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The mother laid her hand upon her arm, and spoke to her. But she did not seem to hear the voice.

"Ella, dear! how do you feel this morning?" repeated Mrs. Gaston in louder and more earnest tones.

But the child heeded her not. She was already past consciousness! At an early hour Doctor R—came in. The moment he looked at his patient his countenance fell. Still, he proceeded to examine her carefully. But every symptom was alarming, and indicated a speedy fatal termination, this was especially the case with the upper part of the throat, which was black. Nothing deeper could be seen, as the tonsils were so swollen as to threaten suffocation.

"Is there any hope, doctor?" asked Mrs. Gaston, eagerly, laying her hand upon his arm as he turned from the bed.

"There is always hope where there is life, madam," he replied, abstractedly; and then in a thoughtful mood took two or three turns across the narrow apartment.

"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."

True to his promise, Doctor R—entered the room just an hour from the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart deeply, all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its many distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for that—but not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way. The chords of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.

When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.

"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of that voice in ill accordance with the scene.

As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with trembling eagerness to her heart.

"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R—, approaching the bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted out to her?"

"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child! It will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling more and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears came raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of her child.

"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you not look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot support you now. You must look to the Strong for strength."

As Doctor R—thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of the bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its head, as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and then arose, and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her forehead.

"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said she, in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that I am breaking fast. I am not what I was."

The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful, that the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.

"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with you on this afflicting occasion?"

"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my children are alone in this hard world. Would to heaven we were all with Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth and flowed freely.

"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present need," said Dr. R—; and turning away he left the room, and, getting into his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an hour, he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the child, and performed for it the last sad offices that the dead require.

Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in a state of extreme destitution; that so far from having the means to bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and about ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at which there were only three mourners, the mother and her two children.

CHAPTER IV
LIZZY GLENN AROUSES THE INTEREST OF A STRANGER

BERLAPS was leaning over his counter late in the afternoon of the second day from that on which the person calling herself Lizzy Glenn had applied for and obtained work, when a young man entered and asked for some article of dress. While the tailor was still engaged in waiting upon him, the young woman came in, carrying a small bundle in her hand. Her vail was drawn over her face as she entered; but was thrown partly aside as she retired to the back part of the store, where she stood awaiting the leisure of the man from whom she had obtained work. As she passed him, the customer turned and looked at her earnestly for a moment or two, and then asked in a whisper—

"Who is that?"

"Only one of our sewing-girls," replied Berlaps, indifferently.

"What is her name?"

"I forget. She's a girl to whom we gave out work day before yesterday."

This paused the man to look at her more attentively. The young woman, becoming conscious that she was an object of close scrutiny by a stranger, turned partly away, so that her face could not be seen.

"There is something singularly familiar about her," mused the young man as he left the store. "Who can she be? I have certainly seen her before."

"Ah, good-afternoon, Perkins!" said a familiar voice, while a friendly hand was laid upon his arm. "You seem to be in a browner mood than usual!"

"I am a little thoughtful, or abstracted, just as you please," replied the individual addressed.

"Are you, indeed? May I ask the reason?"

"The reason hardly seems to be a sufficient one—and, therefore, I will not jeopardize your good opinion of me by mentioning it."

"O, very well! I am content to have my friends conceal from me their weaknesses."

The two young men then walked on arm and arm for some distance. They seemed to be walking more for the sake of a little conversation than for any thing else, for they went slowly, and after winding about among the labyrinthine streets for ten or twenty minutes, took their way back again.

"There she is again, as I live!" Perkins exclaimed, half pausing, as the young woman he had seen at the tailor's passed quickly by them on their turning a corner.

"You've noticed her before, then?" remarked the friend, whose name was Milford.

"I saw her a little while ago in a clothing store; and her appearance instantly arrested my attention. Do you know who she is?"

"I do not. But I'd give something to know. You saw her in a clothing store?"

"Yes. In the shop of that close-fisted Berlaps. She is one of his seamstresses—a new one, by the way—to whom he has just given work. So he informed me."

"Indeed! She must be in great extremity to work for his pay. It is only the next remove, I am told, from actual starvation."

"But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have attracted your notice, as well as mine."

"I know nothing of her whatever," replied the young man, "except that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks, upon the Warren Bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her vail is usually drawn."

"Who can she visit in Charlestown?"

"No one, I have good reason to think."

"Why so?"

"I had once the curiosity to follow her as far as I deemed it prudent and courteous. She kept on entirely through the town—at least through the thickly settled portion of it. Her step was too quick for the step of one who was merely going to pay a friendly visit."

