel the dampness through all my warm wrapping." "I fear you will take cold, Miss Ellis." "My poor child, if I cannot bear it a few minutes, what can you do?" Miss Ellis sat down close by the stove, in which a scanty fire of cinders was burning. "Have you no more coal?" she asked. "Not till mother comes home; Carrie and Johnny picked these from the streets." "Did you know, Emma that you was going to be put out when I saw you the other evening." "Yes, ma'am." Emma did not understand that the pain in Miss Ellis' face now was mingled with self-reproach. She rose and went to look at the baby. Emma followed her. "I think he is not so bad," she said; "he cried dreadfully last night, but now he is almost asleep." Miss Ellis doubted whether he was asleep, or lying in unconcious exhaustion. "His face was as red as fire," continued Emma; "but now it is whiter." Miss Ellis laid her hand upon the little forehead; the fever was certainly cooling, but the throat was swollen and discolored, and the breathing and the plaintive moans came with difficulty. Miss Ellis turned again to Emma. "Have you had no physician!" "The dispensary doctor came once, but he was very cross. Mother said he didn't care for the baby, and so sha wouldn't have him again." "Were you put out of your other house, Emma?" "Mr. Higgins was going to set us on the sidewalk. Mother said she would get a certificate from the dispensary doctor, and sue him. Then he got very mad, and cursed page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] dreadfully, and mother said we might as well go first as last." Emma paused. "What then?" said Miss Ellis. "Then we were going into a basement up town, but mother had only four dollars in the morning, and had to use some of that for breakfast. Mother carried the clothes home, but the lady was out of town, and she could not get the pay. Mother got a little, but she could not get enough. Mr. Isaacs said if we were such uncertain folks we shouldn't come, anyhow. Then mother had some acquaintance down this way, and she found this place for four dollars, but the carman wanted twenty shillings to move us. We didn't know what to do, but Joe Hardy knew another carman, and he said he'd move us for two dollars, and mother might pay when she could get it, and the woman in the house with us lent mother fifty cents." Emma paused; Miss Ellis had again approached the baby; it was throwing its hands and rolling it eyes in a spasm. "You had better go for your mother, Emma," she said. "She is coming," replied Emma, as she caught sight of her mother's shawl against the window as she descended the steps. Mrs. Parker started in surprise at the sight of her visitor; the next moment she was too occupied with her baby to speak. "He is better now, mother," said Emma, as the spasm passed from his face. "Oh my heart!" said the poor woman, "he'll never be better no more." "Will you let me send my doctor?" asked Miss Ellis. "Oh my! what good will it do? Oh my baby! my poor lamb!" the widow sat down with the little rigid form in her arms, rocking herself to and fro; and crying- "Oh my poor pet! my darling!" Emma stood by, too frightened for tears. Miss Ellis saw there was nothing to be done but let- the mother's grief have way. The child seemed again partially conscious, and tried to reach its arms, looking with mute page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] appeal first at its mother, then at Emma, wondering that those that loved it best could not help. "He is reaching to me," said Emma, "he wants me to do something for him, he thinks strange I don't help him." She tried to take the child but her mother put her away; it was lying still again, and the breathing grew more quiet. Emma turned to her teacher: "Miss Ellis, what makes God let the baby suffer so?" She raised her face inquiringly to her teacher's; the eyes that looked down into hers were full of tears. Then Miss Ellis sat down and drew the little girl to her side. The mother took no notice of either, she only moaned and swayed to and fro, and muttered words of helpless endearment to her dying child. "Oh God! I am punished," she said. "When this baby came I fretted because there was another to be fed and to keep me from my work; and because the poor folks, that has no money, gets all the children. Oh, mercy! my poor baby, my poor darling!" At length there was a pause, and then Miss Ellis ventured to speak. "My friend," she said, "do you not think there is comfort for you in God?" "Oh my!" replied Mrs. Parker,"you rich folks has got comfort enough; but what can we do? I know what you'll tell me, to go to Church. That chapel minister, around the corner, he'll come here and say- My good woman you should go to Church! It's all very fine for the like of him to go to Church. I wonder if he'd go if he had to work like I do, wash and iron till twelve o'clock Saturday night, then nobody to take a step for me, children crying; not a stitch decent to wear. Oh my sake! if God's like your religious people, it's mighty hard anyhow." "Oh mother, don't!" interposed Emma. Miss Ellis saw it was useless to reason with the agonized mother, and she again page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] drew Emma towards her. The little girl was now sobbing violently. "My child," said Miss Ellis, holding her hand; "You love your little brother very much. Don't you think the Saviour loves him too?" Emma's sobs grew quieter the mother groaned and turned away her face, but Miss Ellis saw that she was listening, and went on. "You wondered just now that God lets the baby suffer, but do you know that He loves him so much that he is going to take him away from all suffering for evermore?" "Is he?" asked Emma, checking her tears "Yes, Emma; the dear baby has but a hard life here at best. With all your love you cannot make him very comfortable, but your Heavenly Father, who has watched him every day, will not let him suffer any more." "Is he surely going to heaven?" asked Emma. "Yes. Surely Jesus came into the world, and became a little babe, and then grew to be a poor man, and suffered all that we suffer, and was crucified at last, on purpose that the baby might go to heaven; how much He loves him, how much he loves us all if we only would believe it." Mrs. Parker was weeping now gentle tears. Miss Ellis drew her chair near. "See, Emma," she said; "how his little face is growing still and beautiful. I do not think he feels any more pain. He does not see this cold, dark room that we are in. He sees the kind angels that have come in here, though we cannot see them. When the baby reached his arms to you, you could not help him, but Jesus saw him; he is receiving him into his own arms now." "God grant it," said the mother, in a subdued voice. Miss Ellis arose and took the little lifeless form from her arms, and laid it on the bed. The mother yielded it up with quiet tears. Just then a voice from the children in the page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] yard announced Miss Ellis's carriage. She had taken five dollars from her purse and laid it on the table. "Get some coal and food, whatever you need;" she said turning to the mother. "I will come or send again to-morrow." Mrs. Parker grasped the lady's hand in both her's. She did not speak but her silence was eloquent with grief and gratitude, and penitence. Perhaps the mingled emotion could not recognize a Diviner Being than this human teacher, but it was touching the hem of His robe through His minister. CHAPTER X. DINNER hour was over at Mr. Tompkins'. It was sometimes a dull hour, for the lady of the house was an invalid and frequently dined in her room. The one element of brightness in all the house had been absent to-day, an absence of which Mr. Tompkins was very sensible. He was a little tired of the scientific discussion in which he had been engaged during dinner with the family physician, who was also the friend and guest of the house. He was leading the way, with a somewhat absent air, back into the parlor, when a blithe little voice, called from the top of the stair-case: "Papa, my dear papa!" The brightness had come again, Mr. page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] Tompkins and his guest turned with a smile, as the child's form skipped down stairs. "Where was my pet, at dinner time," he said, stooping to kiss her. "In mamma's room; I thought I would not come down, for I knew you and the doctor were talking something very stupid." "Our little lady is not much of a flatterer," said the doctor, holding out his arms to the little girl, who ran to give him the expected kiss, and then flew back to her father. "Papa," she said, drawing him to the sofa, "I want you to sit here, in the most comfortable corner, for I have a request to make." "What has the comfortable corner to do with the request?" asked her father. "Oh, I want you to be easy, and good-natured. There, is that cushion quite right?" "Quite right," said the gentleman, laying his head back, with an amused face. "Our little lady is worldly wise," said the doctor. "Is the petition to be made in public, or must I withdraw ?" "Oh, I don't know, Dr. Burnett. But who is that in the library? I did not know Mr. Harry Lewis was here." She darted away, and in a moment returned, drawing by the hand the gentleman in question. "Papa," she went on; "Mr. Lewis knows something about my request, and he is my very particular friend." "And what may a very particular friend mean, pray?" said papa, as the little sprite skipped before him again. "I don't know that I ought to tell you, papa. It will make Mr. Iarry very much ashamed. But he asked me to be his wife. It was the other day, or last week; I have forgotten when. It was at Uncle Ellis', right before Cousin Mary and ever so many. You need not laugh, Mr. Harry, you knowv it is true." "And what did you tell him?" asked the doctor. "Did you not say, that you were page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] not three feet high, and that he is obliged to bow profoundly to kiss you?" "No, sir; I said no such big word. But Mr. Harry is my very particular friend." She was climbing upon his knee. "Young ladies who are tall enough to be engaged, do not sit upon the knee," remarked the doctor. "Ah! but doctor, my birthday does not come till spring; after that, I shall not go to bed any more at eight o'clock; and shall not sit on any one's knee." "Then, come here, directly," said papa. "Let me see as much as possible of my little girl, before that dreadful birthday." She flew to him, encircling his neck with her dimpled arms, and laughing in the joyous freedom of light-hearted love. Then, suddenly growing grave, she stood up, and fixed her full blue eyes on his face and said, seriously: "Papa, I have a great request" "And when am I to hear it?" asked the father, fondly. "Cousin Mary knows about it," she said. "Do you know that Cousin Mary Ellis is in mamma's room? Hark! I think she is coming down." The little maiden skipped away, and returned almost immediately, leading in, Miss Ellis. There was a momentary movement of greeting and introduction. Then Mr. Tompkins placed his niece beside him on the sofa, and conversation was resumed. The little butterfly that had been flitting from one to another, interposed herself between her father and cousin, and laying a soft hand on each, she said: "Cousin Mary, I am going to ask papa about the little girl now, while Dr. Burnett and Mr. Harry are so busy talking by them- selves." "Papa"- prefacing the intelligence with a kiss-" there is a poor little girl, living somewhere; she is very poor, and lives in a cellar, but she is a very good little girl, and will not tell a lie." page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "An astounding combination of qualities!" remarked Mr. Tompkins. "Papa, you are laughing at me; I can see it in your eyes, though your mouth is not laughing at all." "Well, that is abominable in papa," he said, trying to look grave. "Papa," said the child, "you must be serious, indeed you must, and hear about this little girl. She came here once a good while ago. The cook told me all about her, and then I found out that Cousin Mary knew her in the Mission Sunday-school; and Cousin Mary has been to see her. And, papa, I am so interested, I want to go and see her too." "You must ask mamma about that." "I do not think mamma will let me go; but if she will not, I must have that little girl come and see me; and you must do something for her, papa." "What can I do for her, pet?" "I wish you would give her a better house to live in; she is such a good little girl, and her name is Emma. That is the name of my biggest wax doll." "What a tremendous argument!" said Mr. Tompkins, catching the little form playfully in his arms. "Now, papa, don't choke me; indeed you must listen; I want you to give that little girl a house to live in. How would you like to have me live in a cellar?" "You, fairy!" said the gentleman. He held the little pleader at arms length, looking at her with a face which had grown grave- but tenderly grave. Some unspoken thought was casting its shadow there, as he put the sunny hair back from the pearl-like forehead, touching- as one might touch a snow-flake- its delicate tracery of veins. Miss Ellis noticed the change in his face. "Clara, dear!" she said, "your papa will hold me responsible for suggesting requests of questionable propriety." "I could never hold Mary responsible for anything very questionable," remarked Mr. Tompkins politely, "though her tastes are page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] sometimes a little peculiar." He smiled an answer to her own bright smile, and then added: "After all, I doubt if any one could make Clara a Sister of Charity." There was a little of worldly pride and triumph in his glance this time, as he promised mentally, that the grace and beauty of this only child should be well endowed for the world that was before her. "Who is this remarkable poor child?" he asked of his niece. Miss Ellis briefly narrated the account she had that evening given to her invalid aunt, in the presence of the little Clara. "Put out of one of my houses, were they?" asked Mr. Tompkins, musingly. "Yes, papa," interposed Clara, "and I wish you would not let that rude, cruel agent, treat people so." "How can I help it, pet? Don't scold papa about it, he is not to blame." Then turning to the other gentlemen who were now listening to the conversation, he added: "What do you think of this subject, Dr. Burnett; have you any experience in tenement-house property?" "A little, sir!" "Well, sir; do you think us responsible for the malpractices of our agents?" "There is a troublesome responsibility somewhere," remarked the doctor. "And how do you dispose of it? asked Mr. Tompkins again. "By simply disposing of the property, sir." "A very easy remedy," remarked the other, dryly, "Though I am not quite clear myself as to the practicability of all the landlords acting upon such a principle in a city like this." "May I ask a question?" interrupted Miss Ellis. "If it might not be possible for the landlords of the poor to improve their houses and place them under a kinder su- pervision? I know, uncle," she added (observing a slightly sarcastic smile on that gentleman's lips), "that I am very ignorant about all these things. But in visiting page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] among the children of the Mission Schools; I have been greatly oppressed by a sense of discouragements that attend our efforts to cultivate the moral life amid such degrading physical surroundings. I cannot forbear the question whether there is any remedy for so unmistakable an evil." "What does that mean?" asked Clara. "Tell me, Cousin Mary." "Never mind, dear," replied Miss Ellis, kissing the child to hide her own embarrassment. "It means, pet," said her father, "that there is a little girl of the same name as your big doll, for whom you shall buy a pair of shoes if you will go to bed now with nurse; she is waiting for you in the library door." "Ah, papa!" '"Give us a kiss now all around," said her father, playfully, holding her by the curls as she started to dart across the room. "You shall have all the money you want tomorrow for your big doll and her namesake." The child obeyed reluctantly, but in the process of kissing good-night all around, she got into the highest good humor, and was borne away laughing, and calling back her sportive good-night and other last words. "Can yOU answer Miss Ellis' question, doctor?" asked Mr. Tompkins, as the thoughts of the company reverted to the subject under discussion. "About the remedy?" was the reply. "Well, no, sir: I do not deal in moral remedies- they are out of my line." "I thought," remarked Mr. Lewis, "we were talking about physical hindrances to moral remedies?" "And a step behind those," returned the doctor, "to our moral responsibilities concerning them." "If they are ours," said Mr. Tompkins, "then state clearly, what are our duties in regard to them? You are surely too much of a philosonher to propose that every man page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] gets his neck out in the selfish way that you have done." "I propose nothing at all," replied the doctor. "I am only sympathizing with Miss Ellis' sense of the evil, and am honest enough to acknowledge a share in the responsibility; further than that I renounce the subject." "I am sorry you renounce it, doctor, said Miss Ellis, "for I had intended to ask your help in some of the cases of sickness among my poor." "It is entirely at your command, my dear lady. I will do anything for you; only remember it is for you. I cannot share your faith in the least, or think it is of the least consequence to pluck one poor creature out of fatal sickness, and set it at large to help sow more deeply and more widely the seeds of physical and moral evils in the general corruption. You will break your heart, my dear young lady, to no purposeat all." "But if a child here and there be really rescued?" objected "I doubt," replied the doctor, "if the rescue be real. Take, for instance, the little prodigy of reform which Miss Clara has so idealized. Watch it a few months; see how all you thought hopeful will develop into the coarseness and vileness from which and to which it is born." "I should believe you," said Mr. Lewis, "if I had not seen that child." "And what did you discover?" asked the doctor. "As unmistakable truth and purity as ever looked through innocent eyes, and I believe they will hold their own through all circumstances." "Very well," replied the doctor, "I admit there are a few such cases; but what is the result? This very delicacy of nature unfits them for their heritage; they must die in it as a delicate flower under a ruthless foot." "But, doctor," said Mr. Lewis, "you were talking about responsibilities, our responsibtiliies." page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] "Yes, sir," replied the doctor, carelessly. "I merely admit them; I do not explain or answer for them. I shut my eyes and await retribution with the rest of my class." "Retribution!" exclaimed Mr. Tompkins, impatiently. "Yes, sir, retribution," said the doctor, coolly. "Dickens expresses the thing I mean, very well. Do you happen to remember the revenge of 'Tom All-Alone?'" "Not particularly," replied Mr. Tompkins. "Let me refresh your memory then, and save myself further originality." The doctor stepped into the library, and presently returned with a volume, from which he read the paragraph: "Tom may and can, or shall and will be reclaimed according to somebody's theory, but nobody's practice. And in the hopeful meantime Tom goes to perdition headforemost in his old determined spirit. But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers. There is not a drop of Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection somewhere; there is not an atom of Tom's slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not an obscurity or degradation about him; not an ignorance, not a brutality, not a wickedness of his committing- but shall work its retribution through every order of society. Verily, what with tainting and spoiling Tom has his revenge!" page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] CHAPTER XI. AFTER the baby's death, Mrs. Parker worked with more ease, and less in- terruption. She never alluded to her loss. She put away with a kind of pious care every little relic of the lost child, the little worn shoe, a tattered dress or two; a few playthings of home manufacture. She found a place to hide them, with tears and groans at the time. But now it was as if the grave had closed upon her very memory; so entirely did her resolute nature stifle the instinct of a mother's agony. "I don't want him back," was all she would ever say now; "he's a deal better off than we are, anyhow." Emma pined in secret for her little charge. She was still kept from school. Her mother must work harder than ever to make up the unusual expenses and debts of the last few weeks. Care of the children, and the actual labor she was obliged to share, occupied all her time, and sometimes sorely overtaxed her light strength. But with new sorrow, Emma had also new comforts. She had been allowed to return to Sunday-school. Her teacher had supplied the needed garments, and what was even more to Emma, had repeatedly called at their humble room. Her mother had found new customers in this part of the city, and had decided not to return up-town before spring. Miss Lewis was giving them a good deal of work, and had sent repeated kind messages. Mr. Harry Lewis had called once. He only stayed a few moments, but Emma could not forget the kind tone, with which he assured her they should have a better room to live in. He also informed her mother that his sister had made arrangements for Emma to come to their house twice a week during the holidays, which page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] were close at hand, to render some little services, for which she would be regularly paid. Meantime Mrs. Parker was authorized to watch for the first vacancy which might occur in an upper room. On the top floor, in the rear house, in which they now lived, was a family who seemed to have little to do with the rest of the inhabitants; that is- as a family, or as to any knowledge of their occupation or habits, which could be gathered. There was enough curiosity manifested in regard to them, and strange stories about them sometimes reached Emma's ear. There seemed to be some doubt as to the number of persons of whom this family consisted. No one was seen to go regularly in and out, except the mother, a rather young and pretty-looking woman, and the wild black-haired child, who has already been introduced as Jenny. It was evident, however, that there was also a little crippled boy, younger than Jenny. He never went out, and if surprised in the hall, or the stairs, would hasten back to his room, as fast as his little maimed limbs could carry him. The mother came home very late almost every night, sometimes not until early morning. She would not appear again until afternoon, when she would go away closely wrapped and veiled. Jenny certainly did not partake of the family seclusiveness. She was to be seen and heard in every spot her feet could reach. She was quite an autocrat among the children of the yard, leading the way into all sorts of mischief, and ruling over them with unquestioned superiority. Sometimes she would sit upon the ground cross-legged, upon the one spot in the yard, where the sun shone at noon, and hold her wierd little company of listeners spellbound, with the most remarkable stories. These usually related to her own adventures, or family history. They were repeated in disjointed fragments to the grown-up people in-doors; of course exciting greatly the universal curiosity and gossip of the yard. It was impossible to build any consistent impression from these accounts, however, page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] perhaps the next day Jenny with dramatic effect would give a new version completely overturning and contradicting the last. One mild noon-day, when the sheltered yard was warm with an unusual contribution of sunlight, Emma, who was drawing water from the hydrant before the door, heard Jenny coming down stairs, to take the post of honor so readily awarded. She was calling back as she ran, in a hurried tone to the little cripple brother- "Go back, I tell you, an' stay in the room where ye belong." Then, as if not obeyed, she turned and stamped her foot. "Get along back with ye, I say. If I see the tip of yer nose out of the door, I'll smash it!" Emma, whose sympathies had several times been excited in behalf of the unseen little cripple, set down her water-pail, and ran up the first flight of stairs. Jenny had run back towards her room. Emma could hear the child's half crying voice, apparently retreating into the upper room, where it seenmed to be stifled by the door closing. "Why don't you let him come down, Jenny?" asked Emma, stepping aside to make way for the wild child, who was almost flying down stairs. She was clinging to the old banister, and precipitated herself at last into the yard, alighting with the most incredible skill upon her toes, then waltzing off, making the air ring with laughter. "Em. Parker!" she answered at length to Emma, who had followed as close as possible, "ye'd better b'lieve,"- making a swoop into the midst of the children, who were applauding open mouthed- "they'd be the mischief to pay ef he got in the street." "What for?" asked a little urchin. Jenny was courting curiosity and inquiry. "Guess I wont tell you young uns, only Carric Parker." She made a great show of whispering to Carrie, who was foremost among her auditors. "Oh my! Jenny, what a lie!" said Carrie. page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] "Hope to die if'taint true, ev'ry word," said Jenny, with emphatic gesture. Emma had forgotten the water-pail and was pressing into the crowd. "Tell us now; tell us, can't ye; tell us now," they shouted in varied and impatient tones. "You sit down, now, ev'ry limb on ye, and don't ve tell a soul; one o' ye! if yer do, now, mind." "We won't tell," said one. "Hurry up," said another. Jenny was by no means disposed to submit to this last dictation. She adjusted her tangled hair with the utmost deliberation; twisted her feet into a more comiortable position; then folded her hands, and looked complacently about her. The children were breathless with curiosity. "I tell ye what, young uns," said Jenny, at length. "Ye don't know what's goin' to be in the beer saloon down in Mott Street?" "What? what is it," asked the children. Jennny whispered mysteriously. "You lie! Jenny Lenare," shouted a boy who was a little taller than herself. Jenny and the boy rose simultaneously, and then there was a momentary interruption, while she dared him to fight her. The audience had no objection to this scene, but it was less a novelty than the new disclosure might be; so they all set to, to procure peace, which after a few retorts and thrusts, was concluded. Jenny resumed her position. Fixing her eyes with a malicious triumph upon her skeptical opponent, she went on with renewed confidence: "I won't tell ye who it was, boys an' gals, what come home with me t'other night. He gih me that splendid red ribbon I had on Sunday. He's been tryin' all winter to find out where we live. Now he's found out, an' he come t'other night, an' he had a row with my mother. Ain't my mother scared, though? He sayed he was goin' to take Bub off' an' me too, but my sakes! I'd laugh to see him git me!" page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] She did laugh, in which the children joined from mere infection, till the court rang again. Jenny procured silence in her own time and way, and went on with resumed seriousness- "Girls an' boys, don't ye tell my mother; for the world; but I'm goin' to meet somebody in Mott Street. My mother she kinder objects to it. She hed to go 'way 'forenoon to-day; she couldn't lock me in. I'd come out the winder, and down the outside the house. I'd jest ketch my foot on that t'other wall an' be down afore you could wink yer eye." "You couldn't do it, Jenny," said a little girl. "Law! you fool! I've done it twenty times. I can come outer any place, The copp knows it no use to stick me in the station-house. One tuk me up on Fifth Avenue last week, and put me in the Tombs. Law wa'n't I out in a giffy when his back was turned." It happened there was this time more than usual foundation for Jenny's narrative. It was well known in the court that a few nights before, a strange man, a "gentleman" it was affirmed, had brought Jenny home about midnight. Her mother had just come in. Immediately after an altercation was overheard. Presently the voices were controlled into a coversational tone. A short conference seemed to ensue. Exaggerating gossip went on to declare that this had been followed by a second altercation, and that Mrs. Lenare had been seen through the key hole, after the man's departure, weeping over her children, and declaring that she would not give them up. Of course curiosity and speculation were on tiptoe. Some of the women of the yard, learning that Jenny was story-telling, were now dropping into the outer circle of her audience, with babies in their arms. Jenny went on, "You see, young 'uns, my mother says I sha'n't never go to Mott Street again; but bless yer! I'm goin', Christmas Eve. He's goin' to gin me a page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] splendid present. I think I'll go to night, too. Guess who I'll take with me!" "Me!" "Me!" shouted one and another. "I wouldn't go," said one little girl. "Nor I," said another. "I'd be afraid." "Law, yer fools!" said Jenny, contemptuously. "He's a real likely feller. I'm goin' to take Carrie Parker, she ain't afraid." "No," replied Carrie, stoutly, "I'm not afraid." "Emma Parker," said a woman who had just Come up, "your mother 'll give it to you for letting the children hear such talk." Emma had already got Johnny by the hand, and was trying to force him home. He resisted. "Oh! what shall I do!" said Emma, letting go of Johnny, who at once made his way back to the group. She called to Carrie; "Mother will not let you go with that bad girl." "You go in the house," shouted Carrie, "and wash the dishes." "You come and help me," responded Emma, who had succeeded again in tugging Johnny to the top of the basement steps. "No, I am going to Mott Street with Jenny. page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] CHAPTER XII. T0 Emma's great relief, her mother came home earlier than usual in the evening. Carrie was summarily brought to order, forbidden to leave the house again that night, and when she fretted against the derangement of her plans with Jenny, was put to bed. For more than a week after this, the widow brought her work home. Emma's assistance was now constantly required. Carrie was instituted Johnny's protector, with the assurance that she was to be put to school after the holidays. Emma was beginning to forget her dread of Jenny. This strange child, perfectly conscious of her own power over the children of the court, was not a little piqued that Mrs. Parker did not appreciate it. She was driven away from the basement, and Carrie forbidden to speak to her. With a depth of trickery beyond her years, Jenny set herself to thwart this watchfulness, and carry her point. Christmas came and went. In the Sunday-school, to which Emma had attracted many of the neighboring children, there had been a festival. The usual distribution of toys and candies brought only a short-lived pleasure, but no real comfort to the miserable homes from which these children came. Emma had ceased to attend the Sunday-school where Miss Ellis taught, the distance being too great for her to walk. This kind teacher still remembered, and sometimes visited Emma, but having her own large and increasing class, was not able to give the poor child that attention which she needed. Emma's new teacher called her a good girl, but she never came to see her. She heard the children's lessons from the Catechism and Question-book regularly, but she seldom opened the Bible page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] itself. The chapel with which the school was connected was presided over by a young minister, who surely did not lack energy. He certainly was very anxious for a full congregation, applauded it when large, and scolded it when small, as though it were an individual whose moral responsibility was entirely comprised in its size and appearance. "He is a very nice man," Emma said one day to her mother, as they stood together at the wash-tub. "Then, why don't you be satisfied," returned her mother, "and not go fretting about Miss Ellis every Sunday." Emma was silent. "I am sure he talked very nice," Mrs. Parker went on (she had been once to church). "I don't care much for going myself, but you're so fond of going you ought to be satisfied, now I let you off every Sunday." Emma sighed. "Oh, yes," she said: "I'm very glad to go, and the minister talks very nice, and tells folks to be good. He gets talking very hard, and motions with his arms a great deal, but he don't tell much about Jesus." Mrs. Parker did not comprehend this, and the conversation dropped. That evening, as they were going to bed, Emma's mother said: I'll have to be away all day to-morrow, and all night, too." "All night!" exclaimed Emma, in dismay. "Yes," said her mother; "I've a nice job with a lady, who has a great party to-morrow night. They'll be there high all night, then I'll have to clear away. I won't be let home till morning. You must finish the clothes that are in the basket, and keep the children in the yard. You needn't tell nobody I'm away, but be sure and fasten up good, and go to bed early." The following morning Mrs. Parker went away, according to the plan. Carrie was unusually good, and helpful; helped Emma, and kept Johnny within call all the fore- page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] noon. After their simple dinner of potatoes and rye-bread and molasses, she began to grow restless, and asked leave to go into the street. Emma refused. She was herself very much interested in trying to finish a larger quantity of work than her mother had required. Towards the close of the short afternoon she put the last article of clean linen into the basket, which was to be taken to a customer in a neighboring street. The mother's orders were to finish the linen, and have it in the basket for herself to take home the next morning. Emma, proud of having accomplished so much, and ambitious to surprise her mother still more, resolved to carry it herself at once. She directed Carrie to let no one into the room during her absence, gave Johnny a crust of bread to keep him quiet, and started on her errand. The distance was somewhat greater than she had anticipated. She was not sure of the number, and lost time by ringing once or twice at the wrong door. At length her object was accomplished, and she