"You have had, if I understand you, at least a glimpse of her countenance?"

"Yes. Once, in passing her, her vail was half drawn aside, as if to get a freer draught of air."

"And her face?"

"Was thin and pale."

"And beautiful?"

"So I should call it. Not pretty—not a mere doll's face—but intellectually beautiful; yet full of softness. In fact, the face of a woman with a mind and heart. But sorrow had touched her—and pain. And, above all, the marks of crushed affection were too plainly visible upon her young countenance. All this could be seen at the single glance I obtained, before her vail was drawn hurriedly down."

"Strange that she should seek so to hide her face from every eye. Can it be that she is some one we have known, who has fallen so low?"

"No, I think not," replied Milford. "I am certain that I have never seen her before. Her face is a strange one to me. At least, the glance I had revealed no familiar feature."

"Well, I, for one, am resolved to know more about her," remarked Perkins, as the two friends paused before separating. "Since she has awakened so sudden, and yet so strong an interest in my mind, I should feel that I was not doing right if I made no effort to learn something of her true position in our city, where, I am much inclined to think, she is a stranger."

The young men, after a few more words, separated, Perkins getting into an "hourly" and going oyer to Charlestown to see a man on some business who could not be at his house until late in the day. The transaction of this business took more time than he had expected, and it was nearly an hour after nightfall before he returned to Boston. After passing the "draw," as he crossed the old bridge, he perceived by the light of a lamp, some distance ahead, a female figure hurrying on with rapid steps.

"It's the strange girl I saw at Berlaps', as I live!" he mentally ejaculated, quickening his pace. "I must see where she hides herself away."

The night was very dark, and the form of the stranger, as she hurried forward, was soon buried in obscurity. In a little while, she emerged into the little circle of light that diffused itself around the lamp that stood at the termination of the bridge, and in the next moment was again invisible. Perkins now pressed forward, and was soon clear of the bridge, and moving along the dark, lonely avenue that led up to the more busy part of the city. He had advanced here but a few paces, when a faint scream caused him to bound onward at full speed. In a moment after, he came to the corner of a narrow, dark street, down which he perceived two forms hurrying; one, a female, evidently struggling against the superior force of the other.

His warning cry, and the sound of his rapidly advancing footsteps, caused the man to relax his hold, when the female figure glided away with wind-like fleetness. The man hesitated an instant; but, before Perkins reached the spot where he stood, ran off in an opposite direction to that taken by the woman.

Here was an adventure calculated to give to the mind of Perkins a new and keener interest in the young seamstress. He paused but a moment, and then ran at the height of his speed in the direction the female form, which he had good reason to believe was hers, had taken. But she was nowhere to be seen. Either she had sought a shelter in one of the houses, or had hurried forward with a fleetness that carried her far beyond his reach.

Thoughtful and uneasy in mind, he could hardly tell why, he sought his lodgings; and, retiring at once to his chamber, seated himself by a table upon which were books and papers, and soon became lost in sad memories of the past that strongly linked themselves, why he could not tell, for they had no visible connection, with the present. For a long time he sat in this abstract mood, his hand shading his face from the light. At last he arose slowly and went to a drawer, from which he took a small morocco case, and, returning with it to the table, seated himself again near the lamp. He opened the case, and let the light fall strongly upon the miniature of a most beautiful female. Her light brown hair, that fell in rich and glossy ringlets to her neck, relieved tastefully her broad white forehead, and the gentle roundness of her pure cheeks, that were just tinged with the flush of health and beauty. But these took not away from the instant attraction of her dark hazel eyes, that beamed tenderly upon the gazer's face. Perkins bent for many minutes over this sweet image; then pressing it to his lips, he murmured, as he leaned back, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling—

"Where, where in the spirit-land dost thou dwell, dear angel? In what dark and undiscovered cave of the ocean rests, in dreamless sleep, thy beautiful but unconscious body? Snatched from me in the bloom of youth, when fresh flowers blossomed in thy young heart to bless me with their fragrance, how hast thou left me in loneliness and desolation of spirit! And yet thou seemest near to me, and, of late, nearer and dearer than ever. Oh, that I could hear thy real voice, even if spoken to the ear of my spirit, and see once more thy real face, were it only a spiritual presence!"

The young man then fell into a dreamy state of mind, in which we will leave him for the present.