hastily retraced her steps. A woman was standing near the basement stairs, with her apron over her head. "Your Carrie has played hooky," she remarked as Emma approached. "What!" said Emma. "Your Carrie," persisted the woman, she's played hooky; you'd better stay to home, when you're mother's gone." Emma made no reply, but rushed down the steps into her own room. Johnny sat upon the middle of the floor, with the fragments of his crust scattered about him. He was kicking and wailing in a very dissatisfied way. "Where's Carrie?" asked Emma. "She wouldn't let me go," muttered Johnny, rubbing both eyes with his fists, and trying to cry afresh. Emma turned, and ran again to the top of the steps. Here she stopped, and called "Carrie!" No Carrie answered, but a group of children ran out of the wood-shed, all talking together, and vicing with each page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] other to give the loudest information. All that Emma could understand was, that her sister had gone somewhere with Jenny Lenare. She went back into the basement much troubled. How suddenly all tle pleasure of success in her work had been lost by one act of disobedience. Feeling guilty and unhappy, she walked to the window, and then again to the door. Her first impulse was to go to her mother. Then she remembered her mother could not leave her work, and would only send her to search for Carrie. The short twilight had now set in; it was already dark in the lowx room. Emma was walking to and fro in distress and doubt, when there was a tap at the door, and the woman with the apron over her head appeared. "Emma Parker," she said, "you'd better go hunt up your sister." "I don't know where to go," said Emma. "I heerd Jenny ask her," replied the woman, "to go to Fritz Kemp's beer saloon, in Mott street. I've seen Jenny there myself more than once. That Jenny's an awful bad girl. I wouldn't leave a young one of mine with her a minute." "But what can I do with Johnny?" returned Emma. "He's cross and sleepy enough," said the woman; " can't you put him to bed and lock him in?" "Mother forbid my doing that, when there's a fire in the stove," replied Emma. "Sure enough," said the woman. "Well, I'll tell you what, "I'll mind Johnny; he can lie down 'long side of my young ones. Come upstairs, Johnny, there's a good boy." "No," said Johnny, "I'm going with Emma." There was a little loss of time in coaxing and bribing Johnny to terms, and then Emma, tying her hood, was running away, when the woman called, "Do you know where Mott street is?" "I can find it," said Emma, without looking back. page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "It was easier to find the street than to distinguish the saloon of Fritz Kemp among the many low drinking places which held. out their signs on either hand. Emma found it, however, at length. It was brightly lighted, and men just from their work were dropping in to spend the wages that cursed rather than blessed their families. Others who were out of work were lounging about, discussing dirty newspapers, or talking in knots. Emma stepped cautiously in, and approached a screen, behind which two men were playing cards. They did not seem very earnest at the game, but were laughing and jesting. Emma was about to turn away, when she heard one of the men say: "Well, now, young 'un, will you come with me? You'll make a, first-rate ballet-dancer." "No, I won't," replied a shrill, child's voice, which Emma recognized as Jenny s. "Won't, hey!" returned the man, "then I'll make you. I'll have some papers made out that'll fix you two young ones, you'll tell your mother that from me." Jenny burst into her own wild, elfish laugh. Just then her eye caught Emma who had pressed forward. She made a dive at her, exclaiming: "Hulloa, Em. Parker, come and shake hands with the baboon!" "No," said Emma, shrinking back in horror, "what have you done with my sister?" The man reached backward to clutch Jenny, who was dancing away from him. "What's that you call me?" he asked. Jenny skipped in front of him, and repeated the epithet in a provoking whisper. The man caught at her again, but she waltzed around out of his reach. "Won't she make a nice dancer, though?" giving a significant nod to his companion. The other nodded with a gruff demand that he should go on with the game, and let the child alone. Meantime Emma succeeded in catching Jenny by the dress, and repeated her question. page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "I dunno," said Jenny, stopping for breath, "she got scared, gone home, I s'pose." Frightened at the strange scene around her, and hopeless of getting any coherent information from Jenny, Emma slipped out of an end door which opened into an adjacent street. Jenny followed her. "I wish you'd tell me where Carrie is," said Emma. "Gone home, I tell ye; come now, I'm going, too." "I don't believe you know the way," said Emma, who was completely bewildered by leaving the shop through the wrong door. "Bother the way," said Jenny, "I'll go to the theatre where my mother is. There's where Carrie is. I tell'd her I'd meet her there." "Oh, dear!" said Emma, in a tone of distress, "I don't believe a word you say." "Be you looking for a little white-haired girl what's lost?" asked a peanut woman, who sat at her stall close by. "Yes, ma'am," said Emma. "Well, I seed her a crying here, a spell ago; she didn't know where she lived nor nothin'. Ye might as well go to the station-house. Like enuf she got tuk up." "Where is the station-house?" asked Emma. "I know-I'll tell you!' shouted a boy; "you go along that street a good bit, then you turn to your right, then you go a block or two and turn to your left and by'me by you'll come to it." The directions were not very clear to Emma. She walked a little way and then stood still; she had no idea of the points of compass or of the name of the street into which she had come. It was a narrow, dark street; the bright windows of the saloons and shops were left behind; the glimmering lamps on the corners scarcely relieved the gloom. To add to her difficulty, large flakes of snow were beginning to fall, that blinded her eyes and melted in her neck, cold and wet. There were plenty of people passing; some were swearing, some page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] staggering, all in a hurry. Emma tried to speak first to one and then another, but they passed too quickly. Boys were shouting their delight at the new falling snow, and dogs were barking. Emma longed for a quiet place to collect her thoughts. There was a little alley, near by, leading apparently into a coal yard. There was a little shop at the corner which seemed to be closed; a large coal-box was built against the side of it, just in the entrance of the alley; it was out of the way of the passers by, and slightly sheltered by an old-fashioned gable roof. Emma stepped aside and leaned against the box. "There is no one to help me," she murmured. "Carrie is lost and I'm lost." No one seemed to have heard or seen her. The street din was so loud and the snow was so blinding. "If only I had a place where I could go and pray, perhaps Jesus would help me." The little girl laid her head on the box on which the snow was beginning to drift, and her tears fell for the first time. It was as though the mention of that Name, the Name of the only Friend she could think of, had opened a spring of tenderness; it was like a touch of a gentle hand. She murmured again, through her sobs: "O Jesus, if you can hear me in the snow and all the noise, please to find Carrie." page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] CHAPTER XIII. TWO or three minutes passed, during which Emma was so benumbed by chilliness, and bewildered by the strangeness of her situation, that she seemed to have lost all power for further effort. She was weary and drowsy and wanted to lie down in the snow. Some one called her name. She started and looked up. "Emma, Emma Parker," said the voice again. It was Jenny; she was running towards her through the snow, with the utmost independence. "Oh my! what a fool you be!" she exclaimed. "If you'd stayed a minute longer, you'd have got something good, he gin it to me, he" Jenny smacked her lips and bounced upon the box upon which Emma leaned. "Em., ain't you green? Ye can't stand up for yerself." It was evident that Jenny could stand up for herself, and that she had taken refreshment and was quite ready for any new campaign. "Ye come along" giving Emma a pull which almost threw her down. "Let's go to the station-house, I 'spect Carrie is there." Emma roused herself and followed her companion. She had not strength, however, to step so quickly, and would have been left far behind had not Jenny been a good deal occupied in making snow balls, which she threw at dogs and boys and men indiscriminately. They reached the station-house in a few minutes. Jenny led the way in, not at all abashed by two policemen, who were leading just before them an angry, drunken man. Her indomitable love of mischief disposed her to get as close behind them as possible. *Emnma held her back. The man was led page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] into some back room, where Emma could hear his voice in a louder key, cursing and menacing. There were other voices too coming from other rooms, which Emma recognized as female voices, screaming, entreating and demanding. Emma drew back in terror. "Come along," said Jenny, giving her a sudden twitch. Emma followed reluctantly. Jenny approached a railing which enclosed a counter, at which an officer was engaged in writing. "There's a young 'un lost, and we want her!" was her concise demand. The officer pointed with his pen to another, who stood outside the railing, and then went on writing. The mnan addressed, opened a door and summoned a woman, who came forward with a rather irritable face, looking as if her patience were a good deal tried. "More young 'uns took up," she exclaimed. "We'll be chuck full before midnight." "We ain't tuk up," said Jenny, "but we want somebody what is tho-" Then without waiting for further invitation, she pressed her way into a large room, where a number of rugs, apparently used for beds, were spread. upon the floor. On one of these a woman sat nursing an infant. She was rocking herself to and fro, and muttering and groaning. Several children were scattered about the place; some were sleeping, some staring and crying. No Carrie there. Emma and Jenny turned back again into the outer room. A large clock was just striking eight. The two officers who had hidden away the drunken man were standing before a huge cylinder stove, warming their hands and talking. Another came in, stamping violently to disengage himself from the snow, which clodded upon his boots, and completely feathered his coat and hat. After a few Herculean efforts, he advanced to the stove, and opened the door to light his cigar. Meantime Jenny and Em- page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] ma were in conversation with the officer to whom they had first spoken. Jenny, however, was the chief spokesman. Emma timidly answered a few questions. The conference ended in the officer's saying: "Well, you may as well go; there's no such child here." He was resuming his writing, merely looking up to say, "You might go to the Central Station-house, may be she's there." "Ketch me!" said Jenny, shrugging her shoulders. "Telegraph, can't ye?" "No," said the officer, angrily, "you go your way." "I tell ye," said Jenny, straightening herself up, "I ain't agoin' till ye telegraph; I guess I know what's what." The man laid down his pen, and turning again to the under officer, exclaimed: "Put this child out, or lock her up." Jenny wheeled round toward the under officer, with the air of a cat that has been insulted, and can do nothing but spit. She was fully a match for him in everything but physical force. The unfortunate discrepancy in this particular was against Jenny's purpose, and she was lodged on the sidewalk with the command to "get along home." Entirely undaunted, Jenny waltzed to the outside of the window, where she stood making up faces at the back of the officer, to the intense amusement of the others, who smoked and looked on. Emma stood still, afraid to turn either way. The officer who was writing glanced once or twice at her white frightened face. At length, shutting his book, he asked: "What is the name of the child that is lost?" "Carrie Parker." "How old?" asked the officer again. "Seven years old." "Old enough to give her number, then!" "I'm afraid she don't know it," said Emma; "we've lately moved, and there's no numbers in that street- I'm afraid she don't even know the street." page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] "You be sure you teach it to her if she is found," said the officer. Emma watched him while he dotted the inquiry, and dispatched the telegram. In a few moments the reply came back, "No." "She's not there," said the officer. "You'd better go home, may be she's found her way there." Emma's wearied and bewildered mind had passed the point of mental anxiety; she turned away from the station-house like one in a dream. Jenny joined her. "Did that old scalliwag telegraph?" she asked. "He's a rhinoceros! He's a beggar!" Jenny racked her small head for every conceivable epithet of reproach, ending with the tremendous threat, that she'd come in some night "and crush his bones and claw his hair." "Oh my! Emma," she added at the next breath, twitching her companion into a cross street as she spoke. "You're green. I'm bound to get over to Broadway." Emma followed mechanically. She seemed to have no definite thought till the rattling of the stages on the round pave stones, and the brilliant shop windows, proved that they were on Broadway. Emma thought she could now find her way home, and this seemed the only thing to be done. "No," said Jenny, eagerly catching her hand, "it's only a little way now to my mother's theater, let's go!" "No," said Emma. "Yes," said Jenny, with rather more nerve, if not more strength, than Emma. They pulled in contrary directions; then Jenny let go, and Emma fell off the sidewalk. She jumped up irritated and covered with snow. It had roused her, however, to a little vexation, which started the tears, and her energy at the same time. "I'm going home," she said, "and I'm going to tell my mother how you've lost Carrie." "I hain't lost her," said Jenny, laughing, and shaking the snow from Emma's dress. "You don't know the way home!" page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] Emma turned away without deigning a reply. Jenny burst into another laugh; "You're going straight into the Battery; good for you!" Emma hesitated, anxious to know the way, yet too proud now to ask it of Jenny. Observing that the latter had slipped into a store, where something had attracted her attention, she stood still watching for some one to whom she dared to put her question. She was pushed and jostled till, making a desperate venture, and looking up at a gentleman who was close by, she said, "Please, sir,. show me the way to Mott street." "Mott street is a long way from here," said the gentleman, stopping; "do you live there?" "No," said Emma, "but if I was there- Oh! Mr. Lewis! I did not know it was you!" It was indeed Mr. Lewis, but disguised by his high overcoat collar, and muffling comforter, as well as by the now fast falling snow. "Why Emma! you poor child, are you lost?" "Yes, sir, she's lost," said Jenny, now mnaking her appearance; "she's lost, she's green." "And are you lost," asked the gentleman. "Law, no, ye couldn't lose me, no more en ye could a monkey." "Mr. Lewis?" interposed Emma, timidly laying her hand upon his arm to direct his attention from Jenny, "I have lost Carrie, and I don't know what to do." "Yes," put in Jenny, "she runned right off, I spect she's in some station-house. That old scalliwag, he lied." Mr. Lewis drew the children to the entrance of a stairway that they might speak with less interruption. His questions were but imperfectly answered, for Emma was sobbing, and Jenny rattling on in the most incoherent manner. He deliberated a few moments, and then said: page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] "We will inquire a little further before going home, at the nearest station-house. Come with me." He turned as he spoke, threading his way through the crowd. The two children, hand in hand, kept as near him as possible. "Oh! my!" whispered Jenny, in a gossipping tone, " ain't you lucky Em., to know sech rich folks; der ye see his black gloves and shiny hat? that's why he's got a 'brella. Lor! he be's a big-bug!" Emma nudged her to procure silence. She might as well have nudged the wind that whirled the snow into their faces. In a few moments, however, they had reached a station-house. Mr. Lewis entered, and walked up to the counter with perfect assurance. Emma felt a sudden relief at the deference with which his inquiries were answered, and the promptness with which they were conducted into the inner room, where, among a crowd of women and children, was the object of their search. The lost Carrie sat upon the floor eating, with perfect composure, some oat-meal gruel from a tin basin. "Oh Carrie! my dear sister," exclaimed Emma, throwing herself upon the child's neck with tears and kisses. "Don't Em.," replied Carrie, "you'll spill my porridge." Mr. Lewis laughed. "'Von't you give these two children some porridge too?" he asked of the woman, who seemed to have charge of the room. Emma had sunk upon the floor beside her sister, almost fainting with exhaustion. She was revived, however, by the oat-meal gruel. Jenny ate too, muttering meanwhile "that it was an awful shabby station-house, that couldn't give a body a bit of gingerbread." "Now children," said Mr. Lewis, when the refreshment was dispatched, "what am I to do with you? If I get you into a Grand street car, the conductor would let you out within a few blocks from home." "Oh! yes, sir," said Jenny, "we knows," page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] then whispered with a poke in Emma's side, "tip top! We'll git a ride now." "I'm afraid to trust you," said Mr. Lewis thoughtfully, as they walked along to find the car. "I believe I will go with you as far as the car goes." He lifted them all in. The car chanced not to be very full, so that they all had seats on the same side. Carrie and Jenny climbed upon their knees on the seat, for the better accommodation of looking out of the window. Emma sat very still. Her benefactor watched her for a moment, then stooping down he whispered "What are you thinking of?" Emma looked up, blushed, and then dropped her eyes. "I was thinking," she said: Mr. Lewis was waiting for the answer. "I was thinking," she said again, "That you are very glad, you have found me to-night?" he asked smiling. "I am very glad of that sir, but it was not that." "What then?" he asked, still watching the changeful expression of her face. "I was thinking sir, what a good friend Jesus is, to find Carrie when I asked him." Mr. Lewis was silent with surprise. After a moment, he asked in a low voice, "Do you think that he found Carrie?" "Yes, sir'! I asked Him and He sent you; it was all the same. He heard me up in Heaven." "You are happy child," said Mr. Lewis, thoughtfully, "I should like to be of so much consequence to Heaven." "Oh! sir," replied Emma, "it is only because I am such a poor little thing, and He is so great and good." page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] CHAPTER XIV. THE little crippled boy on the top floor was an object of great interest to Emma. She had learned to watch for the sound of his weak, plaintive voice. Sometimes when he followed his mother or sister on to the stairs, Emma would run up and speak to him, but he always seemed frightened and would hurry back into the room and shut the door. Gradually, however, he became accustomed to the sight of her and would only retreat into the doorway, where he could stand and watch her. Once or twice he came forward to accept some little trifle she had brought to please him. After a while he learned her name and would call it very softly as she went down stairs. One mild day, in the end of February, Emma was hangiihg clothes upon the line in the yard to dry, when she heard the voice of her little protege, crying to Jenny in a distressed tone. Emma had emptied the basket and was returning to the basement, when Jenny appeared at the upper door talking very fast, as usual, and warning her brother to "go back where he belonged." "What does he want?" asked Emma, setting down her basket and walking to meet Jenny. "Oh! he's a plague!" said Jenny, shrugging her shoulders. "There I've got you! Kitty! Kitty!" Jenny sprang off the steps with one or two bounds and made chase after a small Maltese kitten that ran under the stoop to hide. "What are you going to do with it?" said Emma, as she stooped down to look under the rickety oldsteps for the little fugitive. Jenny could not take the trouble to reply until the kitten was secured. Meantime page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] the poor lame child in his anxiety about his little pet, had made his way down to the lower hall. "I want my kitty; I want my kitty!" he cried. "Give it to him," said Emma. "No;" said Jenny, "taint good for nothing. I'm going to give it to them boys over in the alley there. Bob you go long; you go back, I'll break yer neck." Poor little Bob usually hurried away in terror from the fierce gesticulations which Jenny used to govern him. This time something stronger than fear possessed the child. He actually laid hold of the kitten, his pale, thin face wet with tears. By this time the boys had made their appearance. Among them was the one who had so exasperated Jenny by doubting the truth of her stories. He was her avowed enemy, but always foremost among her audience, the mark on which she fixed her eyes, and at which she aimed all her gestures, in the most animated points of discourse. A mortal hatred existed between these two children. A principal source of amusement in the yard was to set them against each other like two cocks. The war might be in words or blows, both were ready for either. There was an armistice between them just at present in consequence of the little trade which happened to be on hand. "Jenny, you cruel girl," said Emma, "those boys will kill the kitten." "No, we won't," shouted Michael O'Con- nor, Jenny's antagonist. "We're going to put her in a cage." "You will hurt her, I know," said Emma, getting between the boys and the kitten. "We're going to make a menagerie," said Michael. "You get out, it's none of your business, Em. Parker," He pushed her rudely, but Emma stood her ground. "Give her to me, can't yer," said the boy, angrily, to Jenny. "You hold on," said Jenny, holding the page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] kitten behind her, "you don't get it Michael O'Connor till I have the five cents." "Give me the cat first, you shall have the money right straight." "I won't," said Jenny. "Can't yer be fair, Jenny Lenare. Here let's hand over both together. Gi' me hold of the cat and I'll gi' you the five cents." "Jenny, don't give it to him," entreated Emma, "you know he won't be fair. I'll give you five cents and an apple too, for the cat," she added in a whisper. "Yer haven't got any," said Jenny. "I have surely, Jenny," pleaded Emma in an earnest whisper. Not a child in the yard could doubt Emma's word. Partly under consideration of the greater security, and partly through the mischievous pleasure of disappointing the boy she hated; Jenny yielded the kitten to Emma, and kept the boys off while she ran into the house. The poor little animal, thus hastily passed from hand to hand, clung to Emmia with all its claws, mewing piteously. Little Bob shrunk away from the sight of the boys, and had hidden behind the entry door, spying through the crack the progress of the negotiations. His friendship was entirely won to Emma. He suffered her to help him up the stairs, while he hugged the kitten tight in his arms. He seemed very weak and ill. Do you want something?" asked Emma, as he dropped down with his small burden upon the edge of the low cot which formed his bed. He looked up into her face as she spoke with a bewildered gaze and then laid down upon the pillow, still embracing the mewing kitten. At this moment Emma heard her mother's voice calling her loudly. She turned to go. The child clung timidly to her dress. "I'll come back, Bobby, if I can," she said, kindly. The child still held her dress, whimpering in a disappointed tone. "I'll ask my mother to let me come page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] back," she said, as she gently disengaged his grasp. Running down stairs she met Jenny at the entrance door. "You'd better get that five cents for me, and the apple too, or I'll give Michael the kitten, as sure as you live." Emma ran by her and down the basement stairs, where her mother met her in great displeasure. "So that's the way you hang up clothes, and leave the basket in the yard for the boys to steal!" "I couldn't help it, mother," began Emma. "Don't tell me ye couldn't help it," said the woman, hitting her a cuff on the side of the head. I had to go out when I was all asweat, to get the basket. I'll be laid up again with the toothache, and that's as much as you care." The pleasure of having rescued the kitten was suddenly dissipated. Emma's spirit and face caught the gloom of the dark kitchen. It was of no use to try to explain now, especially as her mother's irritation was greatly increased by Jenny's standing before the window, making all manner of signs and grimaces. Emma watched her opportunity when her mother's back was turned, to snatch the five cents and the apple from the corner of a chest, and holding them up to the sight of Jenny, indicating at the same time, that she would come out as soon as she could. Jenny retired, apparently satisfied. She had her own purposes to serve in regard to the boys, and disappeared with them through the alley, apparently concluding some new contract. After the washing was finished and the floor scrubbed and the kettle on, Mrs. Parker's hardness and bustling began to subside. As usual, after being hasty with Emma, she was remorseful, and presently when the tired child asked "what else she should do," answered, "You may do what you like till tea is ready." "May I go up stairs and see the lame boy," asked Emma page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] "I don't care," said the mother, "taint a room I much like you to go to, but I make no doubt that poor thing's abused. I don't believe that girl gets him a bit of dinner. You might as well take him a little porridge. Here set that basin of oat-meal porridge on the stove, and it will warm directly." Emma patiently stirred the porridge until it was hot, and then hurried away with it, not forgetting to slip into her pocket the price of the kitten. Little Bob was still alone. The kitten was asleep beside him, but he lay with his large blue eyes wide open. A brother and sister could hardly be more different than were Bob and Jenny. Her form was light and active, his limbs shrivelled and his back crooked. Her face was animated though indicative of subtlety and mischief, his was very delicate but expressionless and marked with care and pain like that of an old person. It was surrounded, as he lay, by thick, light-brown hair which he had twisted about the almost transparent fingers of his thin, little hand. He did not smile as Emma entered, as a pleased child would naturally do, but he looked wistfully at her, and when he saw the dish of porridge in her hand, sat up on the bed. "Are ye hungry, Bobby," said Emma. He did not answer but held out his hands. Emma put the basin into them, supporting it with her own. He began to eat eagerly, looking up now and then into Emma's face with a surprised, doubtful expression. Presently he stopped and looked anxiously around the room. "What do you want now?" asked Emma. He did not notice her question but called "Kitty, Kitty." "Here she is," said Emma, "asleep on your bed." He reached forward and drew the kitten towards him, and made her eat from his spoon. After the porridge was eaten, the lame boy lay back upon the pillow and again fixed his eyes steadily upon Emma. "I'm sorry you are sick," she said. page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] He did not speak. "Jenny is too bad to leave you alone," she said again. A worried, frightened look came into his face. "Is she ever good to you," asked Emma. "You are the goodest," was the reply. "Poor little fellow," said Emma, looking around the room which was very untidy and comfortless. Emma observed that some of the furniture had evidently made pretensions to grandeur at some former day, but it all had a worn, abused appearance now. A faded silk dress of the mother's hang against the wall, an old song-book lay upon the table. There was nothing to suggest real comfort for body or mind. Just then Jenny's voice was heard coming up the stairs singing "Yankee Doodle" in perfect tune and time. She threw her hood across the floor and herself at the foot of Bobby's couch, again demanding the five cents. Emma gave them to her, all the money she had of her own, and also the apple. Jenny began to eat the latter eagerly, now and then biting off a large mouthful which she tossed to Bob. "Poor little boy," said Emma. "Does nobody ever talk to you or read to you." "I sing to him sometimes, don't I Bob," said Jenny. Bob nodded. "Want to hear me sing,"asked Jenny; then without waiting for a reply, she struck up a comic song, beating timne with her hands and feet as she danced about the room. Emma laughed; Bob did not smile, but his large blue eyes followed Jenny as if fascinated. "Don't you ever read to him?" asked Emma. "Lor', no," said Jenny. "I can't read; I've been to school dozens of times, but I always gits a fallin' out with the teacher and she chucks me out." "Did nobody ever read the Testament to page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] Bob?" asked Emma. "Don't you know who Jesus is, Bob?" The child shook his head. "He don't know nothin'," said Jenny. "Mother tried lots of times to teach him his prayers, but it's no use, she gin' it up long ago." "I wish I had my Testament, I'd read to him about Jesus," said Emma. "Have you got any Bible here Jenny?" "No," said Jenny, "but can't you say some on't, I shu'd think ye studied lessons enough.' "We don't study the Bible in this Sun- day-school," said Emma with a sigh; "we study the Catechism and Question-book; I've most forgot the verses I used to learn to Miss Ellis's. 'Twas so lovely to learn the words of Jesus." "Well, then," said Jenny, "if you can't remember that, give us the 'tother." "The lesson this week," said Emma, "is about Jesus by the lake- we don't learn it itself- only lots of questions and answers; what somebody says about it, and about the lake, and Judea, and such like things; I'll bring my TESTAMENT next time and read just the words about heaven- that's where good children go when they die." Bobby fixed his wondering eyes upon her face. "Yes," said Emma, "I remember some verses Miss Ellis taught me, which says, 'The gates are all pearl and the streets of the city are of pure gold;' and another verse says,'And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying.'" "She makes me cry," said Bob, pointing to Jenny. Emma made an effort to think of another verse. Bob spoke again- "They won't let me in there; no body won't let me in nowhere; they says 'You go back where ye belong.'" "Oh, but Jesus will let you in," said Emma. "He's got the key to heaven; wait page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] till I sing something we sing in Sunday-school- 'Jesus loves me, He who died, Heaven's gate to open wide; He will wash away my sin, Let his little child come in." Emma had sung thus far, when Jenny threw herself on the floor and burst into tears. Emma had heard and seen her cry before loud passionate crying but the nervous child was sobbing now in a very different way. "What's the matter?" said Emma, trying to raise her. "Oh my," said Jenny, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "I'm go'n to get good- go'n to church every Sunday. My goodness! Em., I'm go'n to get converted right straight CHAPTER XV. JENNY'S new profession of religious interest made quite a sensation in the yard. Every new appearance, in this eccentric child, excited interest and curiosity. "Jenny Lenare is going to Church, going to get religion," was shouted by the children, and gossiped about by the mothers. "She never'll hold out," said one. "A mercy 'twould be for this place," said another. "That Jenny Lenare will be the ruin of all the children in this street if something don't come over,her." It was not Jenny's style to do anything by halves; according to the light she had, she would carry out this new impulse as thoroughly as any other. "My goodness! Em.! I'll beat you all page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] holler; jest ye hear how I'll talk to the folks and make 'em come to Church," and she was as good as her word. Her first step was to spruce up her own tawdry wardrobe. In Jenny's class of society to dress as finely as possible is an important requisite for going to Church, a regalia of a religious character. Jenny's mother, from time to time, brought her a great many clothes, but no one took care of them, and her ordinary indifference to personal appearance was reason enough why she was always in tatters. Occasionally, however, a new freak came over the child, and with really remarkable skill and dispatch she would caricature a fashionable young lady. Such freaks, however, were of short duration; her active, reckless life tore her clothes to pieces, and she had no patience to repair them; besides there was no accounting for her impulses; she had been known to strip off a new dress, which her mother had brought her, in the midst of a group of boys and girls, and after giving it to one for some trifle which she fancied, race about for one or two days with no covering but her petticoat. But to return to Jenny's religious experience: for several weeks she not only went regularly to Church herself, but she excited such an interest in the subject that it was very popular. Nor was it a mere restless experiment On Jenny's part; certainly at first, there was a real desire for something, which she saw gave Emma the advantage over herself. "I'm goin' to get religion Em. I ain't going to the bad place, I ain't, so!" Her quick ear, and her really musical voice readily caught Emma's hymns. "I'm goin' to be a visitor, like the women what leaves tracts. Won't I convert the folks though!" So Jenny searched the saloons and groceries for leaves of old song-books, almanacs, advertisements, etc.; these she distributed with the utmost gravity and impressiveness. It was wonderful what an influence the child really did have. The people naturally impulsive and warm hearted, would gather in groups page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] to hear her sing, and once or twice a poor inebriate was moved to tears by her impressive exhortations. Emma welcomed with all her heart, this new and strange inclination to religious things. Where Jenny excited the feeling, she gave her playtime to helping those who were inclined to go to Church to wash and mend their clothes. With as true a sense of the need of the people as of her own, Emma wanted to see them really turning from their sins, and acknowledging the Saviour, but the revival, as Jenny denominated the excitement which pervaded the yard, was not exactly of this stamp. Gradually, the zeal died away; Jenny's love of mischief got her into one or two "scrapes," as she called them, with her Sunday-school teacher, and she left the school in high dudgeon. Still she did not quite relinquish her religious character. One day in the latter part of March, when she had been moved anew by a hymn Emma was teaching her, she once more declared her intention to try again and be religious. She could do nothing without display, and so before Sunday, had made known her intentions and had engaged quite a deputation to go with her to Church. On Saturday night, after the children were put to bed, Emma said to her mother: "I must get up early to-morrow and get the people awake, so we won't be late to Church." "You are a fool for your pains," was the reply. You know 'twont do no kind 'o good." "Oh mother!" said Emma, "it would do good if they would only get to know about Jesus. I do wish our minister would come and talk to the people like Miss Ellis used to." "Well! she did talk nice, that's a fact," said the mother. "But you run out in the yard and get that piece of kindling, 'twill be stole before morning." "Mother," said Emma, as she came back with the kindling, "I wish you would go to Church to-morrow." page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] "What good will it do?" said the widow. "Besides I ain't got nothin' decent to put on. You pick the cinders out o' them ashes; coal's awful high this spring." Emma obeyed, After a few minutes she said again, "Mother your other calico dress is clean, and I could just smooth the strings of your bonnet, and double the old shawl the best side out." Mrs. Parker did not speak, but bounced about the kitchen with the energy which indicated undue disturbance of mind. Emma ventured again, "Mother you would be so much happier if you could only hear about Jesus." "Pity if I don't know," said the widow. "It's fine religion you learn to Church, to set up to teach yer own mother." Emma could not speak again, but her , silent submission touched the mother more than words. As they were going to bed she said: . "If 'twill do you any good, child, I'll go to Church to-morrow." Emma was up betimes the next morning. It was a mild spring day, such a Sabbath morning as in the healthful country, wakens all nature to beauty and to praise. The inhabitants of the poor City alley could see nothing of Nature but the fair blue sky, which held itself high and unapproachable from a wretched world. The sweet sunshine itself only drew forth all manner of noxious vapors, and ill smells from the wet dirty streets. It had rained the day before. Fever and contagion were invited by the opening spring. But the poor children of the court did not think of this; they had never seen the country, or known any thing of a better life. Emma was only happy in leading her mother and a number of neighbors to Church. She felt a little doubt about such a deputation of shabby people being welcome. True it was a Mission Church, built and sustained professedly for the poor, but those who could afford it were allowed to hire pews; this had created a kind of sanctum page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] in the most conspicious and comfortable part of the chapel. Worse dressed people were not unfrequently repulsed by discovering that they had trespassed in an appropriated pew. Emma, had a great dread of these pews, and was not quite sure which they might be. Fortunately, however, Jenny had no such sensitiveness. She would have piloted her deputation to the very front seats, had they not been a little late in consequence of waiting for one or two who had come reluctantly. As it was they were obliged to scatter about where there happened to be places. Emma secured her mother's place at her own side. The little girl's heart was full of gratitude, and full of longing, too, for that mother's salvation. She was herself too ignorant, too unskilled in the use of language, to have expressed to any one what it was she wanted so much for her mother, and for her neighbors. It was that holy longing for Christian fellowship, that desire to impart the unspeakable gift, which distinguishes the spirit of the child of God in every age and in every land. There was double fervor in Emma's confession and prayers that morning, and, when the lessons were read, she heard for her mother as well as herself. Well it was for the poor child that she might hear this regular, prescribed service. She was not herself aware that in this alone her heart was fed each Sunday. When the minister stood up to preach, and the text was announced, Emma saw with delight that her mother's eyes were fixed on the speaker. He commenced with a great deal of animation. No one might question the young minister's talent; surely he did not question it himself, judging from his rhetorical and confident tone. After naming his text, it was perfectly wonderful what a compass of the universe his mind swept through during the first head. He unfolded the customs of the East, the motives of the inspired writer, touched gracefully in his flight the antiquities of Greece and Rome, discoursed upon the page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] arts and improvements of civilization, made eloquent careers into Astronomy and Geology, discoursed upon the beauties and wonders of Nature in every department, and finally swooped back to his text with such a sense of power, and with such imcomparable unction and variation of tone, as in common conversation no sane man would dare to attempt. It was a little doubtful whether his humble hearers had been able to follow the masterly flight, but that was not to be expected, and of no consequence, since he came down to them again. They surely must have been much impressed. After the sermon, as the congregation were dispersing, there was a hum and chatter of voices on every side; every one said, "What a fine sermon!" Nobody talked about it, however, in detail, but immediately relieved the. tension of their minds by ordinary gossip. Some were laughing and joking as if their spirits had been comfortably kept up. Jenny was in high feather. Nothing could be more congenial to her taste than such an example of declamation. "Wan't that tip-top?" she exclaimed, skipping backward and forward in front of her little group; "I tell ye, he's an awful nice preacher! But Lor! I can preach jest so; ye jest turn me over a barrel in the yard, I'll show ye this afternoon!" page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] CHAPTER XVI. IN the afternoon Jenny's plans suddenly changed, A Bible-reader-came into the yard, called at the different rooms, distributed tracts, and invited the children to Sunday-school. Such visitors had been there before; they were repulsed from some rooms, flattered and deceived in others. Jenny, at once attached herself to this one, followed her through the block, giving marvelous information of the different families, and finally engaged to accompany her to some kind of a religious meeting. For a week or two after this, the Bible-reader called frequently. Learning that all the children in the yard who went at all to Sunday-school, attended the chapel with Emma, this visitor with too commonly mistaken zeal endeavored to disengage them from that, and attach them to her own school. All, except Emma, readily yielded to this arrangement. It was a novelty. They would stand a better chance, as Jenny said, "of getting something." As for Jenny, she confessed herself completely won over, by the attentions of this new friend. The missionary had been at first disgusted by the child's forwardness, and then fascinated by her eccentricity, as was every one who came within her influence. Jenny made great speculations upon this new acquaintance. She moved the missionary's benevolence by the display of her rags; received new shoes and other clothes. She even succeeded in getting small sums of money, under pretence that she and her brother were deserted and starving; and when this falsehood was discovered, she invented a most ingenious and pathetic tale of being turned out of doors on account of her religion, by her father (a gentleman) page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] Suspicious and perplexed by these contradictory statements, the Bible-reader made several unsuccessful efforts to see Jenny's mother. At length she succeeded, but Mrs. Lenare, learning the visitor's character and errand, very politely assured her that she had no information whatever to give in regard to her own circumstances. She thanked the visitor, but stood in no need of assistance, either temporal or spiritual. Mrs. Lenare then waved the visitor off with unmistakable dignity and grace, and closed the door. With a mingling of honest interest, and very human curiosity, the visitor related this to the women of the other rooms, and pressed her inquiries in regard to this singular family. This stimulant to gossip was received with much relish. Meantime, Jenny, growing independent of her new friend, went to meetings where she pleased. With the paradoxical qualities of exceeding subtleness and exceeding openness, Jenny declared loudly every step of her new religious experience. There were meetings in a Church, not far away, every evening. Jenny condescended to invite no one to accompany her, but she went herself, assuring her neighbors that "it was the very place to get converted in." There was nothing of mockery in these pious airs of Jenny's; there was a good deal of shrewdness which, under more refined cultivation, might have become the veriest wit and satire; yet under it all, there was the yearning of a warm, rich nature, combined with a highly wrought nervous temperament, for opportunity to develop its powers. There was a longing too, for something worthy to satisfy an immortal craving, which poor Jenny felt, without recognizing. One mild Sabbath afternoon, early in April, as Emma came home from Sunday-school, she observed a crowd of children, in one corner of the yard. In the midst of them stood Jenny on her barrel pulpit, holding forth with clear, shrill tones, and great variety of gesture. Fortunately she was not familiar enough with scripture to page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] have profaned that; but had taken for her text, a remarkable sentence of high sounding words conveying a religious tone, and at the same time having a strong flavor of a quack medicine advertisement. She had repeated it several times, with most precise emphasis and left it as texts are sometimes left, to be forgotten. Emma did not arrive to hear this. When she came into the yard Jenny was going on with the most unaccountable gibberish that an inventive brain ever put together, while the children listened, open mouthed, as if fascinated. Occasionally some one shouted applause, or dared to put in an objection; one girl exclaimed: "Say some preachin' what means sumthin', can't ye?" "Pooh!" replied Jenny, bringing down her tone and her eye upon the objector with great severity, "VThat does the like of you know 'bout preachin'? Preachin' don't want to mean nothin'; all a preacher's got to do, is to hollor, and squeak, and squirm- so'- and Jenny writhed her small form into such shapes and contortions that, had it been less supple, must have put every limb out of joint. The children caught the spirit and began to imitate, writhing and stretching and kicking until, passing moderation, they plunged and tumbled over one another like a pile of fish worms. The assembly was nearly broken up. Jenny excelled them all, enjoying the variation, till suddenly remembering her ministerial character, she called her audience to order and stood erect upon the barrel. "Bruthering," she again began, with impressive seriousness, "yer ought to be ashamed o' yersels; yer an orful set." Just at this moment Jenny's eye caught sight of Michael O'Connor standing in the outer circle. There being at present a special feud between the two, he did not dare come near her, but stood with a skeptical face, and occasionally muttered something that provokingly resembled a sneer. Jenny fixed her severe eye upon him, plunging her fists into the air towards him, and went on- page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] "Bruthering, we'll pass the plate, and take up a collection for the expenses. Now, yung uns, put in yer pennies." "We h'aint got none," shouted one. "If ye h'aint got no pennies,'- Jenny went on with increased unction-"put in peanuts, put in candies." By this time, it being near the supper hour, the men of the yard came lounging in from the street or bar rooms; some roused from the Sunday nap indoors by Jenny's voice, came out upon the stoops with pipes in their mouths, and a few with babies in their arms. Jenny inspired by such an addition to her audience, turned her denunciations and her jestures at once towards them. "Oh, you old tipsy sinners! a smokin' and a swearin', and a breakin o' Sunday! Aint ye goin' ter the bad place, tho'?- Wont you ketch it?- Ye'd better mend yer ways, and not be loafin' round here o' Sundays. But why don't ye pass the plate, young uns? Pass it to them sinners on the stoop, and every one on them that don't give me a penny "- By this time Michael's insulting manifestations had so passed all bounds, that Jenny grew intensely eloquent, till finally, when he made some demonstration expressive of the utmost scorn and defiance, even her ministerial dignity could support her no longer; she exclaimed: "Young uns, jest ketch Mike O'Connor for me." Then springing from the barrel with a bound, she gave chase. So irresistible was her energy that the boy, though two years older than herself, ran as for his life- and could only escape her fleeter foot by throwing behind him everything he could seize in his flight, to obstruct her way. Meantime the children amazed at the sudden turn the sermon had taken, tumbled over one another, in their haste to make way- while the pulpit rolled into a corner in ignominious retirement. Emma had stood aloof from this noisy scene with her Sunday-school books in her page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] hand. She lingered, because the soft April air was pleasanter, even in the dirty yard, than in the dark basement, and partly because she was watching an opportunity to speak to Jenny. It was no clear sense of right and wrong that prevented her from joining the children. Emma was herself ignorant, and had seen very little of the true observance of the Sabbath, but her imperfect experience of grace had done more than years of worldy tuition might have done to correct and refine her judgment, and her taste too. She was more conscious than any one else of all that was genuine and pure in Jcnny's nature, yet more painfully sensitive to its wild inconsistencies. She was too accustomed to the sight and the sound of the low and profane to be easily shocked. Yet as the children scrambled past her into the alley-way, calling and beckoning her to follow, and filling the air with hoots and yells, she stood still and sad. Even the sound of martial music, which struck up just then in the street beyond, greatly increasing the hurry and excitement, could not tempt her. She could not have told why their noisy mirth depressed instead of luring her. She did not know that she was depressed. Emma had unconsciously become a citizen of the kingdom of Heaven. Her spirit had tasted the atmosphere of that holy communion, and caught an appetite which would be satisfied with earth's cor- ruptions and religion's counterfeits no more. page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] CHAPTER XVII. ABOUT dusk the children came straggling back into the yard, seeking their comfortless homes, hungry and fretful, some to be scolded and beaten, some to be put to bed with their hunger but slightly appeased, some to steal out again, when the street lamps should be lighted, for another "turn about town." Emma had been watching for Jenny, and ran out when she saw her coming. Jenny's mother had been at home for nearly a week, and Emma had not ventured to go to the door, even, to inquire for her little pet. Her object was to ask about him. "I dunno," was Jenny's answer; "he frets enough about you, anyhow." "Does he want to see me?" asked Emma. "Yes, he teazes mother's life out, near about, and she's sick, she is. It's orful stupid up there," said Jenny, shrugging her shoulders. "Is that the reason she's at home all the time?" asked Emma. "Yes, she's goin' to try to 'pear to-morrow night, so she's fixin' her fixin's, and she wants me to help her." "On Sunday?" asked Emma. "Yes, but I know what'll do her. I jis says, you make me sew an' I'll go to Mott Street; then she's scared, I tell ye. But I want something to eat, now." Jenny turned away and ran up stairs. Some time after, when it was quite dark, Emma heard her quick light step running down the stone stairs into the basement, and a moment after a knock at the door. "Mother wants you to come up and see Bobby," she said, as Emma opened the door. "Does she, really?" "Yes, come along." page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] "May I go, mother?" asked Emma, looking back into the room. "I don't mind your doing anything for the child," said the widow, "when he's got nobody; but if his mother is there I should think you'd better stay at home." "Mother wants ye," said Jenny, pulling Emma's dress. Mrs. Parker and Jenny seldom designed to speak directly to each other. "And besides," continued Jenny, "Bobby's cried for ye till his eyes is red as fire. He wants some o' yer gruel." "Let me take him some?" said Emma, turning to her mother, who was just taking what had been left from their own supper off the stove. "I suppose he might as well have it," said the widow, a little doubtfully. "Here, take hold with your apron, the dish is hot." Emma took the dish as directed, and walked slowly and carefully through the basement entry and up the indoor stairs. On reaching the top floor she found the door of Mrs. Lenare's room open, and Jenny, who had scampered before, holding it for her to enter. Poor little Bob was lying on the floor, with a pillow under his head. Emma had never seen him so thin and pale, while the red lines about his eyes gave them that wistful look which had moved Emma's pity before. He uttered a joyful cry as he reached his hands towards her. Emma quite forgot her embarrassment at the mother's presence, as she sat down on the floor and began to feed him with the gruel. He ate eagerly for a few moments, like one who was starving, then laid back on the pillow and looked at Emma. "One would think he had nothing to eat at home," said a lady-like voice. Mrs. Lenare had been watching the children in silence till now. Emma looked round timidly. She had never seen Bob's mother without her bonnet before, and was surprised and embarrassed as her glance encountered that of the delicate and pretty face that was turned towards her. The face page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] was very pale, with a hectic flush on the cheek; the eyes were large and blue, like Bob's; the hair, quite disheyelled, fell in its soft, brown profusion, about the finely turned neck and shoulders. Her dress was a wrapper, originally of a costly material, but soiled and worn. Emma now observed that she coughed frequently, and put her hand to her side as if in pain. Meantime, Jenny, impatient always, at constraint, was again putting on her hood. "Where are you going, now?" asked her mother. "Didn't ye tell me to go to the doctor's shop?" said the child sullenly. "Where's that bottle now? If it's lost, I won't wash another for ye, that's so." "It is there on the shelf," said the mother; but to-morrow'll do for the medicine. You might stay in the house, now Emma has come," "You said I should go for the medicine, and now I'm goin'," replied Jenny doggedly "But you will go somewhere else, I know," said the mother in a distressed tone. "I wish I was strong enough to give you a good whipping." Jenny chuckled, shrugged her shoulders and pocketed the phial. "Now Jenny," said the mother again, "won't you come right back? there's a good girl; you must get Bob to bed; you know he won't mind me." "I'll be back time 'nuff for that," and Jenny slammed the door and disappeared. "Oh, what shall I do with that girl!" said her mother, when she could recover her breath from a fit of coughing. "I wish she was as good as you are, Emma." Emma did not know what to say. "I know you are a good girl," said Mrs. Lenare again, "for Bob has told me." "Bob and I are good friends," said Emma capturing the little hand that was caressing her cheek. "Sing!" whispered Bob, "sing!" Emma tried to divert his attention. page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] "Sing!" whimpered the child; "won't ye sing?" "You need not mind me," said Mrs. Lenare. "No!" said Bob, "you needn't mind her. Sing about the man what's got the keys." "What does he mean?" asked Mrs. Lenare. "He's always teazing me about the man with the keys." "What is it, Bob?" asked Emma, leaning over him, as she sat on the floor. "You know," said Bob, stroking her cheek impatiently, "the good man, what opens the door wide for poor Bob; the man what loves-." "Oh, I know," said Emma, "it is only a little hymn I sang to him once. It is not the first verse, but no matter," and she began: "Jesus loves me, He who died, Heaven's gate to open wide."- Bob leaned forward on her lap, and listened eagerly. She stopped at the end of the the verse: but still he listened, as for more. "Tell me," he said at length, " about the nice place, the clean place." "That's Heaven," said Emma, "where the streets are gold and the gate is pearl." Mrs. Lenare's cough increased. Emma feared she was annoyed, and was silent. Presently she said, "Go on, Emma! I will lie down on the bed. I am sure I'm much obliged to you. for amusing Bob." Emma did not quite know how to proceed so she sang again: "Jesus reigns, and Heaven rejoices, Jesus reigns the, God of love. See he sits on yonder throne; J esus rules the world alone." Emma's voice was very sweet, and as the strain, triumphant, yet soft and low, filled the quiet room, Bob lay gazing with a kind of rapt admiration into her face. Emma forgot the other presence, and from the singing, fell into a low conversation. Before the mother's illness Emma had several times talked with the child. He learned from her the name of Jesus. His page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] dark mind had caught from her simple words some idea of Love-of the being who loved hiim, and whom he wished to see. There was a dim lamp on the mantle which had almost burned out; and the room was so dark, Emma could not see Mrs. Lenare upon the bed, but the conversation was at length interrupted by her voice, speaking Emma's name in a tremulous tone. Emma arose and went to the bed; Bobby crawled after and pulled himself up by the clothes. Emma stood waiting to know Mrs. Lenare's wishes, and now she perceived that she was weeping. "I'm very weak, child," she said, after a while, "but that last hymn you sung I knew when I was of your age. It brings it all up somehow; I never talk about those days, but you are different from the rest of the people about here. Perhaps you don't know, Emma, that I have not always lived in New York. I was born in New England. But you've not been to school much, poor child, and don't know where that is. People are very different there from the people here. My father was a good man; he was a minister." Mrs. Lenare paused and coughed, and put her hand to her side. "It hurts you to talk," said Emma. "No," said the other, "it will do me good to speak to some one; bring a chair and sit down." Emma obeyed, and Mrs. Lenare went on. "You've never been in the country, and cannot understand how lovely a little village is, like that where my father lived and preached. Our parsonage was a pretty white cottage, with green blinds, hidden among the trees and vines. There was a flower garden at one side, where the morning sun first shone, and there among long rows of asparagus and sweet peas my father often spent an hour or two in the morning. I was always with him to carry the watering-pots, or hold the pruning knife and cord. I remember how the dew sparkled on the leaves, and the birds sang, (the trees were page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] full of birds,) and I was as wild with joy as they were. I dream about it sometimes, not very often, but sometimes. I am in that garden again, and look into my father's kind face, and feel the touch of his hand upon my head; and then I wake, trying to hold back, and to stay there, but I wake, as if some one pulled me on into this wretched life, into hell again, where I belong!" The narrator covered her face with her hands, and shuddered and trembled. Emma brought her some drink from the table, and after a moment she went on. "My mother died when I was very little. I have been told that she was very young and gay, that she did not sympathize with my father's serious character and life. My father had an old aunt who kept his house after my mother's death. She was very fond of us children, especially of me, whom she petted and spoiled." Did you have any sister?" asked Emma. "No, but I had one brother several years older than myself. He was my father's companion, because he loved study. He was the best scholar in our village school. I hated books. I can remember my father being grieved sometimes, but I can only remember his being displeased when I refused to learn my lessons, or was sent home in disgrace from school. It was still worse as I grew older, and the other girls were all before me. By and by, I got ashamed, and refused to study at all. People said my father was too easy with us children, and that my aunt domineered over him. I can't say about that, but I never got much education. My brother was better than I, but he was a little wild too. He got into bad company at last, and went to sea when I was but a child. I think my father consented to his going, but I remember him as much older after that. His step got slow, and his hair quite white." "Did you like your brother?" asked Emma. "Oh yes, we had great romps together. We had to go nearly a mile to school. We page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] used to take our dinner in a little basket. I remember in the winter time, what delight it was to wade in the snow, and lie down on the white drifts to leave our image, or to run on the crust when it would bear us up. School kept until four o'clock in the afternoon, and in the winter time, it was quite dusk before we got home. Sometimes my brother would run too fast for me, and I would get tired and afraid. Oh how I wanted to get home! How glad I was to see the old Poplar tree that grew in the garden, rising tall and black against the sky! I would run in through the garden gate, round to the kitchen door, where the bright fire was burning, and the hot supper waiting. And after that, the lighted sitting room; and the evening with my father; and by and by my fresh little room, with its clean bed, where I slept and dreamed as nobody can, only in home, and in Heaven. Emma and Bob! poor children! you'll never know what home means or Heaven either. Nobody does who's born in these horrid houses. It's making mock to talk to tenement-house people about that. Nobody goes from such places to my father's Heaven." page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] CHAPTER XVIII. THE sunshine was glancing into the windows of Mrs. Tompkins' room, adding its beauty and its brightness to all that art had done to make the invalid forget that she was a prisoner and sufferer. Near the sofa, where the lady reclined, was an exquisite stand, holding a vase of flowers. Such a delicate blending of perfumes and arrangement of colors, showed that gentle hands had superseded those of a servant this morning. "You make the house another place, Mary; I wish you would stay here altogether. Don't you think I'm of as much consequence as all the miserable creatures you are forever hunting up and exposing your life for?" Mary Ellis kissed her aunt, and smiled playfully. Just then, a servant entered, with a card- "t is Miss Lewis," said the invalid, languidly glancing at the card, and handing it to her niece. I think you had better see her, you are so comfortable this morning," was the reply. "Yes, by all means," said Mrs. Tompkins, "Miss Lewis never tires me- she is a very delightful person." Meantime the message had gone down, and Miss Lewis was coming up. Miss Lewis' entrance to the sick room might fully justify the compliment she had received. This lady's friends had never a recollection of anything associated with her presence not indicating the utmost self-possession and repose of manner. The most fashionable critic could never detect any blemish in dress or style. Her greeting of the invalid was a little prolonged, which might be expected of such a favorite. Then turning to Miss Ellis, she pressed her hand, page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] and said, with her usual evenly modulated tone: "It is so fortunate, my dear, to meet you. I need your assistance in such an interesting case." "Don't you need mine, too?" asked Mrs. Tompkins. "I want to hear something interesting. Besides, it would be such a mercy in you two benevolent people to get me a little into your works. Just enough to save my soul." Mrs. Tompkins smiled languidly, while her delicate fingers toyed with the flowers upon the stand. "I doubt if you need that, dear," said Miss Lewis, stroking the hand and rearranging the flowers. "But you shall hear all about it. You know, Mary," turning to her, "that interesting protege of ours, Emma Parker; my brother is persuaded that she has come of altogether different blood from that with which she seems to be associated. However that may be, she has interested him, beyond moderation, not only in herself, but in some others of her class. He has been urging me for a week past, to go and visit a sick woman who lives in the same house with the Parkers. She is a peculiar woman- no one could get access to her except this child. It was through her influence that I succeeded at last in getting into her room. There I found a delicate, pretty-looking woman, with a crippled child as feeble as herself It appears the woman boasts of superior antecedents, good parentage, and so on. Of course, I have my doubts of this. You can never trust these people. But she is evidently sick and needs attention." "I think I have heard of that person," remarked Miss Ellis. 