CHAPTER V
SOME OF THE TROUBLES OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.—A FRIEND IN NEED

THE prompt assistance rendered, by Dr. R—to Mrs. Gaston came just in time. It enabled her to pay her month's rent, due for several days, to settle the amount owed to Mrs. Grubb, and lay in more wood for the coming winter. This consumed all her money, and left her once more dependent upon the meagre reward of her hard labor to supply food and clothing for herself and her two remaining children. From a state of almost complete paralysis of mind, consequent upon the death of Ella, her necessities aroused her. On the second day after the child had been taken, she again resumed her suspended toil. The sight of the unfinished garment which had been laid aside after bending over it nearly the whole night previous to the morning upon which Ella died, awakened a fresh emotion of grief in her bosom. As this gradually subsided, she applied herself with patient assiduity to her task, which was not finished before twelve o'clock that night, when she laid herself down with little Emma in her arms, and soon lost all care and trouble in profound sleep.

Hasty pudding and molasses composed the morning meal for all. After breakfast, Mrs. Gaston took the two jackets, which had been out now five days to the shop.

"Why, bless me, Mrs. Gaston, I thought you had run off with them jackets!" was Michael's coarse salutation as she came in. The poor, heart-oppressed seamstress could not trust herself to reply, but laid her work upon the counter in silence. Berlaps, seeing her, came forward.

"These kind of doings will never answer, madam!" he said angrily. "I could have sold both jackets ten times over, if they'd been here three days ago, as by rights they ought to have been. I can't give you work, if you are not, more punctual. You needn't think to get along at our tack, unless you plug it in a little faster than all this comes to."

"I'll try and do better after this," said Mrs. Gaston, faintly.

"You'll have to, let me tell you, or we'll cry 'quits.' All my women must have nimble fingers."

"These jackets are not much to brag of," broke in Michael, as he tossed them aside. "I think we had better not trust her with any more cloth roundabouts. She has botched the button-holes awfully; and the jackets are not more than half pressed. Just look how she has held on the back seam of this one, and drawn the edges of the lappels until they set seven ways for Sunday! They're murdered outright, and ought to be hung, with a basin under them to catch the blood."

"What was she to have for them?" asked Berlaps.

"Thirty cents a-piece, I believe," replied the salesman.

"Don't give her but a quarter, then. I'm not going to pay full price to have my work botched up after that style!" And, so saying, Berlaps turned away and walked back to his desk.

Lizzy Glenn, as she had called herself, entered at the moments and heard the remark of the tailor. She glided noiselessly by Mrs. Gaston, and stood further down the store, with both her body and face turned partly from her, where she waited patiently for the interview between her and Michael to terminate.

The poor, heart-crushed creature did not offer the slightest remonstrance to this act of cruel oppression, but took the half dollar thrown her by Michael for the two jackets with an air of meek resignation. She half turned to go away after doing so, but a thought of her two remaining children caused her to hesitate.

"Have'n't you some more trowsers to give out?" she asked, turning again toward Michael.

The sound of her voice reached the ear of the young female who had just entered, causing her to start, and look for an instant toward the speaker. But she slowly resumed her former position with a sigh, after satisfying herself by a single glance at the woman, whose voice had fallen upon her ear with a strange familiarity.

"We haven't any more ready, ma'am, just now."

"What have you to give out? Any thing?"

"Yes. Here are some unbleached cotton shirts, at seven cents. You can have some of them, if you choose."

"I will take half a dozen," said Mrs. Gaston in a desponding tone. "Any thing is better than nothing."

"Well, Miss Lizzy Glenn," said Michael, with repulsive familiarity, as Mrs. Gaston turned from the counter and left the store, "what can I do for you this morning?"

The young seamstress made no reply, but laid her bundle upon the counter and unrolled it. It contained three fine shirts, with linen bosoms and collars, very neatly made.

"Very well done, Lizzy," said Michael, approvingly, as he inspected the two rows of stitching on the bosoms and other parts of the garments that required to be sewed neatly.

"Have you any more ready?" she asked, shrinking back as she spoke, with a feeling of disgust, from the bold, familiar attendant.

"Have you any more fine shirts for Lizzy Glenn?" called Michael, back to Berlaps, in a loud voice.

"I don't know. How has she made them?"

"First rate."

"Then let her have some more, and pay her for those just brought in."

"That's your sorts!" responded Michael, as he took seventy-five cents from the drawer and threw the money upon the counter. "Good work, good pay, and prompt at that. Will you take three more?"