'The little girl told me of her and the lame child, last winter. There seemed to be some mystery about her life and occupation." "Yes," returned Miss Lewis, "but it has come out that she is an actress in a theatre." "Why don't you put her into the hospital?" asked Mrs. Tompkins. page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] "That is just what I want to do, and the child, too, but with the infatuation common to the poor she utterly refuses to go." "They are so unreasonable," said Mrs. Tompkins. "I used to visit among them sometimes myself, when I was well. It was very discouraging. I do not see how you and Mary have patience." "One must cultivate patience, certainly," said Miss Lewis; "it is one's duty, you know." The lady raised her beautiful eyes serenely, as she added: "But one is obliged to compel them to be reasonable, however. We must not indulge their unaccountable prejudices. If we provide for them, it is but right that they should yield to our judgment. Do you not agree with me, Mary?" Miss Ellis was silent a moment, and then said, quietly: "Perhaps not, entirely." Miss Lewis raised her eyebrows again, but gave no other indication of surprise. "What would you advise?" she asked. "Surely, you would not object to the hospital plan. I have heard you express much satisfaction that we have such an accommodation for the sick poor." "Yes," replied Miss Ellis. "What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Tompkins, playfully tapping the cheek of her niece with her fan. "Nothing at all, aunt; I am only answering Miss Lewis' questions." Miss Lewis again arched her eyebrows, but made no remark. "She is the most paradoxical, unmanageable girl," said Mrs. Tompkins. "I do wish Miss Lewis, you would modify her benevolence a little. If she was only as sensible, and as moderate as you are, it would be far more comfortable for her friends. She exposes her very life, in the most uncalled for devotion sometimes, and actually tries to put these miserable creatures upon a level with ourselves, in her consideration for their whims. I am hard upon you, Mary dear- but is it not so?" page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] "I must not contradict you, aunt," replied the young lady with a smile. "I would prefer that you should contradict than tantalize me," replied the other. "Now tell Miss Lewis, plainly, do you object to these persons being put into the hospital?" "Certainly not. I wish they were willing to go." "Since they are not willing, you would not urge it," suggested Miss Lewis. "Perhaps I should. I only allow my aunt's charge thus far. In all these circumstances of difficulty I do imagine, not the sufferers in my place, but myself in theirs. It helps me to make allowance, when otherwise I should be impatient." "My dear child, you are very remarkable," said Miss Lewis. "But here comes Dr. Burnett. He will take my part." "Tut! tut! what is going on here?" said the doctor. "My patient with red cheeks!" Hie put aside his hat and cane, and walked to the sofa. "We are having a little argument," said the patient. "Argumcnt!" exclaimed the doctor. "A bad thing for women. I set my face professionally against anything of the kind." The doctor sat down and spread his hands upon his knees, with a bland expression which did not discourage further revelations. The story was told, enlarged and commented on Miss Ellis left the narration mainly to her companions; whether because she was the youngest of the company, or because in a quiet way she had made up her own mind upon the subject, did not appear; but she retired with her embroidery to the centre-table; only raising her eyes now and then to answer and to smile when the doctor attempted to draw her out by some dry remark or pointed question. "Well, now!" he exclaimed, after the most attentive listening. "If I rightly understand, your most excellent efforts for the good of this sick woman and her child, are page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] embarrassed, possibly thwarted, by this refusing to be taken to the hospital. May I ask on what grounds they refuse your reasonable proposition?" "I believe," said Miss Lewis, "the woman objects to giving up the room where she lives; and also to be separated from her child." "What do you think of that?" said the doctor, turning to Miss Ellis, with a tone of astonishment. "According to my observation," returned the young lady, "that is such a common state of mind in mothers and children that I have ceased to be surprised." "One would suppose," said Mrs. Tompkins, "that they would be thankful to be rescued from such a miserable home." "And as for the child," added Miss Lewis, "his mother sees that he is dying for want of proper medical advice and care; if they both went they would not be far separated. The oldest child whom you have seen, Mary, should be put into some institution; and so all be comfortably provided for. Really, when I see how generous are Our public charities, 1 am every day more surprised at the insensibility and ingratitude of the poor. They do not in the least appreciate the treasures that are expended in their behalf. This woman, for instance, actually repulsed my offer scornfully; I have seen stubbornness and pride before, but never anything so glaringly unreasonable as this." "What sort of a place does she live in?" asked the doctor. "A miserable place in a rear house, where not a breath of pure air can reach them; a room twelve or fourteen feet square, with a dark bedroom adjoining, which no human creature ought to sleep in; the walls are low, the room is entirely unventilated. It is crowded with her dirty little possessions. The poor creature is not able to keep the place clean if she were so disposed." "And this is the home the creature so clings to," said the doctor again, spreading his hands upon his knees, and looking from page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] one to the other with an expression of apparently frank inquiry. "Yes," said Miss Lewis. "Aid what is remarkable, she was quite indignant when I called the place her home. She owned that it was a wretched room, but she could get no better." "Well, now," said the doctor, "it- is- incredible! "I knew you would say so," said Mrs. Tompkins. "What is it you consider incredible?" asked Miss Ellis, looking up from her work. "Oh, you mischief," said the doctor, wheeling the chair around so as to face the last speaker; "I see through you. You are trying to push lme to the wall; or to draw me into your treacherous objections to the plans and opinions of your elders. You want to kinow what is incredible, do you? Well, it is incredible that these miserable human creatures- living in places unfit for dogs and horses, have exactly the same instincts in regard to home and offspring that we have." The doctor struck his fist upon his knee and looked around, as if challenging either objection or acquiescence- not meeting either, he went on: "This poor woman, for instance, is sick, likely to die; yet she had rather shorten her life by some months, with the privilege of spending it in her own hired room where she can get up and lie down, and do whatever she chooses in her own way than to be placed in a comfortable, respectable institution under the control of others. As for her children, they are all the absurd creature has in this world. Probably she has not much to look for in the next, and so she clings to them with that provoking obstinacy which possesses all mothers, brute and human." "Doctor," said Mrs, Tompkins, "you are not agreeing with us, you are not in earnest." "In earnest, my dear madam; I am so- page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] lemnly in earnest. If you will allow me I will take my oath this minute- that these poor people have exactly the same feelings about most things that we have. It is vastly inconvenient. If I could have the getting up of the human race- you'd see quite a different state of things. All these propensities, such as love of home; defense of offspring; passion for ownership, should be left out of the lower classes entirely, and confined exclusively to ourselves." "Doctor Burnett," said Mrs. Tompkins, a little fretfully, "you are very disheartening; one would think you denounced our noble public institutions as sins." "On the contrary, my dear madam, I admire them, pray for them and subscribe largely for them every year. My soul!" added the doctor, shrugging his shoulders, with a slight shudder, "we should be in a bad case without them." "I really cannot comprehend you, Dr. Burnett," said Mrs. Tompkins. "My handkerchief, Mary, dear." "Do you understand me?" asked the doctor, turning to Miss Ellis, as she arose to pick up the handkerchief. "Not clearly, sir." "Well," said the doctor, pinching her cheek, "I comprehend you better than any woman I ever met with, notwithstanding your shy reticence. Now tell me what have you been thinking of, with your eyes bent on that foolish piece of sewing." "Only, sir, that these public charities are indispensable blessings in the present state of the world, but that if half the money and effort were expended on the homes and family lives of the poor, we should have comparatively little need of them." "Exactly so!" exclaimed the doctor, " exactly so! My child, I could not have hit the mark better myself. Tompkins, my dear fellow," he said as that gentleman entered the room, "your niece agrees with you and me in theory exactly." "Only in theory, sir?" "Only in theory. In practice she is as page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] far from us as the north star. You and I have had some experience with the homes of the poor. We know very well that it is there that the evils of society germinate. She is giving her poor little life to stem these evils as best she can practically, utterly in vain, however, like the fools of Thermopyle. You and I admire and theorize- at least, I do- it is delightful to theorize. It appeases a man's conscience, helps his self-complacency; which latter article is my most comfortable possession, next to my easy chair and slippers. I have got up some magnificent theories in regard to improving the condition of the poor. I wrote an article upon the subject some five years ago; possibly you may have seen it. I even went so far as to purchase a block of tenement-houses, for the sake of carrying out my philanthropic plans-but when it came to the practical part- man alive! it was handling pitch and weeding out nettles- it was putting one's nose deeper into the mass of human depravity than was at all agreeable. My tenants got drunk, fought among themselves, broke rules, would'nt pay the rent. My agent, through whose proxy I fondly supposed the government was to be maintained, was indiscreet, and made matters worse. I came nearer to a quarrel with him than was agreeable to any gentleman. Tompkins, the world will never appreciate the trials of tenemnt-house landlords!" "Speak for yourself," coolly responded Mr. Tompkins, unfolding the daily paper. "I do, sir! It is very fine to talk about benevolence. I like to hear a sermon about it, and to see a mission chapel which I have helped to build well filled with the poor souls, in their Sunday clothes and Sunday behavior; I like to lay down a few hundred dollars to build a hospital or an orphan house; it tells on. a man's reputation; but as to touching their wretched home-lives with one's own hands, 'Good Lord deliver us. page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] CHAPTER XIX. AS the spring advanced, the dampness of Mrs. Parker's low basement began to tell more perceptibly upon the health of her little family. She herself was suffering from rheumatism; sometimes not able to walk at all. Two or three times she was confined to her bed. Emma's strength not being sufficient for her mother's work, much of it was lost. These were dark days for Emma. Carrie and Johnny had been in school since New Year's, excepting when kept at home by sickness. Both had symptoms of sore eyes- a common plague among the children of cellars. Emma had been so long promised the privilege of going to school, and so often disappointed, she had ceased to speak of it more. Yet, Emma was not an unhappy child. All the heavy cares of her young life had not quite blighted her light-heartedness. Child-like, she hoped for better days to come. Her mother had promised to take upper rooms in May. The landlord had offered her a choice between two which were to be vacated at that time. One was in the front house. Mrs. Parker demurred about the rent; the other, in the rear, was more reasonable in price, but there was no water above the yard; it must all be carried up the two or three flights of stairs. This circumstance would greatly increase the labor of their employment. Before the moving day came round, the rumor of a rise in rent filled the neighborhood with consternation. Men were talking in knots, after their day's work; muttered imprecations on the landlords; women gossiped at the doors, or groaned under their burdens. All through the poor streets, from garret to cellar, nothing was talked of, or thought of, but rents. Mothers awoke in the nights to cry over their babies, page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] with which they were, perhaps to be turned out of doors. Fathers were cross and sullen towards their families, for the very love of whom their hearts were wrung. "We could hardly live before. What shall we do now?" said some. "The rich folks don't want us to live," said others. "They live on us; what do they care if we be crushed under them?" It was just at this time that Mrs. Parker was in bed with a severe attack of rheumatism. Her work had all stopped. Johnny had had an attack of croup, and was still threatened with inflammation of the lungs. Emma's hands were quite full with taking care of him and waiting upon her mother. All hope of taking a better room at present was gone. It happened about this time that Emma had been sent to take home a few articles which she had succeeded in ironing. The lady, moved by her anxious face, gave her a dollar above the ordinary price. The few kind words the lady spoke as Emma was leaving the door, touched her heart, even more than the money. She was walking home, with her eyes almost too full of tears to see the way, when she encountered Mr. Lewis. Frightened at being seen crying, Emma could scarcely answer his kind inquiry as to the cause of her grief. She could only say that they had been in trouble, and her mother was sick. "Is that why you cry?" asked the gentleman. "No, sir," said Emma, more embarrassed than before. Mr. Lewis walked beside her in silence, till she had quite recovered her self-possession, and then asked gently: "Is your mother going to move this spring?" "I'm afraid not, sir." "But my sister tells me," returned Mr. Lewis, "that you are to take an upper room in May." "Yes, sir; but the landlord has raised the rent two dollars on the upper-rooms." page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] "And has he not raised the rent of your basement?" inquired the gentleman. "Yes, sir, he has raised it a dollar and a half on us. Mother says her health is so bad, she can't stand any more." "I fear," said Mr. Lewis, after a pause, "that my sister will be very much displeased that you are not going to move." "What can we do, sir?" said Emma, her voice beginning again to tremble. Mr. Lewis replied, after a moment: "Do you think your mother would let me pay the first month's rent, in a better place?" "I'm afraid not, sir," replied Emma in a very low voice. "Why not?" asked the gentleman, a little surprised. "Because, sir- I don't know certainly, sir; but she would not take it from Miss Lewis-" "I am not Miss Lewis." He spoke a little impatiently, and quickened his space. After a moment, he seemed touched again by her distress, and said, very kindly:- "Now, tell me, Emma, why will not your mother accept money from my sister?" "Oh, sir, don't ask me," said Emma, again bursting into tears. "But I must ask you, and you need not fear-to answer. I shall not be angry." He waited patiently till she could speak clearly, and then asked again; "How has Miss Lewis offended your mother, Emma?" "Oh! she is not offended- at least I hope not, sir- only Miss Lewis called a few days ago, when she was sick in bed, and she said my mother had no business to keep her children any longer- that she ought to give them to the Home of Friendless, to be sent out West- that is, Carrie and Johnny; and that I should come and work for her. And mother said she would hold on to her children, and nobody should touch them. And she said if she died, she would not be indebted to anybody any more. And now, she thinks Miss Lewis is unfeeling, sir, and I can't make her think any other way." page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] Mr. Lewis gave his glove a jerk, which tore it. "I hope you are not displeased, sir," said Emma. "Miss Lewis is very kind to us, and I am sorry-" "No, no, child," interrupted Mr. Lewis. "I am not displeased- at least not with you, nor with your mother. But about your moving. You cannot stay where you are. My sister and Miss Ellis both say the cellar is killing you. Why, you are as thin as a shadow!" He felt the arm that bore the empty basket. "Now, I tell you how we will arrange this," he added. "I have heard you say that your mother cannot carry the water up stairs. So, you must find a room in the front house of your block, or some other block, where there is water on every floor. How much are the rents there?" "Nine and ten dollars, and some ten and a half, sir. Mother says the front house in our block is very old, and the plumbing is bad, and always out of order; and the landlord that owns most all the houses in that street is so cross, he won't do anything he can help." "Can't you go to some other street?" "I don't know, sir," said Emma,with a sigh, which was almost a sob. "Mother says it's no use. If we run away from the rents in one place, we get them worse on us in another." Mr. Lewis had accompanied Emma out. of his way, and they both stood still before the alley leading to her home. "Emma," he said, "tell your mother I want her to take an upper room, no matter where. I shall pay the first month's rent, and as much every month as she cannot manage. Tell her she need not be concerned about any indebtedness. I do not do it for her, but for you. I believe I am somewhat in debt to you." "Tp me, sir?" Emma opened her eyes very wide. Mr. Lewis smiled. "Yes, to you; and it is a debt that is likely to increase; so you must let me begin to pay it off." page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] Emma was silent from very wonder. Mr. Lewis was turning away. "If you please, sir,"- began Emma. Mr. Lewis stopped again. "If you please, sir; there is such a nice family here in the front house, who are going to be turned out?" "Who are they?" asked Mr. Lewis. "The-name is Linder; they are English people. They go to church, and are always good. Their room is so nice, you'd think it was a parlor, sir. I go up sometimes to study my Sunday-school lesson with the little girl. She is as little as Carrie, but she can read as well as I can." "Why should they be turned out?" demanded Mr. Lewis. "They cannot pay the rent, sir. Mrs. Linder was sick all winter, and they had a big doctor's bill, and then the little baby died, and the funeral cost- oh, so much money. They have six or seven children, sir, and they try to keep so clean and respectable; but it is very hard to get shoes. And they are healthy children. Mother says it is because they are kept so nice. But that makes them eat a great deal. I was there one evening when Mr. Linder came home to his supper; his wife lay on her bed and cried, because the children had eaten 'most all that was saved for him.' I was so afraid he would come in cross. I pitied her so. But he isn't a bit like other men. He was only sorry to see her cry, and said, "Now, cheer up, Annie, and thank God you are getting well. If He spares my good right arm, you shall not want, nor the children. We'll all be right yet; and so he made her smile again. Mother used to let me go in every day, till she got about. All Mr. Linder cared for was to see her well. He would take his first money every Saturday night to buy a little, beef or wine, because the doctor said she ought to have them. But now he is sick himself. Got a fever, I believe; and everything is stopped, and landlord has noticed them out for the first of the month." page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] Emma had told this story with the simplicity of utter self-forgetfulness. Mr. Lewis listened, not knowing whether he was most interested in it, or in her disinterestedness. "I must go with you to see these people," he said, when she had finished. "Are you not afraid of the fever, sir? It is typhoid. The doctor says a bad kind." "And do you go in?" asked Mr. Lewis. "Oh, yes, sir. It's in our house, too. The policeman has put chloride of lime in all the halls." "Lead the way, then," said Mr. Lewis. Emma entered the house, and he followed very thoughtfully. Through the noisy, open halls, up two flights of stairs, feeling their way through the darkness, at last they reached the door of the back tenement, on the third floor. The opening of the door, however, disclosed a light, cheerful room. The floor was bare, and without paint, but scrubbed to whiteness. The walls were also white with clean lime, instead of being covered with soiled, broken paper, like the other rooms in the house. A family of eight occupied this room, with its two adjoining bed-rooms, or closets. One of these was dark and unventilated. The other had the luxury of a window, which, however, could scarcely afford ventilation, opening, as it did, into the dirty rear court, where Emma lived. In this bed-room the sick man lay. The doctor had ordered the bed to be moved into the family room. But the stove was there, which must be heated much of the time for various domestic purposes. It was sultry April weather, and the fever of the sufferer was greatly increased by the heat and closeness of the whole place. Mrs. Linder, the fit mistress of the tidy room, came out of the bed-room to meet them. Her pale face brightened at the sight of Emma, and then flushed at seeing a stranger. Mr. Lewis, with quick discernment of character, perceived in her that native nobility, which no high breeding could counterfeit. He apologized for the intrusion, expressing his sympathy for a family in trouble. page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] "I am sure you are very kind, sir," was the frank reply. "Pray be seated, sir," and she offered him a chair. "Is your husband dangerously ill?" asked Mr. Lewis. "Oh, yes, sir." She paused a moment to command her voice, and then went on firmly. "The doctor gives but little hope of him, sir. He says that the fever will turn in about twelve hours, and then, if he does not sink immediately, he may be built up with good nursing, and nourishment, and stimulants." Mr. Lewis feared these were beyond her power to give, as the case demanded, but the woman's appearance and tone, her whole air, betokened such dignity and delicacy, that he hesitated to press questions; yet, there was a gentleness about her, which did not repel him, and, after a moment, he said: "This little girl is our mutual friend; she has told me all your trouble, and I am anxious to help and comfort you, if you will allow it." Mrs. Linder tried to say, "Thank you, sir," but her voice choked; there was another struggle to command herself, and then she said, "I fear there is nothing you can do for him, sir, unless you have influence to get him into St. Luke's, when the fever turns. The doctor says he can get strong there, and have good air. It is so close here, and the place so small. I would give my very life to save him, sir; there never was a better man. It is hard indeed, that my hands might not take care of him!" "Will you let me see him?" asked Mr. Lewis, much moved. She turned immediately toward the bedroom, and he followed. The form that tossed restlessly upon the bed, was that of an athletic man, apparently young; the head was nobly formed, the high forehead, from which the thick black hair had been pressed back, might have been that of a scholar, rather than of a laboring man. At the foot of the bed, ready to offer any needed attention, stood a boy about ten page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] years old- the man's miniaturc. The boy raised a pair of dark mournful eyes as the stranger entered, and then stepped back respectfully. "George, dear," said the wife, "here is a kind gentleman come to see you." Her voice was a little tremulous, but the hand she laid upon the hot forehead was steady with thoughtful love. "Is he quite conscious?" asked Mr. Lewis. "Yes, mostly. He was very flighty last night, and at times to-day. Don't you know me, dear?" She bent over him again. Her voice was firm now, but low and tender, as though she could not, would not, let a shadow of delirium come betweeh her full true heart and his. "Annie," said the sick man, in a natural tone, "keep up good heart, and trust in God. If it please Him that I get to work soon, I'll earn enough to make all right. Never fear! we have seen dark days before, we'll come out right yet. I mustn't hang on you, poor heart! and the children; we drag you down, down. I'll be a dead, cold, weight soon, tell the landlord that- "His eye was growing wild again; it had caught sight of Mr. Lewis. He covered his face with the sheet, with a kind of shudder, then rising in bed, with unnatural strength, he cried out: "I never ask anything from any man living, when I have strength to work, but spare her, have pity on her, and my helpless children." "George, dear, be quiet! It is not the landlord." "Annie, he'll' put you out, I know; it's no use to plead with that man; he is very rich; he makes his money out of such as we." Then, turning to the supposed landlord, he cried out: "We lived happy and comfortable while I could work, but we never could lay up one cent for such a time as this. It took every cent to feed and clothe the children, and to pay the rent. We have hoped and talked about having a home, some time, that our children might love and look back to when they were grown. Who talks of page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] homes for the poor in New York? Ha! Ha! these places are not homes. We crowd in today, and crowd out to-morrow, and the landlords are hard and cold, God forgive them!" His voice grew softer. His wife's hand was on his own, and then on his forehead; its gentle touch, with her soothing voice, was bringing him back to his truer self. His head fell back upon the pillow, and his eyes closed, as he murmured dreamily and brokenly: "God forgive them. 'In my Father's house are many mansions.' My helpless dears will have a home there. That Landlord is good. Oh! so good!" CHAPTER XX. A FEW days had passed since Mr. Lewis' visit. A carriage was standing before the house where the Linders lived; and in the back room of the third story, the mother and her children, with quiet haste, were preparing the sick man for his journey to the hospital. Mr. Lewis was there, and Miss Ellis, too, and Emma, who, notwithstanding her sympathy with the sorrow of the Linders, could not but be very happy, deep down in her thoughtful little heart, at having her teacher so near. For nearly two months, Miss Ellis had not visited their street. The season had been a very unhealthy one, and the lady's friends, never quite willing to have her visit; among. the poor, had lately been so decidedly opposed, page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] that she had thought it right to yield to their wishes. Every fond device light- hearted love could invent to change the young lady's tastes, and beguile her to love the world that lavished its blandishments upon her, failed. Ever thoughtful of the happiness of others, Miss Ellis had received these attentions gracefully and affectionately. The gayest and most thoughtless were never chilled by her. Her smile was always ready; but it was a smile which made her friends feel that, somehow, her life was above the pleasures that she shared. Nor did she fully sympathize with the grand benevolent systems which some of her friends turned to, as they turned to any other change which might relieve the tediousness of hours which were not engrossed with dress and gayety. Every good practical result of any such benevolent schemes, Miss Ellis recognized and approved; but tlhe spirit which pervaded them all- that of condescension towards the poor they professed to benefit, and authoritative patronage over the unfortunate-Miss Ellis shrank back from. Her intuitions of human nature were too quick to trust in their efficacy; her humble acknowledgement of the com- mon heritage of humanity too sincere to approve them. When Miss Lewis spread before her the elaborate charitable plans of herself and her associates, Miss Ellis could see that it was a machinery which did not, in the least, discover or disturb the selfishness and the pride of those who controlled it. It was a way of benevolence, not lowly like the Sav- iour's, but a way over which dainty slippers might walk unsoiled; a work which deli- cate, jeweled hands might touch gloved. Yet Miss Ellis' friends were not wholly selfish or worldly; they really did want to do good, and they really did do good when it was not inconsistent with their conveni- ence and their comfort. "You are a very strange girl, Mary Ellis," Miss Lewis, one day, remarked. "You never criticize or object to anything I propose; yet, it is plain to see that you have an ob- page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 EM MA PARITER. stinate little way of your own, which is quite different. Indeed, my dear, I think it my duty to try and convince you that it is quite useless to expend your feelings on these poor people. You really do expose your life, in visiting and sympathizing with them. The public charities could do your work far better. It is quite wrong to waste yourself in individual cases; you are still too young to sacrifice everything to your pity for those who never deserve it." "Everything?"Miss Ellis replied. She only spoke that one word; but the peaceful smile, which answered her friend more than words, seemed to say: "I have meat to eat which ye know not of."- It was after such a conversation as this, that Miss Ellis had succeeded, with some difficulty, in getting permission to visit the Linders. She had learned their story from Mr. Lewis, and from Emma, who worked occasionally at his sister's house, and there met her old teacher. She did EMMA PARKER. 249 not conceal the fact, that the place was infected with a fever, which might be contagious (the doctors were not agreed about that). At any rate, it was a fever, which prevailed in the bad air of those close streets, which the poor themselves greatly dreaded ; yet, she had come with- out any controversy, either because her gen- tle but irresistible resolution prevailed over selfish arguments, or because those who would have argued were tired of trying to change her pursuits and opinions. She had not come with Mr. Lewis; but had sur- prised him there. The sick man, helpless as an infant, had been dressed by his family, in a calico wrap- per, which Miss Fanny Lewis had been so kindly thoughtful as to send. The kind- hearted girl had even wanted to come her- self, in her first impulse of interest in this new family. She had done what she could, at -any rate, in supplying her brother with the wrapper and other comforts for the pa- tient. "? . - page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] 250 EMMA PAKrtER. It was arranged in the first place that Mrs. Linder should accompany her husband to the hospital, but that very morning, one of the children sickened with symptoms of the fever, and cried so piteously when it saw both parents preparing to g-o away, that the father himself begged her to remain. "You will come to see me in a few days, Annie. I don't mind goingl.- It's only for you and the children. It will seem worse to them somehow if they see you go." The sick man's voice was scarcely above a whis- per, and these few intelligent words spoken, he swooned away into partial unconscious: n ess, exhausted by the effort he had made. Mrs. Linder stood between the bed and the crib where the sick child lay, looking from one to the other with such anguish in her face as was hard to see. "We will make him a nice bed in the carriage," said Miss Ellis, soothingly; "the driver will be very gentle. I think he will not need you." Miss Ellis was rather pleading the neces- MMA PARKER. 251 sities of the case than the promptings of her heart. "Yes, I know," said the wife, doubtfully, "but may be it's the last thing I could ever do for him. Ah, me,!" she added, wringing. her hands, " that I should be denied nursing him, and he has nursed me in sickness, as kind as any mother." Miss Ellis did not say, as another might have done: "But, my good woman, you should be very thankful for the hospital." She fully appreciated that it might save the father's life, and provide him with comforts which his poor home could not. Mrs. Lin- der was far too sensible a woman not to know this too, but this was not the moment to speak of it, or, to reproach the seeming ingratitute towards the means which, how-. ever judicious, were rending asunder this family in the time of sorrow, when families cling most to each other. She turned to the stricken wife, whose courage, for the moment, seemed giving way, and said softly: "You shall do all you can for him," and then page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 EMMfTA PARKER. Mr. Lewis added: "Yes, you shall see him into the carriage, and I will go with him to the hospital, and come back and report to' you. If Mrs. Linder sank into a chair for one brief moment to cry now, it was such cry- ing as softens and relieves the heart. The finest sermon on gratitude and reasonable- ness could not have subdued her as did these simple words and acts of sympathy. Her weakness was only momentary, she rose and put away all traces of emotion, and finished the preparation of the patient for his journey, with the firmness and the cheerfulness she so well knew it was need- ful he should see. Two men had come in with a litter to bear him down stairs. Mrs. Linder hushed the sobs of the frightened children, checking one with uplifted finger, pushing another gently out of sight, whose face bore marks of tears, forbidding with Spartan firmness the good-byes which might agitate their father. Then she followed the litter down stairs, keeping her own face EMMA iAI-KER. 2 253 in his sight, and speaking hopeful words. "Never fear, Walter dear, you'll' soon be well, and come back to us; and don't fret aoout us. We will take care of each other, and God will take care of us all." And so to the carriage door, and to the bed within, which her hands arranged, her brave heart bore up his, and her face reflected a halo of faith and love-the last sight his eyes looked upon before the door closed. And now she had given her charge to Mr. Lewis and the hospital, but the occasion for fortitude was not yet over. Five little children had fol- lowed her down to the street, and were now weeping and clinging to her, as the carriage drove away, and one lay danger- ously sick up stairs. She must cheer and sustain, and provide for all; and she will do it, God helping her, for faith and love are strong. Miss Ellis and Emma did not go up again; they knew the family were best alone for a while. Miss Ellis pressed the mother's hand, and spoke kindly and hopefully,i pro- 22 t page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 a EMMA PAERER. mising to come to-morrow. Then the two went back into the rear yard to visit other patients. Emma's mother was better; she sat with her rheumatic foot upon a chair, trying to starch a few collars. Mdiss Ellis wished to persuade her to accept Mr. Lewis' offer, and take a room in the front house; she had a difficult subject to deal with. Mrs. Pai-ker had been pronounced by most of her patrons, hard, obstinate, and in- corrigible. Miss Lewis had discovered that these qualities were the elements of a noble nature in the rough. With a different education and 'withdifferent surroundings, Mrs. Parker might have been applauded for the ver-y traits for which she was now blamed by her benefac- tors. Her hardness was but the unrefined firmness which, under no ordinary difficul- ties and trials, bore up her independence, and bore up her little family with, her; her obstinacy might have been the very martyr- spirit which resisted alluremrents or terrors that would turn her from what, to her un- EMMA PARKER. 255 enliglltened mind, was the path of duty; her incorrigibleness, in another class of society, would have beein simply self-re- liance; now, unfortunately, it must be called independence of patronage, or pride. Mrs. Parker had seen very little of Miss Ellis, but she had never quite lost the softening influence of her words at the time the baby died.- She could speak of Miss Lewis scorn- fully, as of a "fine lady who would take her children from her as she would drown a lit- ter of kittens." Concerning Miss Ellis she was simply silent. Still, Emma feared her teacher would not be welcome. She fell back a little apprehensively when she found Miss Ellis determined to visit the base- ment. Miss Ellis understood it and led the way. "Good morning, Mrs. Parker," she said cheerfully, opening the door of the room. "Good morning, ma'am," was the cool rejoiner. Miss Ellis took a chair, uninvited. Em- ma looked appealingly towards her mother. page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] 253 E MA PARKER. Mrs. Parker looked at her work; it was im' possible to learn anything from her face. "Is your rheumatism no better?" asked Miss Ellis. "It's not much better, ma'am. My feet is so swelled, I can't stand to wash much. Emma, you hang these collars on a line in the yard, and be sure you pin them on strong." Then, turning to Miss Ellis again, she added: "I suppose you want me to go to church now; that's what most of you fine folks wants of the like of me. That minister from. the chapel round the corner called here a number o' times ; but I suppose he won't call, now I can't walk to church. All I remember on his saying to me was, that that I should go to church, bring up my chil- dren good, and be thankful for my mercies." "And was not that good advice?" asked Miss Ellis, smiling. O Lor, yes," said Mrs. Parker. "Johnny, let that water-pail alone; I'll have ye sick. on my hands again. That boy's-the biggest plague that ever a poor woman had." EMMA PARKER. 