"I will," was the somewhat haughty and dignified reply, intended to repulse the low-bred fellow's offensive familiarity.

"Highty-tighty!" broke in Michael, in an undertone, meant only for the maiden's ear. "Tip-top airs don't pass for much in these 'ere parts. Do you know that, Miss Lizzy Glenn, or whatever your name may be? We're all on the same level here. Girls that make slop shirts and trowsers haven't much cause to stand on their dignity. Ha! ha!"

The seamstress turned away quickly, and walked back to the desk where Berlaps stood writing.

"Be kind enough, sir, if you please, to hand me three more of your fine shirts," she said, in a firm, but respectful tone.

Berlaps understood the reason of this application to him, and it caused him to call out to his salesman something after this homely fashion—

"Why, in thunder, Michael, don't you let the girls that come to the store, alone? Give Lizzy three shirts, and be done with your confounded tom-fooleries! The store is no place for them."

The young woman remained quietly beside the desk of Berlaps until Michael came up and handed her the shirts. She then walked quickly toward the door, but did not reach it before Michael, who had glided along behind one of the counters.

"You're a fool! And don't know which side your bread's buttered," he said, with a half leer, half scowl.

She neither paused nor replied, but, stepping quickly out, walked hurriedly away. Young Perkins, before alluded to, entered at the moment, and heard Michael's grossly insulting language.

"Is that the way to talk to a lady, Michael?" he asked, looking at him somewhat sternly.

"But you don't call her a lady, I hope, Mr. Perkins?" the salesman retorted, seeming, however, a little confused as he spoke.

"Do you know any thing to the contrary?" the young man asked, still looking Michael in the face.

"I can't say that I know much about her, any way, either good or bad."

"Then why did you use such language as I heard just now?"

"Oh, well! Never mind, Mr. Perkins," said Michael, his whole manner changing as a new idea arose in his thoughts; "if she's your game, I'll lie low and shut my eyes."

This bold assurance of the fellow at first confounded Perkins, and then made him very indignant.

"Remember, sir," said he, in a resolute voice, and with a determined expression on his face, "that I never suffer any one to trifle with me in that style, much less a fellow like you; so govern yourself, hereafter, accordingly. As to this young lady, whom you have just insulted, I give you fair warning now, that another such an act will bring with it merited punishment."

Perkins then turned from the somewhat crestfallen salesman, and walked back to where Berlaps was standing at his desk.

"Do you know any thing about that young woman I just now saw leave here, Mr. Berlaps?" he asked.

"I do not, Mr. Perkins," was the respectful answer. "She is a stranger, who came in some days ago for work."

"What is her name?"

"Lizzy Glenn, I believe."

"Where does she live?"

"Somewhere at the north end. Michael; there, knows."

"Get from him her street and number for me, if you please."

Berlaps asked Michael for the street and number where she lived, which the fellow took good care to give wrong. Perkins made a memorandum of the name and residence, as furnished, in his note-book, and, bowing to the man of shears, departed.

With her half-dozen shirts at seven cents, Mrs. Gaston returned home, feeling as if she must give up the struggle. The loss of Ella, after having striven so long and so hard for the sake of her children, made her feel more discouraged than she had ever yet felt. It seemed to her as if even Heaven had ceased to regard her—or that she was one doomed to be the sport of cruel and malignant powers. She had been home for only a short time, when Dr. R—came in. After inquiring about her health, and if the children were still free from any symptoms of the terrible disease that had carried off their sister, he said—

"I've been thinking about you a good deal in the last day or two, Mrs. Gaston, and have now called to have some talk with you. You work for the stores, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"Here are some common shirts, which I have just brought home."

"Well, how much do you get for them?"

"Seven cents, sir."

"Seven cents! How many of them can you make in a day?"

"Two are as many as I shall be able to get through with, and attend to my children; and even then I must work half the night. If I had nothing to do but sit down and sew all the while, I might make three of them."

"Shameful! Shameful! And is that the price paid for such work?"

"It is all I get."

"At this rate, then, you can only make fourteen cents a day?"

"That is all, sir. And, even on the best of work, I can never get beyond a quarter of a dollar a day."

"How in the world, then, have you managed to keep yourself and three children from actual want?"

"I have not been able, doctor," she replied, with some bitterness. "We have wanted almost every thing."

"So I should suppose. What rent do you pay for this poor place?"

"Three dollars a month."

"What! seventy-five cents a week! and not able to earn upon an average more than a dollar a week?"

"Yes, sir. But I had better work through the summer, and sometimes earned two dollars, and even a little more, in a week."