257 "Come here, Johnny," said Miss Ellis, holding out her hand to the little rascal, who stood with bare legs below his ragged petticoat, eyeing his mother with a kind of defiance. He eyed them alternately now, till, suddenly, won by the glimpse of an orange emerging from the lady's bag, he came boldly towards her, and clutched the prize. Miss Ellis detained him at her side, talking pleasantly, making him answer her questions, and now and then making him laugh,. The mother gave no outward sign, but she was certainly softening under this treatment of her precious plague. From scolding and denouncing him, she went on narrating to Miss Ellis a full account of his late attack of croup, and ended, wiping her eyes, by assuring Miss Ellis that she hadn't any comfort in all creation but her children, and she wouldn't let anybody but GOD AL- MGHTY take 'em away from her. "He had seen good to take away four," she continued. "Four!" interrupted Miss Ellis, with 22'y page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 258 EMMA PAlRKEI. Yes, ma'am," returned the widow. "Ye didn't know when ye see the last baby die that I had had that trouble three times afore ye knew me. Oh, my!" she went on sob- bing, I've had trouble enogih td kill a dozen7 women; and there's the rich relig- ious folks, so proud of building their Mission Chapels, and their poor-houses, and such like, and always a preachin' us down. If they'd just care a bit for the trouble we have in our houses, and give us decent places to live, where our children wouldn't die off that way, may be we'd think a little more of their religion and go to church, too." Miss Ellis let the woman have her say, and then she did not contradict or reason with her. She sat, with Johnny standing beside her. Presently -she said gently: "Poor little boy, I wish you had a better place to live in. I'm afraid you'll never grow up strong and healthy in this base- ment.". "I played taw and alley with Mike O'Con- EiMA PArK ER. 259 nor, and. pcppered him," said Johnny, look- ing up very smart. Miss Ellis was obliged to smile at this epi- sode; then, turning to'Mrs. Parker, she said kindly: "I know it is quite true that these nice children have not a nice place to live in. I do feel all that you say, and I am so very sorry. My dear Mrs.' Parker, do you not trust me? I can hardly take pleasure in my own beautiful home, I am so sorry for you." "I know'd," said Mrs. Parker, crying again, but more gently this time, "I always know'd that you was kinder than the most on 'em: you've been very good to my Emma, and she loves you like she does her life." "And I love Emma," said Miss Ellis, rc- linquishing Johnny, and drawing the little girl to her. "I know you'll believe me, lMrs. Parker, that I' love your little girl so much that I cannot bear to see her pining in this cellar. I do not want to take her away from you, or interfere with your family at all. I only want to persuade you to let really kind page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] 260 EA PA friends help you to take better rooms this spring, and whatever money they may ad- vance for the purpose, we will put Emma in the way of paying back. You would like that, Emma?" "Oh, yes, ma'am!"Emma's heart beat quickly; she could see that her mother was moved. "Well," said Mrs. Parker, " you be very good; that's so. If the rest of the religious folks was such as you, I might be different- God knows I'd like to be." CHAPTER XXI. O NE evening about dusk, Emma and little Paul Linder were threading their way, together through the streets from Mr. Lewis' office to their home. They had been there to get a basket of oranges. Paul was to take it to his father at the Hospital the next day Mr. Lewis had left th e basket at his office that evening, with directions that it should be taken to the sick man as early as possible. Paul knew that the Hos- pital rules would not admit him in the evening, and the two children were consult- ing as to the best means of suspending the basket of fruit from a window at home, that it might keep cool and fresh till morning. The little boy was in very good spirits. His father had been pronounced convalescent. (z6t0 page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] 2G2 EM LMA PA RiKE E. 'And with a child's hopeful confidence, he was assuring Emma that his father-rwould come home in a few days, and go to work again, and that his little brother would soon be well, and that he was going' to school again, and they would all be very happy. "Won't you get turned out, after all?" asked Emma. Paul shook his head. ("My mother says it's a very strange thing, Emma, but the landlord has been different to us ever since the first time Mr. Lewis came. "Do you think Mr. Lewis said anything to him?" asked Emma. "I don't know," replied Paul; my mother says she cannot understand it, but the next day when the landlord came, he did not say a word about the rent, and he took his hat off when he came in; and when he went out, le said,' Good morning, ma'am,' to my mother, just as if she was a lady." "Mr. Lewis always does that way," said Emma. "I guess I know that," returned Paul. EMMA1 PAIBKER. 263 "But Mr. Lcwris is a re!l gentleman. My mother says the real gentlemen and ladies are always polite to the poor. It's the make- believe ones that speaks up so kind of proud and ard to us. I guess if you could have seen our landlord the day he noticed us out." Paulgave his head a peculiar nod, significant of unutterable things. "Just as if I didn't know," said Emma. "Don't he come; to our house tqo?" "What do you do then?" asked Paul. "Oh, I run out doors, if I'm not too busy; Carrie and Johnny, they hide behind the wash-tub, only Johnny always will peek out, - and niake up a face, and that frightens me so, for fear he-might be seen." The children's conference had reached this point, when they turned the corner near home. A group of boys ran out of the alley-way, and were scampering past them, when the leader was attracted by the sight of Paul's basket. "Hullo, Paul Linder, what have you got there?" he exclaimed coming to a sudden stop. page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] 264 EMMA PARiER. "Nothing for you, Michael O'Connor," ,said Paul, straightening himself up, and holding the basket behind him with both. hands. "Well, let a feller see, can't you?" said Michael, reaching to get hold of tJe basket. "Oh, boys! see here! oranges! I can see through the cover. Give us a suck, come, Linder, can't ye? I've got a cigar in my pocket, wait till I light it, and you shall have a puff." " My father wouldn't let me smoke," re- turned Paul, backing up against the wall for the better protection of his basket. Michael muttered impatiently that his father was in the hospital, and wouldn't know. The other boys looked on; they had little doubt as to the result, for theii- leader was twice as strong as little Linder. The latter was a slight figure, with a delicate face. The eldest child of a large family, he had shared his mother's anxieties and cares for the younger ones, till they had grown. robust - EMMA PAERKER. -26 at his expense. He looked very slight indeed, as he stood before his rough an- tagonist. It was the meeting of opposite natures, with all the repugnance to each other that such natures would naturally feel. Michael, stout, coarse, ragged and dirty faced, standing in some body's cast-offshoes that were much too big for him; Linder, in plain, well-mended, but perfectly neat clothes, his very face and figure impressed with the refinement of a Christian training. Michael instinctively saw in him a moral su- perionty which his bad spirit hated. Little Linder shrank from him, because he had been taught to shrink from filth and pro- fanity, but his fine dark eye which return- ed the other's malicious glance, was un- daunted. He held on to his basket, keeping his own body between that and the enemy. Little Linder could think only of his sick father, whose property he was defending. Emma stood by him. "I'1! help you, Paul," she said. "Michael, you'd be a cow-. ard to fight such a little boy." 23 , / page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] 266 EMMAr PARKErE "Wait till I fight 'him, can't ye, Em. Par- ker? I'm bound to have an orange though, anyhow," He seized Paul's arm with an angry grip. "Hullo! young 'uns! what's going on?" shouted the voice of Jenny Lenare. She came racing through the alley-way, bare- footed and bare-headed, her black tangled curls dancing about her face. "Linder's got oranges, Mike's bound to have 'em," cried one of the children in ex- planation. "Mike O'Connor, you ought to be asham- ed of yerself,'.' said Jenny, as she dashed in among them with her usual vehemence. "Paul Linder's a decent feller, and what are you?" "Get out! Jenny Lenare," retorted Mi- chael, half relinquishing Paul's arm, and darting over his shoulder a glance of dog- ged determination. Though so much older and stouter than Jenny, he was clumsy, and had once or twice suffered from her superior agility. Any one of the antagonistic group EMMAr PAEKER. 267 might have been a match for her, as far as physical force was concerned. But Jenny carried with her, especially when angry, an impulsive, fearless, irresistible energy, reckless of consequences, investing her with a mysterious, magnetic power, which not a child in the yard thought of standing out against. She was very angry just now. Lit- tle Linder happened to be her favorite. This was partly on account of Emma's champion- ship, and partly from one of her own unac- countable impulses. "Mike O'Connor, you let that boy alone," she shouted again. I won't," said Michael, returning to the charge, and attacking little Paul with a bru- tal force, which the boy could not have withstood many seconds, notwithstanding the aid of Emma's arm and shawl, with which she strove to cover, the basket and him too. "Mike O'Connor," yelled Jenny, her eyes flashing fire, "yer old blunderbuss! Ye ought to be hung, and clawed, and cut to page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] 268 EMMA PARKER. bits, and put in the station-house. Yer old, black lubber of a bugger of a .-." Jenny's furious hurry could not invent epithets fast enough, or abusive enough. She fairly stop- ped for breath. Michael half desisted in astonishment. "Jy! can't she swear, though? D'ye hear, young uns? Don't none on ye tell the police o' me, swearin'! My' goodness! wouldn't I catch it if I sweared like that! But give me an orange, I say!"He returned to his purpose, not heeding that Jenny was close behind him. A moment more, her quick hand had clutched his ragged hat, and whirled it away. It spun for a moment high in the air, then descended into the gutter some rods of. The undeniable effect of a boy's losing his hat, especially if by sudden and insulting means, is one of the mysteries of physiology, or humanology, which science has not yet unfolded. It is as though his brains were twitched away with it. If not frantic with rage, he stands confounded; he cannot col- EMMA PARKER. -g269 lect himself. We are reminded of Pick wick's description of the woman eating sandwiches on a boat, when her head was j knocked off by a bridge. There's the sand- wich, and-no mouth to put it in. But to return to the point. It was the moment for defeat or for advantage. Had Michael only had the self-possession to turn upon her, or to have pressed to the charge, regardless of the hat, he would have had the victory. But Jenny, according to the good luck of rash fools generally, saw that he wavered just as the laugh rose at the expense of the hat. A fatal wavering for Mike. The next instant the whole crowd, as street dialect would have it; pitched into him. Pauland Emma worked themselves out of their corner,and were hurried off by Jenny, she herself standing supreme and peerless, to see the play out. The two children, with the basket between them, which was more valuable now, since it had passed through peril, ran through the alley-way to the back door of the front house, where Paul stopped. page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] 270 EMrA PARKER.. Emma promised to accompany him next morning to the hospital, and bidding her little friend good night, she proceeded to her own door across the yard. It was the last Saturday night in April. The place was full of indications of moving next week. Widow Parker's basement was, as tenement people say, all upset (which expression, alas! might not be inappropriate to their ordinary con- dition). The widow Parker had engaged a room on the top floor of the front house. Mrs. Lenare, feeble as she was, had already removed to a neighboring street. Some said she could not pay the increased rent of the former place; dthers, that she was try- ing to escape the observation of the strange man who still came occasionally into the yard. At any rate, Jenny did not acquiesce in the change. She still lingered during the day among the old haunts and com- panions, sometimes insinuating herself for a night into the tenement of a former neigh- bor. As Emma approached the basement steps EMMA PARBER. 271 after leaving little Paul, she observed her mother standing, evidently waiting for her. "You've been gone long enough," was the salutation, as Emma came up. "We couldn't help it, mother; we got stopped outside by some bad boys; they tried to get away Paul's basket." "There's bad boys enough about here no doubt of that; you'd better try to keep away from them. I want to know now if you can tell where Mrs. Lenare's gone." "I didn't notice the number, but. I know the place," replied Emma. She looked up surprised that her mother should manifest any interest concerning a family which she professed to dislike. "Because," continued the widow, " there's been a gentleman here inquiring for a Mrs. Daget, and I more'n half believe he meant Lenare." "A gentleman," exclaimed Emma, ap- prehensively; "Is it the one she's so afraid of, that was here once or twice?" page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] 272 EMMArL PARKER. "No, not that loaferish fellow, but a nice. spoken gentleman; a traveler." "Did he say he was a traveler?" asked Emma. "No, child; but, of course, I can tell he was from foreign parts. He spoke kind of pitiful about the'folks in these places. He gave Johnny some money to get his shoes mended. He spoke mighty kind to me. He's one of your religious folks, too, and most of them I don't much like." "What makes you think he wanted Mrs. Lenare, mother?" "Can't say; but it struck me it was Le- nare he was after, and got the name wrong. Didn't you tell me she came from the country?" "Yes, ma'am," said Emma, thoughtfully; "but it can't be any of her relations; they're all dead." "I didn't say it was any of her relations; but it would be a mighty good hit for her; if 'twas anybody who cared for her. The poor thing is not long for this world." EMnMA PARKER. 273 "Mother," said Emma, as she followed her down the stone steps, "to-morrow is Sun- day ; may I go and sit awhile with Mrs. Lenare?" "Yes, child, for all I care; I'm going to stir up a rusk or two for our breakfast. You may toast one in the morning for the lame boy " I8 page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] CHAPTER XXII. rT -IE next day, Sunday-school over, Emma found her way to Mrs. Lenare's room. Over-exertion and exposure incident to the moving had so reduced the strength of the invalid, that it seemed probable she would never leave the room again. She shiank more than ever from any interview with a stranger. She would not even allow the 'viLit of a physician. She kept her door constantly locked, and would open it only to Emma's voice and her children's. But though Emma's presence was certainly a comfort, yet she seldom talked with her. When Emma had made the room tidy, or assisted Jenny in preparing the simple meal, Mrs. Lenare, who had taken no notice while she was busy, would now beg her so earnest- (274) EMSMA PARKER. 275 ly not to go, that Emma had been constrain- ed, day after day, to bring her sewing, and stay as long as she could be spared from home. Jenny was seldom in-doors. She had been prevailed upon, partly through per- suasion, partly through terror of the Juve- nile Asylum, with which she had been threatened by the truant-officer, to go- to school. Her ingenuity had been more than ever exercised to invent excuses and means of escape, and, when these failed, to make the school itself her arena of invention and mischief. After school-hours, her roving knew no bounds. But Jenny's absence had become a relief to her mother, if Emma would but take her place. As for poor little Bob, Emma's presence seemed entirely to fill his ideal of happiness. From the wonder with which Bob caught from her lips his first intelligent ideas of Heaven and a Saviour, he had come to questions, and to a real, though not very clear, sense of divine love and power. Emma could not answer his inquiries from her own small stock of knowl- t page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] 2T6 EEMMA PARKER. edge. She never thought of being a teach- er, but she could read to him from her little Testament. And thus the two children, with faith equally child-like and direct, were acquiring knowledge that many a philoso- pher and scholar has failed to reach. Mrs. Lenare never had seemed to notice their conversation and reading. She invariably turned her back to the children, or lay upon., the bed with her eyes closed. Perhaps she did not hear; perhaps she was annoyed; yet, if Emma offered to stop, she would say, impatiently: -"Go on, go on; don't mind me. On the Sunday afternoon above alluded to, Emma had come in directly from school. Mrs. Lenare had been very ill all day. Em- ma took off her hat, and busied herself in preparing some simple refreshment for the sufferer. When she had done all she could to make her comfortable, she came 'and stood by her pillow, and said gently: "I am sorry you are worse to day; I wish I knew what to do." zEMMAr PsAI. KE:. 2 7 "Oh, you can't do anything, child. I don't know as I am any worse to-day; I'm only unhappy." She turned her face away, as if this ex- pression of confidence had cost her an effort. It was the first, even towards Emma, since the story of her early life, several weeks be- fore. Emma was silent, not knowing what to answer. Presently, Mrs. Lenare spoke again: "I wonder where Jenny is?" "I saw her following a band of music, as I came home from school," replied Emma. Mrs. Lenare groaned, and, closed her eyes. Emma thought she did not want to talk any more, and withdrew to the window. Bob climbed upon her lap. It had been a warm day, too sultry for the season. The windows of the room were open, the door into the hall also. Mrs. Lenare had been forced-to submit to this from very want of breath. This could afford little relief, however. The com- mon hall of the tenement-house was full of noise, and bad odors. Rude feet, and ruder 24' . page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] 278 E3iMA PARKER. voices were passing and repassing. Mrs. Lenare begged presently that the door might be closed again. As Emma repassed the bed, she reached out her hand. "What book is that?" she asked. "My Testament,'" said-Emma, "that 1 have been reading out of to Bob." Mrs. Lenare drew back; Emma stood still. "Have you got a whole Bible?" asked the invalid again. "Mother has one that a missionary gave her, but the printing -is not very plain. I mostly read this, but sometimes I find beau- tiful verses in the Old Testament." "And do you believe it all?" "Oh, yes, ma'am." Emma looked sur- prised. "I remember one verse in the Old Testa- ment," continued Mrs. Lenare, "that my father often used to say. I've heard him repeat it in his prayers, and once he preach- ed a sermon from it. Listen, Emma, and see if you ever saw it in the Bible: 'I have EM A PARKER. 279- been young, and now am old, yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his. seed begging bread.'" "I never saw it," said Emma, "but I will hunt for it; it is a very nice verse." Emma paused, and as there was no reply, she pre- sently asked: "How came you to leave your father, and that nice home in the country?" "So that I might be lost, body and soul," replied Mrs. L. "Lay Bob across the foot of the bed, he's getting sleepy; and then sit down and I'll tell you the rest." Emma obeyed, and Mrs. Lenare went on: "About the time my brother went to sea, a young man from New York made his ap- pearance in the village where I lived.- He pretended to have some share in the manu- facturing interests of the place; and to be rich. At any rate, he was very free with his money. He dressed nicely, and made a great sensation in our little town. He got up such entertainments as had never been known there before, and invited our young page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] 280 EMMA PARKER. people to others in adjoining towns. He paid a great deal of attention to me from the first. Young as I was, and giddy, too, I could see that he was not the gentleman he pretended to be. I did not trust him, and did not like him. But then, I was flattered by his at- tentions. It made me an object of envy to the other girls. I liked, too, the fun and frolic, the rides and dances." "Did your father like you to go with him?" asked Emma. My father!-no, no, no; my poor father!" Mrs. Lenare sat up in bed, and pressed her hands against her forehead, with such a wild, distressful look, that Emma was alarmed. After a moment she went on: "My aunt had got to be very infirm now. She looked after the house, and our young servant; but it was little she could do with me. She complained to my father that I was getting wild and extravagant. Neither of them knew the half. My father seldom said anything; he thought, probably, it would do no good. When he did speak, EMAx PARKER. 281 I sometimes answered back, or pouted, and ran away. One day, I had been asking leave to go to an evening sleigh-ride. My father had said more than usual, to try to con- vince me that I was getting too much taste for such pleasures. I remember he said once or twice: ' Some time you will believe me, and be very sorry.' I would not listen; I even reproached him with not caring for my happiness. At last, I arose and said that I did not care to talk any more, and only wanted to know whether he forbade my going or not." Mrs. Lenare paused to cough, and then lay back with her eyes closed. There was such anguish in her face, that Emma was awed. "Don't try to tell me, if it hurts you," she said. ". "Hush, Emma; it don't hurt me; I must go on now. I shall never forget how he looked, with his white hair, and his beauti- ful old face, leaning back in his study-chair, while I stood so proud before him. I have 24* page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] 282 EMMA PARKER. always remembered just his words; I shall remember them while I live, and in the world of misery to which I am going. His voice was very low, and trembled, but I heard every syllable. He said: ' My child, I do not forbid you; I only say, if you go, it will be to my great sorrow, and your own. I left the room immediately. He thought I was not moved at all. But when I got up stairs, I threw myself on my bed, and cried till I was almost blind. I hated myself; I wished that I was dead. I vowed that I would never again see Daget, the young man from New York." "Then you didn't go?" said Emma. "Yes, I did go. Daget drove up to the little tavern in sight of my window, with a sleigh full of gay company. He walked over to my father's house, so as not to attract attention. I met him at the hall-door. He had never seemed so handsome, and so fond of me before. He said it was a splendid night, fine sleighing the last of the season, that he would bring me back early, etc. Well, the EMMA PARKER. . 283 result was, I slipped up-stairs, got ready, and joined him outside the house. I came back when it was nearly morning. I saw, as we drove up to the house, a light in the study window. Every other window was dark. Daget left me at the gate. My father opened the door to let me in. Neither of us spoke one word. There was no reproach in his face, but such a look of pity. I never saw such pity-in any other face, I never shall again. I passed him and went up stairs- to my room, and to bed. But I could not sleep. My head was wild with the-excitement, and moonlight, and all the foolish things I had heard and seen. After tossing on my bed for about an hour, I arose, put on a wrapper, and crept down stairs after a glass of water. The study-door was ajar, the lamp still burning, and my father kneeling by his arm-chair. I stepped softly and without shoes, but the stairs creaked, as I descended. He rose and came into the hall. 'Are you sick?' he asked. 'No, sir,' I re- plied, and was passing on. He laid his page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] 284 EMMAA PARKER. hand upon my head, just as he used to when I was a child with him in the garden. I wanted to get away, but I could not, dared not. I glanced into his face. There was that same look of wonderful pity and sorrow. ' My child,' he said, 'are you going to break away entirely from your fatherandyour God?' I said 'No,' and burst into angry tears. Again I tried to hurry away, but he said ' Stop.' Then with his hand still on my head, he looked up, and said in a low-,solemn tone- I feel it in my heart even niow,-' O God! save her soul. Whatever is Thy will con- cerning this short life, save- my children's souls at last. Remember the word unto Thy servant, upon which Thou hast caused me to hope.' "These were his exact words. I have tried a hundred times to forget them. They come to me sometimes suddenly in the glare and music of the theatre, and I nearly faint. They are grounded into my very soul." Mrs. Lenare had forgotten Emma's presence. She had been talking as to herself, until she EMM PARKER. 285 observed the little girl was weeping. "I have frightened you," she said, recollecting herself, "and no wonder. You ought not to come near me." "Oh, no," said Emma, "I am not fright- ened, only I never beard any one talk like you do. I don't much understand it, only it seems somehow what you say about your father, makes me think of Jesus, our Saviour. I think He loves us in that way, we poor folks here, where every body is so wicked, and there is so much trouble." "I don't believe it!" said Mrs. Lenare. "Oh, don't say so," replied Emma, hiding her face in the pillow, weeping again. Her simple mind was passing through a true Christian experience. Grieved for a soul for whom Christ died, sure that the Divine love which had saved her- could save another; wishing to recommend it, yet, in her simplicity, not knowing how. Mrs. Lenare could not see all this, but she told Emma not to cry, and went on. page: 286-287[View Page 286-287] 286 EMAS PARKER. "For several days after the sleigh-ride, I tried to be very good to my father; but I was restless and unhappy. Daget had ask- ed me to be his wife. I begged him to get my father's consent, but he was not willing. He wanted me to leave home secretly, and come with him to New York. I held out a good while, but he got such a strange power over me; I cannot understand how it was. He made me believe that his way was best. He said my father would never consent be- forehand, but that after we were married, and he found out how rich we were, he would be glad. He persuaded me that we should come back to visit him. He said he had a great deal of money, and we should live in splendor. Well, I believed him, and con- sented at last. He helped me to get away early that spring. We came to New York, and were married. I left a note on the study-table, telling my father that I was go- ing to be very rich, and very happy, and would come back soon to visit him. Daget would not let me leave anyaddress. I really EM1MA rAREiER. 28g7 thought I should send one soon, but I never did." Mrs. Lenare paused, and lay so still, with her eyes closed, that Emma thought she had dropped asleep. A sudden darkness had come -over the room. Emma rose and went to the window. A black, heavy cloud was rising in the west, with the rumbling of distant thunder. The wind was whirling the dust, and this, with the increas- ing darkness, prevented her from seeing clearly. She was trying to look up and down the street for Jenny. Meantime, Bob had climbed off the bed, and was clinging to her in terror. "It's going to rain, Bob," said Emma, "that's all." Just then a flash of lightning illuminated the room, and the deep roll of thunder made Bob tremble, and cling to her again. She looked towards the bed. Mrs. Lenare still lay with her eyes closed, seeming to notice nothing. Now, the door opened, and Jenny burst in. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed, "it's going to storm awful, ye better believe; how black page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] 288 EBI 1A PARKER. it is over yonder, ye can't half see in the house. Oh, my! what if the world should come to an end?" Little Bob shivered, and looked into Emma's face. "Are you afraid?" he asked. "No," said Emma. "Oh, my! I am awful 'fraid!" exclaimed Jenny. "What would you do Emma, if the world should come to an end?"Before Em- ma could reply, there was another flash, and prolonged peal. Both the children clung to her. Jenny screamed. Bob began to cry. "Don't cry, Bob," said Emma, sooth- ingly, ' what is the matter?" "Oh, the thunder!" said Bob, in a low terrified voice, Emma was not surprised at his terror. He was a timid, feeble child, but she was surprised at Jenny's. "The thunder won't hurt us, Jenny," said Emma. God holds the thunder and light- ning in His hands. My teacher said so." "Does he?" asked Bob, suddenly growing EMMA PARKER. 289 calm, "and Jesus too, Jesus what has the keys?" "Yes," said Emma, "Jesus can do every- thing." "Then He'll kill me dead! ' said Jenny, "I'm so bad, Oh, my! I wish I weren't so awful bad!" "Let me get my kitty," said Bob. He ran across the room, forgetting his own fears in the care for his little pet. He had just found her in thy basket in the corner, when the room was again lightened, and another burst of thunder more terrible than before almost shook the house. There was great con. fusion without the room. The rain was beating against the window and roof; chil- dren were crying in the halls, mothers call- ing, men stamping and hurrying in. Little Bob limped in haste back to Emma, and placing his kitten in her lap, hid his own face there, and exclaimed: "O kitty, don't be scared, it won't hurt you, Jesus has got hold of the thunder and lightning." 2 page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] CHAPTER XXIII. URING the week following the scene narrated in the last chapter, Emma was busy at home. Her mother had been able to resume most of the work, and Em- was her only helper. The little girl had become very skillful in fine ironing and crimping. Mrs. Parker was glad to takp the heavier labor, and leave this to her more delicate fingers. But Emma did not forget her charge in the next street. Every evening, just be- fore bed-time, and at least once besides dur- ing each day, she found time to run round and inquire after the sick voman., and ren- der some little service. Her mother had ceased to object to these visits.; the Widow Parker had a really kind heart under her (290) "EaMA PARKER. 21 rough exterior. Mrs. Lenare, as the suf- ferer, was now an object of compassion, and no longer in the washer-woman's estimation a would-be lady, who thought herself too good to speak to her neighbors. As for the people in the house to which the invalid had removed, whose jealousy had never been excited by her former manners of life, they were always kind; a little rough, perhaps, in the manner of expressing it, yet as truly compassionate, and as ready to share'their scanty comforts as though they had been. possessed of more. As the sick woman grew weaker, daily, she manifested less aversion to the attention of others; perhaps this was indiference, a lack of power to notice, or to care; perhaps it was that yearning for help and sympathy of which no human soul is destitute; circumstances may repress it, but it is surely there. Sorrow and pain will touch the spring; a word of kindness wakens response; and death, the great leveler, brings the lowliest and the highest human nature to reach and yearn for companionship. *. page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] 292 EM A PARKER. It was on Saturday afternoon, closing the week we have alluded to, that Emma was working with her mother at the ironing- table; it was very hard work in this small, unventilated room. The perspiration was streaming down Emma's face, and her hands trembled with fatigue. "What do you hurry so for?" asked her mother impatiently; "we'll be done safe enough afore night; this is the last basket full." "I know," replied Emma, " but I want to go somewhere for about half an hour." "Where now; for pity's sake where do' you want to go in the middle of the after- noon?" "Mother," said Emma, hesitatingly, stoop- ing her face over the collar she was care- fully smoothing on the board, "I wish you would let me go to the bank for Mrs. Le- nare; I will hurry right back." "To the bank " the widow exclaimed, straightening herself up, and looking at Emma. EMMA PARKEB. O29 "Yes, mother, you know the bank wil be closed by and by." "Well, now!" said the widow, resuming her work, and speaking. in an under-tone "she has got money in the bank, has she, So that's the way she lives; I did wonder anyhow." "She has not much left," returned Emma "she told me last night when she gave me the check, that it was near gone, and then she would have to go to the hospital, if she lives so long. It is on account of the children that she'don't want to go; she says she will never see them any more, and the rich folks will put them in some kind of an Institution; when she talks about it her face gets white, and she shivers all over. It makes me real sorry." Mrs. Parker worked on in silence for a moment; a careful observer might have seen in her hard features the softening touch of pity; her mother's heart responded to that tale. After a moment, she said: "Put on your bonnet, child, I will finish- the col- 25* page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] 294 EizMA PARKER. lars; then you shall run right over with the money," she continued, as Emma was hur- rying away. "And be sure you tell Mrs. Lenare, I'll let you stay the most a' to- Omorrow. The errand was quickly dispatched. Mrs. Lenare just now being in no need of further service, Emma hastened back to her work. The mother and daughter spoke but lit- tle, as the day drew to a close, for the fatigue of the long week, concentrated into the week's last hours, oppressed them both. Both were thinking, however, very much of the poor sick woman. "Emma," said the widow, after all was finished, and they were putting the children to bed, "did you ever tell Mrs. Lenare about that stranger that was round here just after she moved?" "Do you mean the traveler, mother? No, you said he asked for another name." "Yes, it was Daget, but I as good ais know that he-meant Lenare." "Daget! mother! I didn't notice you said EMMA PAEKER. 295 Daget; that's the name of the man she married." "Married!" exclaimed her mother, wheel- ing round half angrily towards Emma, "then that's her name. What do you ant to be so stupid for? If you'd tell'd me that afore, I could 'a sent the stranger right." "I did not know it then, mother," said Emma. "I never asked her anything; she tells me a little once in a while, and then it seems like she don't want to talk about if." "What under the sun does she call her- self Lenare for?" "I don't quite know," replied Emma. "I believe it was when she went into the theatre, and didn't want anybody to find her, but her husband he found her; you know last winter how he used to come and scare her so. He wanted her to go with him, and wanted to get Jenny away, but-he's such a bad, wicked man, she won't have anything to do with him any more; and he couldn't make Jenny stay with him either, though she i page: 296-297[View Page 296-297] 296 EMMA PARKE R made believe she was going to, and scared her mother dreadfully." "Well," said Mrs. Parker, "they are very queer folks, that's all I can say; you had better tell her about that strange gentle- man asking for her, anyhow. Maybe its some of her people." "No," said Emma," that can't be; her father died soon after she left him to come to New York, and her brother went to sea, and the ship was lost, and he was drowned; she hasn't got any folks at all." "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Parker, "and she is young yet. Its mighty hard, but I don't see as I can help it; so you bolt the door, and we'll go to bed." The next morning Emma was busy and happy, getting Carrie and Johnny ready for Sunday-school, as well as herself. The children had never attended regularly, part- ly through their own indifference, partly because it was really. a difficult thing for a poor mother like the Widow Parker, after her hard week's work, to make them com- EMMUA PARKER. 297 fortably ready on Sunday morning. Emma could dress them, but she could not supply the lack of clothing. Johnny had no shoes, or Carrie had no dress, or they lad-not been well in the night; if Emma stayed to persuade and assist them, she would be herself late.. It happened, however, on this particular Sunday morning, there was no especial hinderance, and the little ones started with Emma in good time for school. It was a clear, bright morning ; at this early hour, little children in the country were going to Sunday-school too; they with green fields about them, and birds and flowers, fit companions for the light-hearted; in the dirty city street where the little Par- kers wended their way, there were no such things, but there was blue sky, and sun- shine above them, and morning air about them. It was the day of rest, and Emma was leading them to the best place she knew, and they were very happy. As they drew near the Church, a group of boys ran round a corner, talking and page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] 298 EMMA PArKEr. l shouting to each other. They were ragged, street boys; no new sight to Emma. Yet her attention was at once arrested by the voice of the leader, a large boy, who was vociferating in a loud tone, apparently op- posing the plans of the others. 'I say I won't go to the Central Park," he exclaimed. "The watchmen keep a fellow too straight. There aint a speck of fun there. I'm for the Battery, come along, can't ye?" I say, Joe Hardy, yer never agreed ;. yer ncedn't think of bossing it over us, the way ye did last night." Joe replied in an angry tone, and then the words and shouts blended into one dis- orderly chorus. "They're going to fight," said Carrie. "Oh, Emma, that's Joe Hardy, we used to know in Forty-first street." Emma, who was pulling her charge hur- riedly on, stopped quickly. Some passing diversion had broken the noisy group, and the boy in question had turned suddenly to- wards her. EMMAs PARKER. 299 "Hallo, Em. Parker!" he exclaimed. "Joe Hardy!" exclaimed Emma, standing still with astonishment. "Where did you -come from?" "I live round here now," replied Joe. "The rents is riz, and half Tompkins' ten- ants is turned out.. The police sot us on the sidewalk, first of May." "What do you come down here for?" asked Emma. "Couldn't get a place up-town," replied Joe, shrugging his shoulders. "Rents is awful. My mother has got into that base- ment over yonder. D'ye see that tall brick house? It's awful full though. I s pose we'll get chucked out again." Joe whistled and performed a shuffling dance, as though this fate, which accorded with his ordinary experience since he was born, was nothing to be deprecated. "That's where Mrs. Lenare lives," said Emma, thoughtfully, looking at the house at which Joe had pointed. "Do you know her?" page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] 300 EMMA PlAKER. "What! the sick woman?" returned Joe. "t Yes; I know her. I bring'd her a loaf this morning, and I'll bring her another if she wants. She's civil-spoken." "Come along," said Johnny, pulling his sister's hand. "Yes," said Emma. "We are going to Sunday-school. I wish you would go, Joe." Joe threw his head back, and laughed up- roariously. Meantime, the other boys were beginning to pull in opposite directions, and shout and contradict each other. Emma was hurrying away. The boys, after a momentary consultation, stood still, and looked towards her. "I say Em.," called Joe. Emma looked back reluctantly. "Em., I say! We've a notion to go to Sunday-school. It's plegged dull; nothing going on. A fellow can't get a bit of fun, Sunday morning!" Carrie and Johnny were evidently averse to this new companionship. Emma's first feeling was adversion-too. She half feared - / / .' EMMA PARKEER. 301 they were planning some 'trick upon her. She hesitated, however, and looked at Joe. "I say, Em., won't you let us go?" he asked. "Yes," said Emma, her kindly impulse struggling with her caution. "You know I always wanted you to' go to Sunday- school, Joe; but you have got to behave decent." "You just try me now!"Joe chuckled, and whistled; the other boys followed suit. Emma walked along, looking back occa- sionally. She was too accustomed to Joe, and characters of his stamp, not to detect whatever of sincerity there might be. Joe did really want to go. He was striving to put down his rude nature just enough to make himself an acceptable companion. He had no definite expectations of god to be obtained; but he wanted to find some- thing-no matter how or where-to satisfy that insatiate craving, which street life, had been exhausted to supply. Emma and her two little companions led 26 page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] 302 EMtMA PARBK ER. the way. They looked back frequently, to be sure the boys were following. The lat- ter came on, shy and uncertain, keeping afar off, until Emma stopped at the chapel door. It was nearly school-time, and a crowd of children were pressing in. The boys came almost to the door; then, while Em- ma waited for them, they stopped, whisper- ed together a moment, and ran away. They were half frightened at finding themselves among neatly-dressed children and people. It was not mischief, but real bashfulness, which made them shrink from such unaccustomed circumstances. They stood at a little distance, watching the still- increasing crowd; thinking, perhaps, that Emma would turn back and urge them; but the scholars were taking their places, and Emma had only time to join her class. Yet, the ragged, awkward boys had not been unnoticed. It happened, on this par- ticular Sunday, that the Superintendent of the school was out of town, and a stranger, EIMA PARKER,. ' 303 spending a few days in the city, had accept- ed an invitation to come in, partly in the capacity of Superintendent, partly to ad- dress; in an informal way, the children and the poor people that congregated there. He had come early, and was standing near the entrance, watching the children as they entered. Emma and her companions did not observe him, but he saw them and noticed that after she left the boys, they came creeping back towards the door, whispering and laughing. They had just reached it, and were stretching their necks to look in, when they saw a gentleman standing close beside them. With the wild nature of untamed animals, they start- ed again to run. The gentleman advanced a step, and said, 'Boys!"The voice was clear; but unmis- :akably cheerful and kind. They knew rery well it was not a reprimand, though his was what they were expecting. It was i uthoritative, yet they were drawn by it. 'hey stood still, and half turned again. page: 304-305[View Page 304-305] 3041 EMMAA PARKER. The gentleman advanced to meet them with quiet assurance, saying as he did so, "Don't run away, boys; we are going to have some nice stories here this morning; come and hear them." The boys hung their heads, looked at each other, and then looked at him. There was no mistaking that frank, open countenance, and when the gentleman said again, "Come in, come in; we'll put you in a class together," Joeslowly approached the door and entered, and the others followed. The stranger was about to enter also, when he saw a miserable-looking woman, who had come :near the door of the church, and stood watching the chil- dren go in. Her garments were very filthy, her back bowed, as if long accustomed to bear burdens; she held in her shrivelled hand an old basket, the handle of which had been broken and fastened with a piece of rope. The basket contained half-burned coals, old nails, and other articles which she had gathered from the street and irefuse barrels. Drawing nearer and yet nearer, All: EMMA PARSKER. 305 she stood at last upon the very door-step. She was evidently unconscious of the in- congruity of her appearance and employ- ment, to that Sabbath morning scene. No one spoke to her; the children, and even the teachers shied off a little as they passed her. At length' the last one had passed in, and the door was left open to ad- mit the mild morning air. The old woman dropped her basket on the step, and then sat down beside it. "Be off from here, will you!" said the sexton, approachino. She did .not offer to go, but straightened herself up as she sat, and looked, at him defiantly. "What harm is she, doing?" said the strange gentleman, who was still looking on. "She is drunk, sir," said the sexton. "I thought you might not like her sitting here." "Oh, but it's a lie he tells ;,I ain't drunk no more nor he is. It's not a drop I've tuck this blessed morning." She spoke rapidly, in a scarcely coherent tone, lifting her 26* page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] 306 EMMAA PARICEI. head and shaking her fist occasionally at the sexton. "Let her alone," said the gentleman in a low voice. He left them as he spoke, and proceeding to the desk gave out the open- ing hymn. While they were singing, he walked back again to the old woman; not- withstanding her declaration to the con- trary, it was perfectly evident that she was intoxicated. Not so deeply, however, but that she appreciated the different attitude towards her of the sexton and the strange gentleman. She shook her fist at the former, was nervous and deferential at the presence of the latter. "What makes you drink rum.?" asked the gentleman, looking kindly at her. "Bless your soul, sir, its only. a drop I take, when I'm just ready to drop down dead. I guess you'd take a drop yourself, your honor, if ye were starved and beaten, and locked up and chucked about like I am. I sleep'd in the station-house last night, and ha'nt ere a crust this blessed mornin'. Och, - ' .' EMMA PARKER. 307 your honor!" she continued, wringing her hands, with something between a sob and a wail, ' don't be mad, sir; but I wants somie- thing' "Poor woman!" said the gentleman, look- ing down upon her with a face full of pity; "truly you eo want something." The school exercises were a little short- ened this morning, and not" followed, as us- ual, by the Church Service (the minister also being absent). The brief address of the strange gentleman was intended for the Sunday-school scholars, and for such per- sons as might drop in-some with Sunday restlessness, some because they were accus- tomed to come at that hour. As the speaker stood before his little con- gregation, his own -mind was filled with the thoughts suggested by the words of th& poor woman. He looked about the miscel- laneous crowd, and felt they were all seek- ing something, perhaps they knew not what. They were seeking of him, too, for he had placed himself in the attitude of teacher, page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] 308 EMZIA PARKER. thus awakening their expectation. He had won their confidence by his gentle, friendly manner with the school; now they were looking up to him, waiting. It was not mere compassion for the un- fortunate which made the speaker's voice tender and tremulous. They were not all equally unfortunate; some respectable fam- ilies were represented there. It was a deep, honest sense of the common want of human- ity-theirs and his; poor humanity, longing, thirsting, dying for something. What was that something? Many of those before him had exhausted every resource within their reach, and had not found it. If the speaker told them that they would never find it in any created thing, they would assent, prob- ably, but would they believe it? r If he said, "Only God can fill the immortal mind,' they would say "Yes, surely ;" but they would not feel it. The soul's hunger is an instinct; it cannot be reasoned with; it can only be satisfied by the immediate presentation of its -proper EMMA rPARKE. 309 object. It is of no use to say that, object is God-God up in Heaven; the Supreme, the Infinite, the Holy. That is too far to go. It must be God come down to us-Emmanuel. And so the speaker talked only of Him, in the simplest Saxon language, with homely illustrations, with a heart full of tender fellow-feeling. Oh, how they listened! The old woman had crept in to a seat near the door, and sat weeping. gently. The ragged boys never thought of running away. Joe, especially, unconscious of other presence, sat bolt up- right, gazing into the speaker's face, the tears streaming down his own. And so human nature, all the world over, is thus hungering. Among the rich and the poor, the disconsolate and the hopeful, the proud and the lowly--longing hearts through the world are seeking Jesus. In a Christian land, where this want is more. clearly defined, and its object better recog- nized, souls are calling to teachers and ministers: page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] 310 EmMA?AREE R. "We want something-not your learning, nor your logic; not your poetry, nor your morality; but give us, in language simple, because the theme is too grand for any other-GIVE us JEsus. - . .! - . t CHAPTER XXIV. IN the afternoon Emma sat in Mrs. Le- nare's room. She had brought her Bi- ble and a few tracts; she was not reading, however, but was sitting still by the win- dow, humming softly one of her Sunday- school hymns. Bob was beside her; his mother lay upon the bed, coughing and breathing with difficulty. She had seemed indisposed to speak when Emma first came in, but after watching the children a little while, she asked, "What have you there, Emma?" "The Bible, with the Old Testament.: Since you spoke about it the other day, I have looked for that verse you said." "And could you find it?" "No, I haven't found it yet; but I have (3I} page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] 312 EMLA PiARKE-. found a great many others that I never knew before. I have such a good time ev- ery day when the work is done, looking for the nice verses." Where did you get those tracts?" asked Mrs. Lenare, after a few minutes' silence. Oh, they've been left at our door one time and another; sometimes missionaries leave them once in a while my teacher gives me one." "And do you keep them all?" "Yes; I've put them away in the chest, with my Sunday-school papers; sometimes of an evening I get one out, and mrother lets me read a bit to her, if she's not too busy." There was another silence, and then Mrs. Lenare spoke again!"You have great con- fidence in religion, Emma; may be you'll lose it if you live to see as much trouble as I have." A shadow of doubt and pain passed over Emma's face. "Your father believed in religion," she - EMMA PrAXKER. 313 ventured at length to suggest, "and you say he used to pray. Don't you ever pray?" The question was asked very timidly. "No," was the reply. There was another silence, and then Em- ma said, in a low voice, without looking up, I don't know what I should do if I could not pray." "That's because you believe it's of some use," said Mrs. Lenare. Emma looked up inquiringly. 'The invalid coughed painfully, and then said, "If my father's prayers were of no use, mine surely would be of none." "Were they of no use?" asked Emma, her face again troubled with the dreadful doubts the sick woman's words suggested. "No use to his children," was the reply. "If there is any heaven, I can never get there." During this conversation, little Bob had been leaning on Emma's lap, turning his eyes from one face to the other. It was only the last sentence, however, that he fully 27 page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] 814 EMMA PARKER. ' comprehended. "Jesus -has got the key, mamma. He will let you in." Emma drew a sigh of relief, The child's words fell on her ear like an answer to all doubts; the shadow was dispelled from her spirit, and could not come back. The sick woman asked for a drink. After Emma had givren it to her, she drew her chair nearer to the bed, and asked if she might read one of the tracts. "As you like," was the reply. Emma took up one intended for the sick room. She had read but a few lines when Mrs. Lenare stopped her: ' That's not for me," she. said, " it's for some good person." Emma laid it down, and took -up another, entitled "Guide to Repentance." After listening to a few words, Mrs. Le- nare interrupted again: "Iow do you know that that's the truth, Emmla?" "I suppose it was a good man wrote it; he would not tell a lie," replied Emma. "Good men make mistakes sometimes," insisted the other. 'I've heard ministers - ' r f EMMA. PARKER. 315 contradict each other; and one Church says, 'You must believe my way or you- can't be saved;' and another says: 'No, there's nothing true only what I teach.' Who is to judge among so many teach- ers?" Emma turn ed over the leaves of her tract, not knowing what to say. After a moment's consideration, she looked up and answered with a smile: "If we can't be sure of tracts and other books, we can of the Biblb, for that's what God says himself." "Ah!" said the sick woman, "I am afraid there is nothing sure for me." She threw her arm out restlessly upon the bed and continued, "The Bible was all sure to my father. He lived upon it. He is in heaven. It is well with him, whatever I may say. But his prayers were of no use to his chil- dren. They- are both lost!" "You're not lost," replied Emma. ' 0h, Emma! hush!" Emma looked at her in silence. She was i awed, almost frightened, by the misery ex- page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] 316 EMMAA PARKEER. pressed in the sufferer's tone and face. Her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks sunken, her eye bright and restless. There were traces of early beauty in the face, but shad- owed by care, and a kind of dreadful appre- hension-a wretchedness entirely beyond Emma's comprehension. The little girl arose and stood by her pillow, gently put- ting back the long, brown hair from the cold, damp forehead. "I'm real sorry," she said, "that you are so unhappy. I wish somebody would come and talk to you that knows how. I wish Miss Ellis was here." Then, after a moment's silence, during which the sufferer only moaned, Emma said: "We had a strange gentleman at the chapel this morning. He talked so beautifully about Jesus. He said Jesus would save everybody who came to him; that nobody need be afraid. He said we could not think how quick He was to hear, how H-e listened for the first bit of a prayer, that He pitied us so, and loved us so, if only we would pray to Him. That is all we can do, you EMMA PArKEE . 3t1 know. And the good gentleman said Jesus was in a hurry to save us." "But I don't know how to pray, Emma, if I try: I can only groan, and reproach God. Do you think there is anything in the Bible for a wretched creature who can- not even pray?" "Oh! yes," replied Emma; "that good gentleman said, this morning, that there was no one so wretched or so lost, that God had not made a prayer on purpose for him in the Bible. And he read some prayers in the Psalms, that he said were on purpose for people to say who were in great misery." "That's what I want," said Mrs. Lenare. "Put away your tracts, and every other book; if there's anything sure, it must be what God says himself, and I won't hear anything else." Emma had had no guide in studying the Bible but her own wants. She had no sys- tematic acquaintance, especially with the Old Testament. But she sincerely desired to help a soul in trouble. And no one really, 27* page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] 318 EMMA PARKER. earnestly wishes to be God's messenger, who is not accepted and sent of His Spirit. Unawares, as she turned the leaves of the Bible, her hand and eye were guided - to the thirty-eighth Psalm. She began to read: "O Lord! rebuke me not in Thy wrath; neither chasten me in Thy hot displeasure." Almost immediately Mrs. Lenare's atten- tion seemed arrested. She ceased to throw her arm about the bed. A few lines more, and her eye grew quiet. "For mine iniqui- ties are gone over my head, as a heavy bur- den; they are too heavy for me." She was catching every word now. Emma read on to the tenth verse: "My heart panteth ; my strength faileth me." The invalid's lips moved, as if repeating the words. Emma was surprised at the effect of her reading. At the close of the Psalm, Mrs. Lenare lay very still for a moment, with her eyes slht, and then said: "Read on, Emma." Emma read the next Psalm. At the close, she looked up, almost thinking her hearer was EMMA PAXKER. 319 asleep, she was so quiet. But she was not asleep. Emma heard her repeat, in a whis- per: "Hold not Thy peace at my tears ; for I am a stranger with Thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were." By this time, Bob, who had been looking out of the window, began to fret, as if sleepy. Emma closed the book to lift him upon the bed. As soon as he was quiet, Mrs. Lenare said again: "Go on." Emma, again opening at random, began to read a Psalm of praise. "Not that," said Mrs. Lenare. ' I want another prayer for one in misery." Emma turned to the sixty-ninth: "Save me, O God! for the waters have come in unto my soul." At the fifth verse-"O God! Thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from Thee"--Mrs. Lenare re- peated the verse in a whisper, and then said: "Read those verses again, Emma." Emma obeyed. "Once more," said Mrs. Lenare. Emma read them again, and then paused; page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] 320 EM[MA PARKER. for the invalid, in a broken whisper, was repeating verse after verse. When she look- ed up, at last, she saw Emma's eyes filled with tears. "What is the matter, dear?" she asked. "Oh! nothing," said Emma, "only I am thinking God is so good, to put something in the Bible for everybody. In church, I like the glad Psalms so much i And some- times I have wondered what the complain- ing ones were in the Psalter for. But now I understand." Meantime, Bob had dropped asleep. He lay with one cheek upon his thin hand, and a tired, but patient, look in his little white face. Emma gently began to un'dress him. He smiled in his sleep, and murmured: "Mamma, Jesus has the key; He will let you and me into the nice, clean place." At that moment Jenny entered. She came in with her usual impulsive haste, but suddenly stood still, and looked first at her mother and then at Emma. No one spoke to her, and she saw nothing unusual. Yet, EMMA PARKER. 321 the impressible girl felt that there was some- thing to be explained. She advanced to Emma, and looked into her face. "You're crying," she said. "No, not much," said Emma, with a smile. "But your eyes are wet," said Jenny, em- phatically. Emma did not speak till she had fastened Bob's night-dress, and laid him gently down, with some difficulty, however, for Jenny was hanging on to her arm; "What is it now?" she insisted, following Emma from the bed to the window. It was now quite dusk. The lamp-lighter had just begun his rounds, and the lamp which chanced to be opposite the open win- dow threw its benevolent radiance, like moonlight, into the poor little room. A soft breeze, too, from the west, was making its way through the close air. Jenny sunk down by Emma's lap; repeating her question: "What you feel bad for, Emma?" Emma threw her arm around her, and answered: page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] 322 EMA PARKER. "I don't feel bad; I don't know what makes me cry; but I love Jesus, and I want everybody to love him. The strange gen- tleman in church this morning read a beau- tiful verse, where Jesus says: 'I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.' And, Jenny, He has come in here to-night. I know it certain, sure; and I am so glad, I have to cry." It was very still for a moment, and then Jenny began to sob. "O Emma!" she exclaimed, "you are going away, and nobody'll tell Bob and me about Jesus any more." "Going away!" replied Emma, in sur- prise. "Yes," sobbed Jenny. "I was over in your yard this afternoon, and Mr. Lewis was there talking with your mother. And his folks is going into the country next week to a beautiful place, and you're going, too, to wait -on Miss Lewis. And you're going to school, and going to learn every- thing, and never be poor no more. And EMMA PAERER., 323 I'll die when you're gone: I will, that's so." Jenny covered her face with Emma's dress, and shook with passionate weeping. "Did my mother say so?" said Emma, wjaen her astonishment would let her speak. "No," said Jenny; "she warn't agreea- ble; but Mr. Lewis he talked real nice, and said no doubt his sister would fix it all right; and Miss Lewis she wants you to go, there for all day to-morrow, to do some- thing for her." page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] CHAPTER XXV. A CCORDING to Miss Lewis's request, Emma went, on Monday morning, to her house. The family were preparing for a removal to the country. The waitress had been required to render extra services for a few days, and Emma's duty was to take her place in the dining-room. She was allowed to go home at night. During this first day of her new occupation, Miss Lewis was so much engaged that Emma scarcely saw her till near dinner-time. She was setting the table, when the lady came into the dining- room, After giving Emma a few directions about her work, Miss Lewis asked: i"Where is your apron? You know I always require you to wear one at dinner- time." "I have but one white one, ma'am," re- (3z4) ErMAx PAnRKEU. 325 plied Emma, much embarrassed, "and it was not washed, because I did not know I was coming here until last evening." ' Be sure you have it to-morrow When you go with us to the country, your duties will be different. You will assist the seam- stress and wait upon me. My brother wishes you to have time to go to school, or to have lessons. You will be very much 'with me, and I shall require you to be very neat in your dress." Emma did not reply; but she looked distressed and frightened. It would have been impossible for the simple child to have explained why she was always thus when talking with Miss Lewis. The lady was certainly kind; she had done a great deal for Emma, and was evidently willing to do much more yet, Emma was never at ease with her; she was even more uncomfortable when the lady was offering her favors than 'when directing her service, or correcting her mistakes. It was not so with Miss Ellis, or even Mr. Lewis. Emma never thought 28 page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] 326 EMMA PARKER. of asking herself what made the difference, or of analyzing her own feeling in any wise; she only knew she was uncomfortable in Miss Lewis's presence; that she never ap- peared so badly anywhere else. The fact was, she possessed a share of that human nature which makes everyone-born in what- soever circumstances-a discerner of spirits. Miss Ellis had never rendered the Parkers so much pecuniary aid as had Miss Lewis ; but she had loved them. She had never judged for them without looking at things from their own point of view. Miss Lewis wished to be kind; she took great delight in benev- olence; but her pensioners must never, for a moment, forget that it was benevolence. It would be undignified for her to take one step from her own superior position. They must submit their unimportant rights, their inferior judgments; to her patronage, and so she would serenely reach down to them her most excellent exhortations, as she reach- ed down her money. If they took it humbly and gratefully, she would protect them, EMMA PARKER. 327 smile upon them. Every order of being, in Miss Lewis's estimation, should learn its proper place, and keep it. The highway created for her own dainty feet shall be in- violate from the vulgar tread, till it reaches that portal to which all footpaths converge; that lowly portal, which every traveler shall lie down to enter, with empty hands, and form stripped of purple and fine linen; that common portal, where the worm and the mould make no distinctions, and beyond which many things shall be reversed, and "the last shall be first, and the first last." The lady was called out of the room. This gave Emma an opportunity to recover, and reproach herself for what she acknowledged was most needless discomfort. She had finished setting the table when Miss Lewis returned, and was pleased to be commend- ed for having done it well. "You-learn very quickly, Emma. I am sure you will be very thankful for the op- portunity you are about to have of improv- ing yourself. I shall endeavor to teach you page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] EMMA PARKER. everything that a young girl in your posi- tion ought to know. I do not quite agree with my brother about the school plan. You read very well, and that is quite enough. However, Mr. Lewis is decided, and his wishes must be regarded. It is a wonder- ful opportunity for a poor little girl. I trust you feel it so." "Indeed I do, Ma'am," replied Emma. "I am very thankful to you and to Mr. Lewis, only I am afraid I cannot go." "Not go!" said Miss Lewis with surprise. "My mother told me all about it last night," continued Emma, her voice trembling very much, "but shesays she cannot spare me." Miss Lewis was too self-possessed ever to manifest impatience, but she answered in her usual tone: "I hope your mother will not be so foolish as to stand in the way of your good, and her own too." "My mother does not mean to do that," said Emma. "But she does do it; if you do not actu- ally earn more money by going with us, you EM3IA PARKEn. will have a good home, and be learning a great deal, and be able to make your mother a great many presents." "But it is not that, Ma'am. My mother says if I go we shall be all broken up." Miss Lewis did not understand. "Mother says," continued Emma, "that when my father was dying, all his trouble was about us; he was afraid we'd all have to go to the Island, and mother promised him she'd keep us together while she lived; that no child of his should ever go to the alms-house, or asylum, or any such place." "What has the alms-house or. the asylum to do with your going into the country?" asked Miss Lewis, haughtily. "Only, Ma'am," said Emma, struggling to compose herself that she might explain,- "my mother's health is so bad, she could not do her work any more without me; and the children would have to be given up. She says she's willing to work her fingers off, if she can keep her children and her home, no matter how poor it is. She says when she page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] 330 EM3AU PARiKER. stands working half the night, and is ready to drop down, she is so tired, it bears her up to think she has got her children yet, and her own hired room." "And so," said Miss Lewis, coldly, " you choose to stay in that filthy crowded house, where you cannot have proper food or prop- er air, instead of going to a beautiful coun- try home, where you would have so many advantages." "Oh no, Ma'am," said Emma, pleadingly, '"I do not choose it! I know it would be a great thing for me to go, but I am thinking of mother, and Carrie, and Johnny." "If they were .not very selfish," replied Miss Lewis, "they would consider that what was for your good was for their own." During this conversation, Miss Fanny Lewis had come in with her hat on, and her parasol in her hand. She had heard her sister's voice, and had come to the dining room door to speak to her. Arrested by so. unusual a conversation, she sat down and listened. Miss Lewis appealed at once to 26" E-MA PAiRER. 