The doctor paused some time and then said—

"Well, Mrs. Gaston, it's no use for you to struggle on at this rate, even with your two remaining children. You cannot keep a home for them, and cover their nakedness from the cold. Now let me advise you."

"I am ready to hear any thing, doctor."

"What I would propose, in the first place—and that, in fact, is what has brought me in this morning—is that you put Henry out to a trade. He is young, it is true; but necessity, you know, knows no law. He will be just as well off, and better, too, under the care of a good master than he can be with you. And, then, such an arrangement will greatly relieve you. The care of little Emma will be light in comparison to what you have had to endure."

"You are no doubt right, doctor," the poor woman said, while the tears came to her eyes as she glanced toward Henry, who, for want of a pair of shoes, was compelled to stay home from school. "But I cannot bear the thought of parting with him. He is a delicate child, and only ten years old this winter. He is too young to go from home and have a master."

"He is young, I know, Mrs. Gaston. But, then, it is vain to think of being able to keep him with you. It is a cruel necessity, I know. But it cannot be avoided."

"Perhaps not. But, even if I should consent to put him out, I know of no one who would take him. And, above all, I dread the consequences of vicious association in a city like this."

"That matter, I think, can all be arranged to your satisfaction. I saw a man yesterday from Lexington, who asked me if I knew any one who had a lad ten or twelve-years old, and who would like to get him a good place. I thought of you at once. He said a friend of his there, who carried on the hatting business, wanted a boy. I inquired his character and standing, and learned that they were good. Now, I think this an excellent chance for you. I have already mentioned your little boy to the man, and promised to speak to you on the subject."

"But think, doctor," said Mrs. Gaston, in a trembling voice, "Henry is but ten. To put a child out for eleven years is a long, long time."

"I know it is, madam. But he has to live the eleven years somewhere, and I am sure he will be as comfortable in this place as you can make him; and, indeed, even more so."

"In some respects he may, no doubt. But a child like him is never happy away from his mother."

"But suppose it is out of his mother's power to get him food and comfortable clothing?"

"True—true, doctor. It is a hard fate. But I feel that I have only one way before me—that of submission."

And submit she did, though with a most painful struggle. On the following day, the friend of the hatter called upon Mrs. Gaston, and it was settled between them that little Henry should be called for by the man who was to become his master on the morning of the next day but one. The best that the mother could do for her son, about to leave his home and go out among strangers, was to get him a pair of shoes, upon which she paid forty cents, promising to settle the balance in a couple of weeks. His thin, scanty clothes she mended and washed clean—darned his old and much-worn stockings, and sewed on the torn front of his seal-skin cap. With his little bundle of clothes tied up, Henry sat awaiting on the morning of the day appointed for the arrival of his master, his young heart sorrowful at the thought of leaving his mother and sister. But he seemed to feel that he was the subject of a stern necessity, and therefore strove to act a manly part, and keep back the tears that were ready to flow forth. Mrs. Gaston, after preparing her boy to pass from under her roof and enter alone upon life's hard pilgrimage, sat down to her work with an overburdened heart. At one moment she would repent of what she had done, and half resolve to say "No," when the man came for her child. But an unanswerable argument against this were the coarse shirts in her hands, for which she was to receive only seven cents a-piece!

At last a rough voice was heard below, and then a heavy foot upon the stairs, every tread of which seemed to the mother to be upon her heart. Little Henry arose and looked frightened as a man entered, saying as he came in—

"Ah, yes! This is the place, I see. Well, ma'am, is your little boy ready?"

"He is, sir," replied Mrs. Gaston, almost inaudibly, rising and handing the stranger a chair. "You see he is a very small boy, sir."

"Yes, so I see. But some small boys are worth a dozen large ones. Come here, my little fellow! What is your name?"

The child went up to the man, telling him his name as he did so.

"That's a fine little fellow! Well, Henry! do you think you and I can agree? Oh, yes. We'll get along together very well, I have no doubt. I suppose, ma'am," he continued, addressing Mrs. Gaston, "that the better way will be for him to stay this winter on trial. If we like each other, you can come out to Lexington in the spring and have him regularly bound."

"That will be as well, I suppose," the mother replied. Then, after a pause, she said—

"How long will it be, Mr. Sharp, before I can see Henry?"

"I don't know, ma'am. How long before you think you can come out to Lexington?"

"Indeed, sir, I don't know that I shall be able to get out there this winter. Couldn't you send him in sometimes?"