331 her. "This has always been my experience with the poor; such misguided judgment! One's patience is so tried!" Miss Fanny had not yet attained her sister's serenity of manner. Her faced flushed ; it would be impossible, however, to know whether it was sympathy for Emma, or in- dignation in behalf of her sister's unappre- elated goodness. Miss Lewis went on: We have so many excellent institutions for poor children, where they would be many times better off than with their ignorant parents. Our city lavishes immense funds, yet these people cling to their miserable places, and suffer and die in them most inexcusably. The way in which these wretched families cling to each other, and resist our efforts for their good, is unaccountable!" Miss Lewis's language was rather stronger than usual, but her face retained its serenity, and her tone its even melody. You may fill the ice pitcher," she said, turning to Emma, "it is almost dinner time." page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] 332 EMu PARKER. The last remarks about the. poor being ad- dressed to her sister, Miss Lewis hardly supposed Emma had noticed or compre- hended them. She would have thought differently, had she observed the girl's dark eye thoughtfully lifted now and then as she was speaking. Emma was embarrassed only when perplexed. A perfectly clear train of thought had started now in her young mind. She performed her allotted task with steady fingers, and then stood modestly awaiting further orders. The lady seemed disposed to renew the conversation. "Mr. Lewis will. wish to see you after dinner, Emma," she said, "and know deci- dedly whether or not you intend to accept our offer. If you do not, we -may perhaps make it to some other girl who will be more grateful." "Please do not think me, ungrateful," cried Emma, the pain coming, back to her expressive face, "I am sure Mr. Lewis is very, very good. Please do not let him think I am unthankful, and I know what you EMMAA PAiER. - 333 say is all true, that it vould be a great deal better for me to go. I hardly can think about it, it makes me feel so bad to lose so much; but' last night my mother cried and put her arms around me, and called me her little woman, and her only help, and if she couldn't bring up the children good, maybe I would, and she hadn't any hope for them only me, and I cried too, and promised I would never forsake her." Emma's lip was quivering now as she added, "and she is all the mother I have got." Miss Lewis had listened with a kind of quiet surprise. This familiar conversation had continued longer than accorded with her sense of propriety. She waved Emma back to her duties with graceful dignity, rang for dinner to be brought up, and left the room.. Miss Fanny waited till She had disappear- ed, then softly coming up behind Emma, she laid her hand on her shoulder and said, "I am real sorry for you, and I don't blame you either." Then her eyes filling with tears, page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] 334: MMA PARKER. she added, (hurriedly, for some one was com- ing), "I wish I had a mother to love me so, and to say that I was necessary to her." Dinner was ready. Emma must attend. Her step was light as usual, but her heart was heavy with a sense of being under-some one's displeasure. She was very much afraid the subject of difference between herself and Miss Lewis might be resumed at table. But it was not. After the dessert was brought in, Emma was allowed-to withdraw. When the door was closed Miss Lewis said to her brother, "I wish you would speak to Emma about going into the country with us. I ob- serve that she is more anxious to please you than any one else, and I really must have this troublesome little matter settled at once." "Have you explained to her the whole plan?" asked the gentleman. "Yes," returned Miss Lewis, "I have said quite enough; it will not do to allow thei child to think herself of so much consequence. But I tell you, she would really be a very * - 1-' -EMMA rPAKER. 335 valuable member of the household, she is so well behaved, so quick to learn, and alto- gether such a nice little thing. -She really surprises me. I cannot think where she has learned such gentleness of manners." "I have always observed it," replied her brother. "No doubt," returned Miss Lewis; " my only fear is, that you and Fanny will imagine more excellence than exists, and spoil her. I beg, Fanny, that you will be particularly careful. I have doubts myself, whether this plan which you and brother have de- vised for a child in her station is quite pru- dent." Mr. Lewis was silent. Fanny answered archly, "How fortunate that you and I, Sis- ter! have been born in such circumstances, that we are proof against spoiling." Emma had not heard this- conversation, but she expected Mr. Lewis would speak to her, after dinner, and she dreaded this most of all. It would be very hard to resist the kindness of one who had always been so page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] 336 EM3A. iXPAR r. considerate towards her. She worked very busily washing the silver, as she heard his step in the hall. Her heart beat quickly as he entered the dining-room for a book he had left there. But he only walked to the mantel, took the book, and went out with- out speaking. She heard him pass through the hall, the front-door close, and hoped she had escaped the trial. About an hour after this, Emma had finished her work, and was passing out at the area door to go home for the night, when she saw Mr. Lewis approach- ing. He stopped, and asked, "Are you going home, Emma?" i "Yes, sir," she replied, "I have finished my work." "You have finished sooner than I expect- ed However, I have occasion to go a little way in your direction, and will speak to you now. My sister is sorry that you do not want to go into the country." "Oh, sir, I do want to go very much, only mother cannot spare me. Please do not think me ungrateful." EMMA PsAUKEn. 337 I do not think you ungrateful," he said very kindly, "I only think your mother is mistaken, and that you might show her that mistake better than any one else. She is denying you great good." "She does not mean it, sir, and I should not want a good thing if it made her and the children miserable. Carrie and Johnny get so wild in the street. Mother makes; them mind, but they don't care to be good for her so much as for me, and she is sick a good deal." "I know all about it," replied Mr. Lewis, "but these things do not make it right for you to be sacrificed." Emma dropped her head in silent distress. Not that her resolution was- shaken but it was so dreadful to offend Mr. Lewis, the kindest friend she ever knew, except the teacher from whose lips she had first learned of the Best Friend. Her troubled thoughts turned appealingly to HM. After a mo- ment she said, "It is not only my mother, sir, but-" !: 29 page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] 338 EMMA PAlti. Mr. Lewis looked at her, and she felt obliged to go on. "It is Jesus too, that I want to please." Hlow do you make that out?" asked Mr. Lewis. "Jesus said, ' If ye love me, keep my comn- mandments,' and one of the Commandments is, -Honor thy father and thy mother.' As Mr. Lewis did not speak, Emma felt that she must explain farther. He had to bend his head a little to hear the next words, "I don't think, sir, I could be happy in the country, or in any nice place, not even if it were Heaven, if Jesus was not pleased." There was another pause, and then Mr Lewis said, "Do you remember I once said that I was indebted to you?" "I can't tell how, sir," replied Emma, looking up. Mr. Lewis smiled, "You have taught me a new system of Theology, but I am sure you don't know what that means. : No, sir." Emma's eyes dropped again. "Well," continued Mr. Lewis, half in ear- EMMA PARKER. 339 nest, half for the purpose of drawing her out, "do you think that I could be on such terms with Christ as you are?" Emma hesitated, not quite understanding the question; presently she said, "I never thought that about a rich gentleman like you, that has everything. It seems, some-' how, that I am such a poor child, with no- body else to go to, that Jesus pities me." "Then I conclude," said Mr. Lewis thought- fully, " that one must approach Him as a poor child, that has nobody else to go to." By this time they had left the quiet street and reached a more noisy thoroughfare, where their ways parted. Mr. Lewis said, "Good evening," politely, as he always spoke to every one, but his face was grave. Coulc it be that he was displeased with her sturdy resolution? There was a hard strug- gle going on between. that resolution, and her wish to yield to one she so much re- spected and loved, to say nothing of the sacrifice involved. Emma's eyes were too full of tears to see the way, as she walked home. page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] 340 ELlMA PABKI-EB. There is many such a struggle in humble life, and victory too which the world will never know. "Deeds of patient self-rejection, Wrung from heartsthat make no moan, Wrounded hearts, that like the MasTe's, Trod the wine-press all alone.". "' ^" I * . * ! CHAPTER XXVI. A S EMMA drew near home her atten- tion was arrested by a gentleman standing on the corner talking with a boy a little larger than herself. She quickly dis- covered that one was the stranger who had addressed the Chapel people the previous Sunday, and the other was Joe Hardy. Joe was barefooted and as ragged as usual. Yet Emma was impressed with something unu- sual in his demeanor. She had never seen him manifest such respectful attention to any one. He was listening earnestly to something the gentleman was saying, look- ing up into his face with such deference and confidence! She could scarcely believe her eyes. Before she reached them, the stranger shook hands with Joe and spoke a 29 (34) page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] 342 EMMA-NL X PASRKER. few earnest words, too low to catch her ear, and left him. Joc stood for a few moments, as if bound to the spot, then, observing Em- ma passing, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and assuming his ordinary careless swagger, saluted her with," Hullo! -Em!" Emma returned the compliment, and then asked: "Do you know that gentleman, Joe?" Joe whistled and, turning round, looked earnestly in the direction in which the gen- tleman had disappeared. How did you get acquainted with him?" asked Emma again. Joe seemed turning the question over iij his mind. At length he said, "If I could work for him, I bet I'd do my best; I'd fol- low him any which way." Joe had passed his own door, but he still walked on with Emma, his hands in his pockets, keeping , time to a low contemplative sort of whistle. At length he said, "He's going to get me a job this week."' "Will you keep it?" asked Emma, who EMMAi PARKER. 343 remembered that Joe 'was not a very relia- ble workman. "I'll keep it," replied Joe, "till he goes out the city, then I'll go 'long." "Where?" asked Emma. "Anywhere at all," said Joe. Emma was much surprised. She would not have believed- there was any one living who could have acquired such an ascen- dancy over lawless Joe Hardy. The fact was, the stranger had spoken very kindly to Joe, and he was not accustomed to kind- ness. His mother was a passionate,'drink- ing woman. If she had been tender to him in babyhood, she had long since ceased to be so, and treated him, as she herself was treated everywhere, roughly. He was shrewd and idle, and, as a natural conse- quence, mischievous, forever under some- body's censure, Joe had never known the meaning of kindness till on that memorable Sabbath morning when this stranger took him by the hand. This kindness had won a way for the divine truth which he heard page: 344-345[View Page 344-345] 344 EMMA PARKER. that day. Born in a Christian city, Joe, nevertheless, had no correct ideas of relig- ion. If he had been able to put any defini- tion of it into words, it 'iould have been something implying an object of dread. The mind naturally seeks to personify. It will seek a representative of the spiritual in the sensible. His ideas of God might have been represented by the severity and repri- mand which met him from superiors on every side; the clutch of the police, the un- approachable grandeur of the rich. The name of Christ, he had heard and used pro- fanely without attaching to it any idea of personality. On that blessed Sabbath morn- ing, the stranger's earnest, tender w ords had opened to his wondering view for the first time, Redeeming Love. If he had heard it before, it had been with his ears only, and without a meaning. Joe's mind was yet very dark. He had caught but a glimmer in the distance, but with that glim- mer had come the longing which belongs to every immortal spirit for more light. EMMA PAiRKER. 35 "Joe," said Emma, as they stopped in front of her door, ' I did not know you would work for any body." I'll work for him though, and I'll do anything he -tells me, if I'm killed for it." Joe had never read the text, "Beautiful- upon the mountains are the feet of Him that bringeth good tidings," but he was experi- encing its meaning. "Joe Hardy," said Mrs. Parker, coming up that moment, with an empty basket and tired step, as if she had walked a long way, "Joe Hardy, didn't I see you an hour ago over on Broadway walking with a gentle- man?" "Yes," said Joe. "Well, what's his name?" asked the widow. ' "I dunno," said Joe, " but I heard some- body at the hotel call him Lenare. "Well, now," said the widow, dropping her basket, and sitting down oh the door- step, that's the very one that was round I er page: 346-347[View Page 346-347] 34G EIMMA PARKER. here the first of last month, asking for Mrs. Daget." "I heerd him," said Joe, "asking after that name to-day, and hunting in the Di- rectory." "Depend upon it," said Mrs. Parker, turn- ing to Emma; "Mrs. Lenare, as you call her, took back her own family name, when she left her husband, and that brother of hern is no more lost at sea than I am. I see/ her look in his face the first minnit I set eyes on him." "My stars!" exclaimed Joe. Emma held her breath. "Now, Joe," said Mrs. Parker, rising to go into the house, "you go straight over to the hotel' where the gentleman boards, and tell him about the sick woman, and bring him along, and show him' the house where she lives yourself. Miss Ellis has been down here to-day, and she brought her doctor over there, and he says that 'woman can't live but a few days, and how, if she has any friends, they ought to be found. EMMA- PAIRKER. 347 And Emma, you run hunt up Johnny and bring him home, and hurry up, for I'm half dead for a cup of tea." Emma's home duties had been necessa- rily neglected that day. Her mother had as much as she could do now in the employ of various families who were preparing for their summer sojourn in the country. When Emma came in dragging the reluctant Johnny, her home, if the miserable room were worthy of such a name, presented an unusually comfortless appearance. It was unswept, the plates, which had been used for the morning meal, still unwashed upon the table, alluring flies from a neighboring stable, and. croton bugs from crevices in the walls; the air, always stifling, was now heated by the sun which had poured all day upon the slate roof. (Mrs. Parker's room was now on a top floor.) Hot as the room was, it must still be more heated by a fire which the widow hastily kindled for making tea, and for the purpose of ironing a few pieces which she had promised to carry page: 348-349[View Page 348-349] 348 EMMA PARKER. home the next morning. Food must be brought from the neighboring grocery; the fretful, tired children pacified and fed. They could not be put to bed, as healthful, well-cared for children would have been, at an earlier hour. It would be very late, before the fire in the stove would have gone down,l and the room sufficiently cooled for sleeping -there. Meantime, to have kept them in it would have greatly increased their restlessness and real suffering, besides increasing the labor of their mother and sister. There w'as nothing -to be done but to let them out again upon the sidewalk to contract its filth to body and .soul a few hours longer. Emma was too accustomed to all this, and too busy and too tired to consider it much, but her young heart drooped unconsciously beneath its burden and the pain. Once or twice a thought did cross her mind of the country, with its wide houses and fresh pure air. She had never been there. She guessed a little what it was like in comparison with the city parks, EMnMA PARKER. only she had'been told that its wide fields were freer for any foot to tread. A vision of the luxury of lying down upon some cool green grass flitted through her mind, but only for one moment. She had no time to dream. By and by the' work was done, the chil- dren called in and put to bed in the still heated room. Mrs. Parker, in haste to lie down, put out the light just as Emma, half- undressed, had opened her Bible to steal, as usual, the eveni'ng verse. Her eye just caught the words, ".If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily, and follow Me." "Come after Me," repeated Emma, as her head pressed the pillow, " that must be to heaven, which is better than'the country. I wonder if this is the way to take up my cross daily." 30 page: 350-351[View Page 350-351] CHAPTER XXVII. HE following morning found Emma at Mr. Lewis's house at the appointed hour. She supposed her services would not be required after to-day, as the family were nearly ready for their journey. She wondered if the subject of her going into the country would be resumed, and was sad and apprehensive. The day passed on and no allusion was made to the subject. Emma did not know, however, that she had been the topic of an earnest conversation at breakfast-time, and that this was the reason she had been sent up-stairs to assist in pack- ing a trunk, leaving the family tQ wait upon themselves. After breakfast Miss Lewis went to market, and then she and Fanny went away in the carriage, and did not re- (s0o) EMMA PARKER. 3tL turn until after the usual hour of. lunch. Emma was kept busy up stairs nearly all day, seeing no one but the seamstress. This person seemed kindly disposed towards the little girl, and quite aware of the estima- tion in which she was held by the family. ' What keeps you so still?" she said, at , one time, after Emma had been working. with her in perfect silence for about a quar- ter of an hour. "I don't see why you should be cast down with such a pleasant prospect before you. A little girl whom Mr. Lewis thinks so much of might think herself hap- py. Don't you, believe me?" she asked,as Emma, did not speak. Emma looked up, but still hesitated to reply.- "It's true," continued the seamstress; "Mr. Lewis thinks as much of you as of one of his sisters. He is determined to have you with them; and when he has resolved upon a thing it's likely to come to pass." "-I don't see how this can come to pass," replied Emma. page: 352-353[View Page 352-353] 352 EMMA PARKER. "{Oh; you'll see," was the reply; "it'll come round right; so cheer up." The day passed on. Emma worked under the direction of the seamstress, and still did not see Miss Lewis. She was not called to the dining-room till after dinner. She had just finished washing the silver, and was preparing to go home, when Miss Fanny entered with her purse in her hand. "My sister requested me to pay you, Emma. You need not come to-morrow, and the next day, you know, we will-go away. Emma's eyes filled with tears. "Don't cry, you dear little thing,' said Miss Fanny, putting her arm around Emma. "Come now, I have good news for you. You've nothing in the world to feel badly about. You're a brave girl; that's what my brother calls you.' He says you are worthy of a happier life, and shall have, it." "Oh! -but I must not' think so," said Em- ma, half turning away, and feeling, for the EM-ITMA PARKER. 353 moment, that her inflexible sense of duty was called to a new struggle. "Well, you need'nt think," said Miss Fan- ny, laughing; "but the truth is, you're go- ing to the country, after all, and your moth- er is going too; she's been here this after- noon. Been here!" exclaimed Emma. "Yes, my sister sent for her this after- noon, and it's all arranged. She and the children are to live in a cottage 'on our place, and have plenty of work from us, and from. other families in the village. But yo,u are to be ours, Emma, so my brother says." "And does my mother like that?" asked Emma. "Oh, yes! she is much pleased. She can- not. get ready to go with us. My sister consents that you shall remain with her till next-week, then we shall send for you all together." Emma was silent with surprise and a quiet joy. 'Miss Fanny's face was very bright with the blessedness of blessing others. "I 30* page: 354-355[View Page 354-355] 354 EMMALL PARvER. will tell you another piece of good news," she continued. "M-iss Ellis's country place is quite near to ours, so you can be in her Sunday-school class again." As Emma walked home that evening, she felt as if the burden of a life-time had been lifted from her heart; yet she scarcely real- ized the nature of that burden. She had never known any other than a tenement house life; yet there was an indefinite con- sciousness of new blessings coming not only to herself, but to her little brother and sister. They, too, should be associated with the in- fluences which had brought heaven down to her, even in a dark home.. She quickened her pace, in haste to hear the good news from her mother's lips. "Em', Em' Parker!" called a voice be- hind her. She turned and saw Joe Hardy and Jenny running towards her as fast as they could. "How d'ye get by, and we not see ye?" said Joe. Your mother sent us to meet you," said EmiIA PARKER. 355 Jenny; "she says you shall go straight to our house." "Yes," said Joe, speaking lower as he joined Emma, "Mrs. Lenare's going to die, and she wants you."' The happy expression faded from Emma's face. She asked, anxiously, "Is she worse, Jenny?" "I dunno'," said Jenny, dropping her head; then, after a moment, she looked up again and said, "What d'ye think, Emtia? I've got an uncle come." Emma looked at Joe, who nodded several times very signifi- cantly. "Was that gentleman Mrs. Lenare's broth- er?" asked Emma. "That's so," replied Joe. "Did you take him there, as my mother told you?" asked Emma. Joe nodded again. "Did she kiow him?" asked Emma. "I guess you'd a thought so," said Joe. "Oh, my! didn't they have a time! She went in a faint, and it took half an hour for page: 356-357[View Page 356-357] 356 EMMA PArE . the woman next door td bring her round, and then she cried, and Mr. Lenare he held her, and he cried, too, just like a boy. Oh, my!" continued Joe, wiping his eyes on his jacket-sleeve, "I bet I cried too." By this time they had reached the house; Joe stopped at the basement door where his mother lived. Emma and Jenny proceeded to climb the stairs, one flight, two, three, rather slowly, for Emma was tired, and Jcnuy, too, perhaps; at any rate, she was in an unusually taciturn mood. It was impos- sible for one to comprehend Jenny's moods; one must wait for their development. Em- ma thought she might have begun to realize her mother's situation, or possibly her un- trained nature stood in dread of the new uncle and ,the constraints he was likely to impose. When they reached the room she threw her hat on the floor, and, marching to the window, sat down wit h her chin upon the sill. Emma was struck with the changed appearance of the room. It was perfectly clean and tidy. The soiled, ragged curtains ,t, , EM1MA PARER. - 357 had been 'removed from the windows, and the outside blinds closed instead. The dust which had always covered them had been wiped away. The windows were open, and the evening air, such as it was in 'the dirty street into which the windows looked, stole ini through the lattice. The' bed especially was transformed, with its spotless sheets and new spread. The room could not be other than hot and unventilated, but a most considerate and unusual care and skill had evidently been at work there to do what might be done. A good-natured, tidy-look- ing woman moved quietly about, assuming the proprietorship of the pleasant transfor- mation. Little Bob was sitting on-the floor playing with his kitten. He had had a nap that afternoon, the nurse said, and so chose to be awake now. The nurse seemed to recognize Emma. "Mrs. Lenare talked a deal about you last night," she, said, "She did'nt sleep a wink all night, but the doctor gave her something that's kept her stupid to-day. She roused page: 358-359[View Page 358-359] 358 ErM I'rPAEK. - a spell ago and asked for you again. So I sent Jenny right over." Emma turned to the bed, the invalid was still sleeping. The shaded lamp upon the table revealed in her face the greatest change of all. Her long hair had been cut, and was brushed back in little wavy lines from the face that had lost all that wild expression of apprehension and' of anxiety which Emma had seen there. The very attitude of the transparently white hand upon the coverlet told of relief and rest. Emma sat down by the pillow. She thought the sleeper must be dreaming peacefully, she lay so still, with the girlish beauty in the delicate face which might have been there a dozen years before. After a few-minutes she opened her eyes. There was a momentary startled expres- sion and a painful cough, then she grew calm again, and, looking up, said, "Oh, is it you, Emma?" "Yes," said Emma. "Do you feel better?. "Emma, I have been so mistaken, so mzis- iazk6en^ . i EMMBA PARKER. 359 "About what?" asked Emria, "About God-Oh! how wicked I have been." She looked up again into Emma's face, and then added, I would not believe His promises were all true." "Do you believe now?" asked Emma. "Yes." The answer was so feeble, Emma was obliged to bend her ear to hear it. And then the invalid lay so still that for several moments Emma could hardly perceive that she breathed. Presently she moved again and murmur- ed, "It grows dark, I must go-father will wait-you will find me where the wind blows throu gh the willow tree by the church window-the dear old church win- dow." After a few moments there was another broken whisper--"O God, thou knowest my foolishness and my-sins--" Emma listened, but the voice had ceased. The nurse threw open the blind nearest the bed to admit more air. "I wish he I - ' " page: 360-361[View Page 360-361] 360 EMMA PARBKEI would come," she said, looking anxiously out of the window. "Do you mean her brother?" asked Emma. "Yes," said the nurse; "he's been prepar- ing better lodgings; we thought this morn- ing she might be carried there, but I think he saw, himself, it was too late. Let me move your chair a bit," continued the nurse, turning towards Emma, " she wants all the air we can get into this close place. And don't cry, dear, it's better so, and she'll go very quiet before morning." There was a gentle but firm step upon the stairs, and the door opened and the strange gentleman. entered. He was no longer a stranger. He recognized Emma at once as one of the children he had addressed on Sunday morning, and shook her hand. Then approaching the bed, he looked earnestly for a moment at the sleeping face, and then, 'bending down, kissed it silently and ten- derly. Little Bob dropped his kitten, and stood " EMMBA PKEEmm. 361 up when his uncle entered. He nowy hur- ried towards him, reaching, up his arms with entire confidence. Jenny, who still sat by the further window, pushed her chair a lit- tle more into the corner and eyed her uncle through her black curls with an expression of curiosity and shrewd investigation. Her whole manner seemed to say, "I shall make up my mind before I trust you." Little Bob had been won to his uncle at first sight, and clung to him whenever-he was in the room, Jenny had kept out of the way. He scarcely had opportunity to speak to her. But the shrewd girl, in her own way, had taken the full bearing of the circumstances. She knew perfectly that this uncle would have Bob and herself un- der complete 'control -henceforth, and such a control as she had never known before. Would she acquiesce, or turn upon the de- fensive? Mr. Lenare sat down with Bob upon his knee. He beckoned Emma to a seat at his side. She wondered that she felt so per- 3r page: 362-363[View Page 362-363] 362 EMMAI PAKEmR. fectly at ease with him. She wondered still more at Bob, who nestled in his arms as a young bird that had found its nest. The poor child did not know that he had now no other nest than those arms. Emma saw that there was the same power in Mr. Lenare's presence that had subdued the crowd on Sunday morning, melted the hardened drunken woman and taken cap- tive Joe Hardy. It was not merely the ir- resistible assurance of his. voice, the ascen- dancy of his quiet, eye, the sweet but firm expression of the mouth, but it was an inde- scribable spirit of gentleness and power that pervaded all these, impressing every one with wondrous truthfulness and sympathy. He said very little as he sat there with the children in the presence of death. Em- ma felt that the place was solemn, yet it was not fearful or gloomy. "Are you going to take. me away with you?" asked Bob. "Away to the beautiful place?" "Yes," replied his uncle, 363- EMGA PURERA . .g863 "To-the nice place where Jesus has the keys?" asked the child again. "No, my boy, not there, quite yet; mami ma is going there, and we willollo by and by. " will foow by has got the keys, He will let us in." Mr. Lenare looked kindly into the little uplifted face. His voice trembled some as he asked, "And why, my child, do you want to go there?" Bceause," said Bob, with a gentle sigh, "I'm so tired; and I've wanted to see Jesus so long, ever since Emma first sung about the gates." Meantime, Jenny had drawn near and stood 'leaning on, the back of her uncle's chair, "Will ou take Jenny, too?" asked Bob. "Yes," said the uncle, turning his frnk, kindly face to hers. Jenny's eyes fell for a moment, and then were raised again to his, from under the shadow of the black curls. "Jenny," said her uncle, still looking page: 364-365[View Page 364-365] 364 EMMA PARKER. steadily into her face, and taking her hand into the firm grasp of his own, "'you have spent about ten years in play and mischief, would you not like to spend a few now in work and study, and learning:to be good?" Emma watched Jenny's face. There-was a momentary hesitation, and then suddenly withdrawing her hands, she clasped them behind her, and, standing very straight, said, decidedly, "I won't promise nothing, for I'm awful at lies; but ye'll see what I'm goin' to do." CHAPTER XXVIII. OfN the last day of Miss Lewis's stay in / the city, Emma and her mother work- ed for her at home. In the afternoon when each piece had been carefully folded and laid in the basket, Emma was directed to carry home the finished work, and to in- quire if she or her mother could be of any further service. The family were at dinner. An old friend, an elderly gentleman, who had been abroad the past year, had returned just in time to accompany them on their journey the following day. Dr. Burnet and Miss Ellis were also there. Emma had gone up to Miss Lewis's room with her basket, while the waitress delivered her message. "Tell Emman,' replied Miss Lewis, "that I hove no more work at present, but would 3I* (365) page: 366-367[View Page 366-367] 366 EIMA. PARKER. like to see her mother in the morning to complete our arrangements." "Do call that little girl in,"' said Dr. Bur- net, as the servant was turning away, "I should like to see the object of my friend Harry's very remarkable care." Emma was called in. She came rather reluctantly, and stood timidly just within the dining-room door. Dr. Burnet held out his hand, and she was forced to come for- ward. "Well now," said the doctor, " this is the little girl that Mr. Lewis has adopted. Ex- actly what his intentions may be, it is im- possible to fathom." Emma felt that every eye was upon her. Her cheeks grew very red, and she strug- gled to keep back her tears. "Come,omeme!" said the quaint old doctor, "I am not finding fault with you, or him either; the thing is bwell done, very well done indeed." He spoke playfully, but kindly, and Em- ma grew more at her ease. EMMA -PAKEE. 36 "I'm afraid you are not glad to go in the country," continued the doctor. "Oh, yes, sir! I am glad, and Mr. Lewis has arranged every thing; he is very kind." H' He is very kind," repeated the doctor, "no doubt, no doubt; but you do not look like a very glad girl yet. What is it now? Say, what is it'now?" as he touched her chin with his forefinger and made her look up. "Only, sir," she answered, smiling through her tears, "I am sorry because so many folks must suffer so. I am sorry about the Linders and a great many others that can't go anywhere, and they almost die in the hot weather." "Ah!" said the doctor, gravely,." that is charitable; and considerate of you. Go along, now, and pray for your neighbors, and for us, too, who are apt to forget them." After Emma had left the room, Miss Lewis's friend remarked: "That child, in her sim- plicity, has touched upon a difficult ques- tion." "Very difficult, Mr. Willet," answered page: 368-369[View Page 368-369] 368 EMMA PARKER. the doctor. "Unfortunate allusion at dinner time! Bad for digestion! My advice is, keep the mind easy-especially in warm weather; above all, avoid any subject that might disturb the conscience." "What can Dr. Burnet mean?" asked Miss Fanny, laughing. "Never mind, my dear,". returned the doctor. "Young people should not get in- to metaphysics." "Metaphysics!" exclaimed Miss Fanny. "It is very droll to think of metaphysics in connection with little Emma Parker." "I refer you to Mr. Willet," replied the doctor, waiving the subject. "I believe," said Mr. Willet, thus appeal- ed to, " that notwithstanding Dr. Burnet's pretended indifference, the condition of our city poor gives him great concern." "I am sure it gives us all great concern," remarked Miss Lewis. "I have protested against this conversa- tion, you are all witness," said Dr. Burnet; "but since the ladies' inclinations overrule J EMMA PARJEP,. 369 my judgment, allow me to ask Mr. Willet what particular phase of the condition of the poor strikes him now?" "Their condition in the summer," replied the gentleman addressed. "At tlfis season, when we are so anxious to fly to fresher air, even from our wide homes, how greatly must the inhabitants of the crowded back streets be suffering." "How can we help it?" suggested Miss Lewis. "I am sure a great deal is done for them." "I appreciate it," replied Mr Willet kindly; "the increasing zeal with which the churches respond to each benevolent enterprise is praiseworthy. There is a great deal of effort and experiment, much money expend- ed, vast machinery at work, yet when we ask ourselves, looking carefully and thought- fully into the subject, Are the results ade- quate to the efforts put forth? I, for one, am not satisfied." "What do you think of that?" said Dr. Burnet, turning significantly to Miss Ellis. page: 370-371[View Page 370-371] 370 EMMA PARKER. "You who look so much into details, how does your observation accord with this dar- ing charge of inadequacy upon the works which have so much of respectable patton- age?" "It accords painfully with it," replied Miss Ellis, " but it is rare to hear any one frank enough to acknowledge the fact." "I cannot acknowledge it to be a fact," interposed Miss Lewis with a slightly injur- ed air, "that all our various benevolent works have inadequate results. I am sure we see glorious fruits every year." "That were true," replied Mr. Willet, "if but a few poor creatures were rescued fr yn misery in this life, or one soul saved for an- nother. It is not for me to disparage the fruits of a work in which I ant so deeply engaged. I have been a teacher in Mission Sunday- schools for many years, and could not en- dure to believe my labor in vain; but a good workman must criticise his work, will be jealous of flaws, will be anxious to expend his strength to the best advantage. Now EMMA PARKER. while I acknowledge with deep gratitude the blessed results of missionary labors in this city, I cannot deny that there is still some missing link. It is not all success, that we count success." "To come to the point," said Dr. Bur- net: "What is the missing link which you deplore?" 'I think," replied Mr. Willet, "it is direct effort upon the homes of the poor. Link is not the word. It is a very corner stone. Observe how unaccountably our mission work loses sight of this grand point. All our public homes and hospitals, and even our mission chapels are merely indirect outside efforts in comparison with this. What is the object of Our work? So far as it is the salvation of individual souls, our sincere and humble efforts are blessed. Grace is very accommodating to our most marred and blind works, but so far as our object is the elevation of the poor community, we are failing,; we are beginning at the wrong end, we are striving to heal the outside; P^rd page: 372-373[View Page 372-373] 372 EMxMA PABKER. leaving untouched the rotten -core. The home life is the centre and source of all social life. If the fountain is corrupt, who can make the streams pure? If we began at the foundation we should obviate the neces- sity. of a great deal of our elaborate, outside work. Our hospitals, and homes, and schools, and chapels, are all good in their way; they are plucking multitudes as ' brands from the burning.' God, bless them!- But there is something behind all the misery which they seek to relieve, which keeps misery germi- nating. ( If a plague were festering in the town, it would be praiseworthy to relieve the suf- ferers, and to minister to them medicine and comfort, to bury the dead; but it would be far more praiseworthy to eradicate some poisonous cause of the epidemic. Then there would be no more need of nursing and medicine. The wretched homes of the poor are a poisonous source of a moral epidemic which is absorbing our means, and undoing our work. e *EMMAL PARKER. 373 "It is generally acknowledged that our most hopeful efforts are for tne children; through them we hope to elevate the parents, and raise the moral tone of the next'generation. We gather them into our Sunday-schools innocent and susceptible. Doubtless we do much for them; our influ- ence for the time is great; but they are with us but a small fraction of the time. They go home, and there a mightier influence takes hold of them, undoing ours. It must be so. God has ordained that the paternal authority and influence shall be the strong- est in the world. Now the, miserable con- dition of the homes is a natural obstacle to all our missionary work. Grace is super- natural, and overcomes it in a multitude of individual' cases; but the Christian worker is not the one to put common sense and reason aside because Grace abounds. We should strive to lay aside, every weight, to [remove every obstacle." "How do you account for it," asked Miss Ellis, that among so many mission enter- 32 page: 374-375[View Page 374-375] 374 EMMA PAEIER. prises, so little attention is given to the homes of the poor?" "I fear," replied Mr. Willet, " it is because we shrink from the real cross of facing the evil where it is greatest and most difficult to manage. It is quite fashionable, com- paratively easy and pleasant, for those who have money to subscribe largely to the build- ing of a Mission Church, or to engage in nice, well organized enterprises, that con- sider the poor, as a man considers a storm at sea, sitting safely in his parlor. It is pleasant for a fashionable Church, to count its mis- sions, and its chapels; to gather in display, on some festive occasion, its hundreds of mis- ion children in their holiday dresses, to hear them sing, and repeat their lessons. We are looking over the surface of what appears a marvellous success; but who is willing to follow those children to the wretched tene- ment houses, teeming with human life, up the dark stairways into the close crowded rooms, where every possible moral and phy- sical evil is ready to meet our blessed work, EMMA PARKER. 375 and destroy, if possible, its very beginning. Half amillion of souls are congregated in these wretched places. What can we do for their spiritual life, when the lowest ap- petites and fiercest passions are constantly excited by the irritation of thenerves inci- dent to the crowding and discomforts they endure. We have alluded to their condci tion in summer; it is then the evil is most ob- vious, though we can scarcely draw the com- parison, for there is no relief for these evils the year round; perhaps those which arise from the deficient ventilation of the rooms is more felt in the winter than, in the summer." ' I should like to ask,"; remarked Miss Ellis, if the new laws for the ventilation of dark bedlrooms has not in a large measure failed of its object?" "H ow can that be?" asked Miss Lewis, if the landlords are actually required'to put windows into them?" "I observe, replied Miss Ellis, that this very reasonable relief t9 the suffering ten- ants is so grudgingly granted by the ma- page: 376-377[View Page 376-377] 3 76 EMAS PARIKER. jority of landlords, that in many cases it is no relief at all. For example: in the ordinary form of the tenement-houses, one tenement on each floor has a dark bed-room so situ- ated that it cannot be ventilated from the hall without considerable expense; the land- lords will not submit to this, so they obey the letter of the law by making a hole in the wall of the dark bed-room on the same side with the door opening into the family room. This, of course, is no ventilation at all." "It is from such consideratioas,' replied Mr. Willet, "that we see how the construc- of comfortable homes for the poor might be made a feature of city missionary work." "I have often thought," said Miss Ellis, "that if our wealthy Churches would build fewer Chapels for the poor, and use the means instead to provide more comfort- able homes, our work would be more efficient, and more blessed of God; yet when I see how little, how almost nothing has been done in this line, and how vast and discouraging is the field for such an enter- I EMMAA .PARKEER. 3" prise, I must acknowledge my courage is small for-advancing the opinion. I have lately seen the estimate that this city con- tains eighteen thousand five hundred and eighty-two tenement houses, yielding from their unhealthy population more than seven- ty per cent. of the mortality of the city. How vast the evil! How slight and unnotice- able would be the effect upon it of a single model block, built and sustained by some Church or association!" "Yet do not fear to speak for the truth," replied Mr. Willet, "though your voice be feeble and alone. The first foreign mission- aries were not deterred by the darkness and vastness of the heathen world, though they were a weak, unappreciated band." "It occurs to me," remarked Mr. Lewis "that there is some difficulty in making such an enterprise a feature of religious work. When a Church takes the attitude of landlord, it places itself in a secular re- lation; should not the secular and religious work be kept separate?" 32* page: 378-379[View Page 378-379] 378 EMMA PARKER. i "I think not," replied Mr. Willet, "any more in missionary work than in individual Christian life. The school for imparting to the heathen children earthly knowledge is made the means of winning them to the heavenly. Organizations for giving the poor food and clothing upon terms which meet their wants and abilities; houses construct- ed for the improvement of their physical, and through that their moral life, may all be consecrated to the one divine end. My idea of a model tenement block has reference to something more than moderate rents or a proper construction of building. In the name of Christianity it seeks the temporal good of the poor in reference to the spirit- ual. It should make their bodies comfort- able, and their minds easy, It should ob- viate the necessity of their children running into the street for the fresh air they are dying for. It should make them feel kindness that meets them in their domestic lives, nearest their hearts; but it should do all this under the supervision of a gentle, but firm moral ' * ' ' i EMMA PARKER. 379 government, placed in the hands of an in- intelligent Christian man. The bad manage- ment of the poor people in the tenement houses under the tyranny of coarse, igno- rant agents, whom landlords place between themselves and their tenants, is a terrible and much overlooked feature of the whole evil system." "Would you connect your model block with any place of worship?" asked Miss Ellis. "Yes, the houses should be constructed with some central or conveniently connect- ed rooms for Church services or Sunday- school. There should be nothing of the kind compulsory. I know the poor well enough to believe that they would be won by gratitude, gradually but surely to con- nect the blessings they were receiving, with the Church which provided then." "After all," remarked Miss Lewis," would it not be a quicker and an. easier way to rescue the children from the influences of these houses, by placing them in excellent page: 380-381[View Page 380-381] 380 EMA PAhKER. institutions where they would be taught every good thing without any of these hin- drances," "No," replied Mr. Willet; "because in that case we act against nature, we do violence to God's ordained relations. It is not by destroying the family, but by cherish- ing and elevating it under the influence of Christian Revelation, that'humanity is to be saved. I think St. Paul's exhortations to the early Churches imply this, and God's providence has taught it since the world began." ; CHAPTER XXIX. IT was the evening of a burning day in July. The poor streets of New York had been seething in the intense glow all day. But the ceaseless stream of human life still went on, quarrelsome or listless, pale, desponding, or boisterous as ever. Pos- sibly the women were dirtier, and the men drunker, as if desperately bent on increas- ing and multiplying every evil which the midsummer sun was drawing from each vile hiding place. The sun had gone down at last and the tenement population had turned out en masse to hail the evening cool- ness and some to hail the darkness, under the cover of which they might vent; unmo- lested, every brutal passion which had been writhing and working up under the goading c . (381) page: 382-383[View Page 382-383] 382 EMA PARKER B, of the heat, and the crowding, and the suffo- cating, and the madness of that long hot day. Little children, half-naked, lay upon the stone pavements, pressing their arms and cheeks against it for what coolness and rest might be there. Women with naked feet and uncovered breasts sat upon the door- steps nursing their babies and gossiping; men lounged and smoked; some talked and laughed good naturedly; others staggered and muttered gloomily. Within doors, in the huge blocks of houses on either side there was comparative quiet. Children or women, that might be there, were stretch- ing their necks out of the windows, talking with each other or shouting to some one below. The indoors closeness was not to be tolerated on a night like this. Those most accustomed to foul air panted for the open sky to-night. Eight o'clock struck, and nine. The late supper hours are over. Night is the only time for refreshment for the determined abandonment to every ani- mal gratification. Who could wonder if i EMiMA PARKEI. 383 evil spirits skulk among a suffering and tempted population! But pure and pitying spirits are here, too. In many a room, by the light of a kerosene lamp, a woman, with maternal self-forgetfulness, bends over the cot of a dying infant. Amidst all this taint and corruption, little untainted lives are gasping themselves out, never to realize the misery they were born to. In the fourth story back-room, where the Linders lived, the mother sat sewing. Her face was very pale, with dark lines about the eyes. Her thin fingers, trembling with weariness, were stitching -away at the cruel shop-work. When the clock struck nine, she arose with an anxious look and went In- to the hall. She stood for a moment at the head of the stairs listening. A confusion of voices came in at the street-door and up the several stair-cases. Just below, the heavy uncertain step of a drunken man was approaching. The mother was trying to lo distinguish her childrens' voices amid the various sounds. She called-"Paul!" and page: 384-385[View Page 384-385] 384 EMMA PARKER. then listened again. There was no answer. She descended the first flight of stairs, and leaning over the banisters called again, but her voice made no impression among the many voices without. She stood irresolute, too tired to go on, and yet unwilling to turn back. Meantime, the drunken man had reached her. She pressed herself close against the banisters to give him room to pass. He was not disposed to pass, how- ever, and balancing himself with difficulty, he touched her arm, and said with a grin: "Hey, Mrs.-Linder! Ha' y'er husband got home from ha-?" She knew the man to be civil enough when sober, but now entirely incapable of reason; so, without reply, frightened and disgusted, she withdrew and hurried down stairs. She did not stop again till she reach- ed the street door. Two persons were sitting there, but she made her way between them and stood out- side, looking up and down the side-walk'for her oldest boy. EMMA PARKER. 385 "Paul!" she called again. "Here I am, mother!" returned a voice which was too sharp and excited for Paul's. The boy was making his way towards her, his shirt sleeves soiled, collar unbuttoned, his hair wet with perspiration and thrown back from a very flushed face. "Why, Paul," said his mother, apprehen- sively, "what is the matter?" "I'm mad at that fellow," returned Paul, with a threatening gesture towards a very ragged boy yho was skulking away. "Oh, Paul! come in," exclaimed his mo- ther, in a distressed tone. "I can't come in mother, that rascal call- ed my sister a bad name, I will thrash him this time if I'm killed for it; one can't hold in always:." "Oh, what shall I do?" exclaimed Mrs. Linder. "Paul, you are getting just like all the boys." Paul had turned impatiently, and then, constrained by his mother's distress, he came back, his spirit struggling between consid- 33 page: 386-387[View Page 386-387] 386 EMMA PARKEr. eration for her and a sense of unavenged indignity. "Go in," said his mother. Paul wavered-balancing for a moment his conflicting impulses-burst into tears and obeyed. His younger brother and sister,' who had also drawn near, followed him. The mother was turning with them, when a red-faced woman, one of those who had oc- cupied the door-step, started up and con- fronted her with the exclamation; ';What for you want to keep that nice boy a' your'n down? Ye'd better teach him to stand up for himself in a crew like this. It's a pretty pummcling he'll get one of these days, and you taking the spirit out of him!" "I can't have him firllt, returned Mrs. Linder. "His father never would allow it." And ain't his father sick and in the hos- pital?" exclaimed another voice. ' It's nothing to me what you do with your own young un, but you're a good neighbor, and I'll just tell ye, them folks next door :EMA PARKEER 387 is hatchiig a plot agin ye. Ye 'll find one of yer wains with a broken head yet!" "I shall have to tell the landlord," replied Mrs. Linder, standing still with a perplexed and troubled face. The last remark was greeted with a shout of derisive laughter. "Now, don't be a fool," cried the first speaker, who, with all her coarseness was kindly disposed towards the troubled mother. "Ye know well enuff he cares no more for us than for the dogs and the cats. If only he gets his rent he keeps clear on is. If ye want to be on the landlord's good side," she added, in a leering whisper, "just stand up for ye'self, or be tricky and bribe him a bit now and then." By this time quite a group of women had gathered round, each putting in her word with expressive gestures and illustra- tive epithets. Mrs. Linder broke away as well as she could and followed the children up stairs. page: 388-389[View Page 388-389] 388 EMMA PARKER. "Mother!" cried Paul, bursting into their room and dashing his cap on the floor, "l I won't go to bed! I can't breathe here, why can't you let us stay out doors?" "Paul!" said hiis mother, dropping into a chair, "what shall I do if you get to be a bad boy while your father's gone?"Had she spoken severely the boy would proba- bly have stood his ground, but her sorrowful tone subdued hiim. "I don't want to be a bad boy!" he ex- claimed, vehemently, " but I can't help it," and throwing himself upon his face upon the I floor, he sobbed out the pain and passion of his poor little heart. Meantime the two other children who had come up stairs with Paul were beginning to pull off their clothes, complaining of the heat. The younger ones were already sleeping uneasily. Mrs. Lin- der resumed her sewing. Her face was flushed now and her eye brighter. She worked in silence till Paul had had his cry out, and then, when he rose and drew hesi- tatingly to her side, she laid the half-finish- IS EMMA PARKER. 389 ed shirt upon the basket and put her arm around him. "Mother!" said Paul, still drawing long sighs and averting his swollen eyes, "I think when I'm in Sunday school that I will surely be a good boy, but it's awful hard in the street, the boys set me on so." "I wish you wouldn't stay so much in the street," replied his mother. "How can I 'help it?" exclaimed the child, with a little return of the old impa- tience. "You know I can't breathe up here all day." "Paul," said his mother, after a moment's silence, "I think I must try to get you some work. The schools are out now and won't begin again for more than two months, You have nothing to do but carry my work back and forth and mind the children. Fred. is getting old enough to do that. You must help me about the rent. I think we shall have to take a cheaper room. It's al- most pay-day again, and I have not one cent towards the ten dollars." 33* page: 390-391[View Page 390-391] 390 EMnMA PARKER.^ "Mother!" replied Paul, his brave little head dropping upon the back of her chair, while his small hand nestled in hers, "if you'll get me into a store, I will work, I will be your man, indeed, I will!" At this moment there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Linder started, remembering the drunkard on the stairs, but the knock was a steady one, and the step which had preceded it firm and quiet. She rose with the apprehensive look which had become painfully habitual to her of late, and cau- tiously turned the handle of the door. Paul, who had also started forward, saw her whole appearance change into pleased and surprised recognition. "Oh, Mr. Lewis!" she exclaimed, open- g ing wide the door. This is very kind, sir! I did not think to see you to-night." She set the visitor a chair; then trem- bling with the sudden revolution of feeling, she yielded to his request to be seated also. "I fear I am a late caller,' said the gen- tleman, looking at his watch, "but I was EMMA PARKXE. 391 detained by business till it was too late to leave the city to-night, and feared I might not soon have another opportunity of see- ing you." "It was very good of you, sir, to think of uS. Mrs. Linder did not herself know why the sight of Mr. Lewis had so cheered and strengthened her. The mere expression of kindly remembrance implied in this unex- pected call revived her hopes. She had no definite expectation or wish concerning anything Mr. -Lewis might do for them;: but he had remembered them and had taken much pains after a long business-day to come and prove this. Her utmost timidity could not restrain her now from answering fully his kind in- quiries, and telling the sad story of their distress. Her husband was still in the- hos- pital; the fever from which he had recover- ed had left him with weakness of the lungs, which the physician assured her would prove fatal if he returned at that season of page: 392-393[View Page 392-393] 392 EE3DA PARKEER. the year; and in his weak state, to the bad air of his home. It was hard for the active man who had never been sick before to give up his work for so long a time, and be thus separated from his family; but how much harder when he knew that family must now be dependent upon the ex- ertions of their frail mother, whose utmost efforts could not keep them from want. Mrs. Linder did not dwell, in the narration,. upon her husband's struggle in submitting to the painful necessity, nor allude at all to her own brave and cheerful endeavor to sus- tain and cheer him through it. But briefly - and clearly she drew the outlines of a touch- ing picture which it was easy to fill up, and then, in-answer to Mr. Lewis's inquiry, confessed her trouble about the rent, their actual need of food, and the various trials which the cruel indifference of the landlord permitted. After she had finished, Mr.'Lewis was quite silent for a few minutes, and with the quick sensitiveness of a delicate nature, she EMMA PRKEER. 393 feared that she had been too communicative, and half apologized. "Not a word of that," said Mr. Lewis, rousing himself. "I am the one to beg pardon for insisting upon knowing all you are willing, to tell me, and perhaps a little more. I do not look grave be- cause I cannot very easily and very quickly relieve much of your present difficulty; but, because I see that the present relief which a little money may give will go but a short way towards relieving a long chain of difficulties, which you and your neighbors are suffering from." Mrs. Linder looked up with respectful silence. She did not quite comprehend the import of the remark. Mr. Lewis smiled. "I am not going to suggest any difficult questions to your mind," he added, "at least not for you to follow out or solve; but, perhaps, you can help me to solve some. I will tell you plainly, Mrs. Linder, that for about a year past I have had an increasing concern about the welfare of this crowded page: 394-395[View Page 394-395] 394 EMMA PARKER. E population. It is quite plain to see that hey suffer a great deal; though a great deal is done every year for their relief, yet the suffering goes on. The relief is desul- tory and short lived." Mrs. Linder looked up with an intelligent eye, but only answered, "Yes, sir." Mr. Lewis went on. "To take your own family, for example; since I first became ac- quainted with you, sometime last spring, you have once or twice allowed me to help you out of trouble. It has been a great' pleasure to me, one of the greatest pleasures I ever knew in my life, and yet I have not really bettered your condition, or brighten- ed your prospects. I know," he added quickly, as Mrs. Linder seemed about to deny this-" that no well-intended kindness is lost even when the merit is mainly in the friendly intention. I have been more than satisfied with your grateful appreciation of any good-will you may have discerned in me." Mrs. Linder's eyes filled with tears; the EMMA PARKER. 395 words, fraught with kindness, reached her heart, though she could not fully understand them. "Is it not true," continued Mr. Lewis, "that although you have found from time to time very true friends, yet somehow the help they are so willing to render does not fully reach your necessities and those of your neighbors?" Mrs. Linder hesitated. "I do not like to say that, sir," she replied, "lest it should be ungrateful, or seem so; but I think the greatest evils we suffer from are beyond the reach of our kind friends." "Perhaps so," replied Mr. Lewis, thought- fully; "but," he added, " what do you con- sider your greatest evils?" Mr. Lewis knew that the mind he was dealing with was an intelligent, although an uncultivated one; 'that she would not answer at random, although it might be with some hesitation and difficulty. He listened therefore pa- tiently while she began--casting about in her mind for words. page: 396-397[View Page 396-397] 396 EMMA PARKEiR. "I think, sir, our greatest evils are so s close home, so in our lives, that people don't easy see them, and that is why they mis- take us sometimes-that is-not every one; but some people think wrong of us. After my husband went to the hospital, one lady called, who was very severe because I would not send away my children and break up t house for awhile. Some of my neighbors talked hard about her, and wanted to set me up to be angry, but I knew the lady meant kind. She said I was not able to support them, that we would suffer from hunger. That was quite true, sir, and yet," added the speaker, glancing about the bare room-; ' if we had suffered even more than we have, I would still say that I was right and the lady was wrong. But, perhaps, I am too bold." - "No!" said Mr. Lewis, "go on." "You know, sir,' continued the woman, gaining courage from the interested atten- 3 tion of her auditor, "that we poor people I think just as much of our children as the g EMMA PABKER. 397 rich do, may be more, since there is more need. And we cling to our homes all the same, although they are so poor. We can't help it, sir; it's nature. I suppose God has made everybody pretty much alike about that. That very lady has three children of her own, and she is very tender of them. I can't help thinking what she would do if anybody tried to get them away from her. Wouldn't she cling to them as frantic as any of us poor mothers, though it was ever so kindly meant? Would she not say she understood her own best? But, of course, the lady has no need to trouble herself with any such dreadful thought, since her chil- dren have a safe home and a rich father. Our case is so different, so very different. It is not strange that they think God m;de us different somehow." She paused a mo- ment, and then continued: "But I forgot what I was going to say. It was this, sir; since we are made so that our homes and our families are the dearest things in life, nothing that does not touch 34 page: 398-399[View Page 398-399] 398 ENIMA PARUKE. them can touch us very much; and so it comes to pass that the good people who try to make us good in a great many out- side ways that don't touch our homes, and who don't think about the lives in them, that are our lives, our very hearts' blood-- I don't know how to express it, sir--but they come a million of miles short of us; they are very good and wise, but they can't get to us, they never can. But, sir, I have said too much." "No!" replied Mr. Lewis, "you have said just what I wished to hear, I want you to go on. Tell me now, plainly, what are the evils which we cannot help? Mrs. Linder sighed and glanced about the room. At this moment, Paul, who had been sleeping in his chair, sprang up and threw open the shutters to admit more air. The windows opened into a back court, and the air which rushed in seemed to be only a sickening stench from the sewers below. At the same time a child awoke and cried in the dark bed-room-a half-suppressed ^^, EMMA PARKER. 399 cry of helpless terror, as if it were being smothered. ' Mrs. Linder brought the little creature out in her arms, and when it was re-assured and again soothed to sleep, laid it upon a pillow in the family-room. oMr. Lewis glanced from the face of the innocent sleeper to that of the pale, thin boy whose expressive eyes were now in- tently regarding him, and said gently, "I had hardly need to ask that question." "And yet, sir," replied the woman, " you see but part; for the evils to our bodies are nothing to compare to the dangers to our souls. You see where everybody is uncom- fortable and crowded and suffocating, and no place to be alone, to think or get calm, or pray, people get cross and half mad, and the children are in our way, and we are in theirs; and when they can't stand it indoors any longer and we have to let them go, there is no place but the street to go to. Many delicate children get sick and die by being kept in, and I fear they die soul and body by beiig let out." page: 400-401[View Page 400-401] 400 . EMMA PARKER. "I wish I could transport you all to the wide country," replied Mr. Lewis, muchI moved by the picture the woman had drawn. "Ah, sir! '" she replied, "there's the point again; a few of us might go to the country and get along, but here are thousands of families -whose work is here, whose homes ; are here. Poor homes, it is true, and not our own, but all we've got, and everybody will have some place, and stick to it too. Some of us have always lived here; the city' wants the work of our men, and our men want their families; and the city, is ours after all, as well as anybody's. Why should we be driven out? I was born in the coun- try, sir. I often think of my childhood there, and weep for it. But I'm not a free girl. any more, and this is my home now. It's a : good thing, no doubt, when a family like the Parkers can get out for the summer months. But take notice, Mr.. Lewis, when the summer has gone and you are all cornm- ing back they will come too. Mrs. Parker's ;4 'fs'r EMMA PAEKER. 401 customers are here, and the friends who help her are here, and although Miss Lewis may be displeased, yet I believe the Park- ers will come back." "And do you think that would be wse?" asked Mr. Lewis. "Ah, sir, I can't say about it's being wise. The wise people try very hard to make us poor folks wise. Somehow, we stay pretty much as we are. May be it's not wise to want to starve with our children; but it's so, sir, it's so. And we must take things as they are, and not as we want them to be." "You are quite a philosopher," remarked Mr. Lewis, smiling, "and I gather from your philosophy that the wise people would be wiser if they would meet these emergen- cies as they are, rather than strive super- humanly to annihilate them and create new ones." He had been speaking rather to himself than to his companion. He was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then, said, "You seem to be a practical woman, I will 37* page: 402-403[View Page 402-403] 402 EMMA PARKER. ask you a practical question. Supposing I wish to devote a sum of money to helping , the poor people, how would you advise me to do it? Shall I institute a soup-house? Or build a church? Or distribute food and clothing?" ,' "The sort of people," she replied, " whom I have seen go to soup-houses, have set me - against allowing my children to be fed there, and as for the church-oh, Mr. Lewis, do not misunderstand me!"In her earnest- ness, the woman had risen and stood before him with clasped hands. "The church is the place where we worship God, and I praise Him that I and mine have : learned to love it. But, Mr. Lewis, thousands of the poor people for whom the chapels are built never do learn' to love them. They go, may be, to please their rich patrons, but they are only forced into a kind of outside religion, which they put off like their Sunday clothes, and they hate the rich good folks who try to force them to religion, but who despise their EMMA PAERER. 403 homes and don't .care for what is the very core of their hearts. Ah, Mr. Lewis! that is the reason why so many poor folks get hard and get desperate." "Then," said Mr. Lewis, " we should do better to make your homes more comfort- able?" "But, sir, you could not do that without giving us better landlords. Oh, Mr. Lewis! if only such as you were our landlord. You see these broken doors and patched walls; you smell these neglected sewers, and you stepped in the pool of water in the hall, from the leaky hydrant. If we had a landlord who cared as much for saving our bodies and souls as he cares for money, these things would not be. You hear the sound of that brawl coming up from the lower hall. It sounds to you only as one of the quarrels of a poor street. It may be that or it may not. There is no appeal; if the landlord interferes, he would, perhaps, take the side of the stronger and the violent, or may be, would curse all sides alike. He , . page: 404-405[View Page 404-405] 404 EMMA PARKE -R. cares for nothing but his rents; there is no kindly government here, no good influence any way. Oh, Mr. Lewis! give our homes Christian landlords, and all the 'rest will come right." The clock had struck ten; Mr. Lewis rose and took his hat, his manner was seri- ous and abstracted. "I hope, sir,' said Mrs. Linder, suddenly 7 recovering the timidity which in her ear- nestness she had forgotten, "that you will pardon me for being so free." Indeed, madam, I have nothing to par- don; on the contrary, you have taught me a : good deal. "I am not ashamed" he added, "to acknowledge myself indebted to you and Emma Parker for a good many new thoughts." "Ah, sir, tell me of Emma. This place has suffered a great loss in losing her. This is a place fitter for evil spirits than for an innocent young thing like her, but she was a good spirit in it, and God would not let her be hurt." b * tS -y EMMA PArKER. 405 Mr. Lewis slipped a bank note into her hand. "A part of this is Emma's gift," he said, and then hurried away from her thanks. He -walked home slowly; his thoughts were busy with the woman's words, "Give our homes Christian landlords and all the rest will come right." A new purpose in his mind was struggling with many misgiv- ings-a purpose which had grown out of new and holy aspirations. He wished to do something for the DIVINE MASTER he hzd lately begun to serve. Fromni his boyhood he had scarcely known any way of doing good, but the giving of money. With this habit of thinking he had some months be- fore proposed to consecrate a portion of his ilicome, and had formed the plan of a very neat little mission-church. He had even selected the site. It had become quite an ideal with him; but more lately, and espe- cially on this evening, it had painfully cross- ed his mind, that with all this noble p lr. page: 406-407[View Page 406-407] 406 EMMA PARKER. pose there was still a mingling of selfish ambition.. The enterprise would surely be a praise- worthy one. It would cost a good deal of money, but no real self-denial or inconveni- ence. It would reflect honorably upon his name in the church, and be a constant source of self-satisfaction. Verily he should have his reward. But on the other hand, if the new view of mission work which had been lately forcing itself upon him were a . correct one, might he not find a truer vo- cation, more straightforward to the good of the poor, through their homes? Could he not make an example among them of a few comfortable tenements, cherished and con- trolled by a wise and benign influence? The idea was not an attractive one; he had seen enough of this field even in the prospective to believe it would be a difficult and unap- preciated one. He might become the judi- cious landlord from mere worldly policy, but to conduct such an enterprise upon re- ligious principles, with Divine ends in view, ia EMMA PARKER. 407 would be such a singular experiment, so untried, so misjudged! He was not able to resist a growing conviction that this thing could be done, and ought to be done, in a Christian city; and that he was called to this self-denial of more self-congratulatory self-denials, to the end that his recompense might not be here but in the resurrection of the just. "My sister and many of my friends will think I have a mania," he said to himself as he ascended the steps of his own house. He checked the thought, wondering at such a disclosure in his own heart of human weakness. He stood for a moment in the cool evening air; a vision flitted through his mind of childish faces which had been strangely pleading with him of late. The little sleeper upon the pillow in the humble upper-room he had just left; little Paul's mournful face; and the eloquent entreaty of Emma's thoughtful eyes. A voice seem- cd to whisper, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have page: 408-409[View Page 408-409] 408 EM-MA PA:RPKE. - done it unto me," and his subdued but peaceful heart responded, I will do it unto THEE." THE END. I
