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CHAPTER XX

In a private parlor of one of our great Southern cities sat two young men, in dressing-gowns, smoking-caps, and slippers. On a table between them stood a silver cigar-stand, a bottle of wine covered with cobwebs, and two empty glasses. The room was exquisitely furnished, with the exception of some questionable drawings upon the walls, and the young men themselves were what boarding-school misses would have called "perfect loves." Their hands were very white, their whiskers in a high state of cultivation, their cravats were quite miraculous, and their diamond rings of the purest water.

"Is this your last trophy?" asked Grey, poising a slipper of Cinderella dimensions on the palm of his hand.

"That? not by a score," carelessly answered Vincent, changing his diamond ring to the other hand; "that belongs to the pretty boarding-school girl. I really had quite forgotten her. I wonder what ever became of her? She was a perfect little Hebe, effervescent as Champagne, quite worth a three months' siege."

"And believed herself married to you, I suppose?" asked Grey.

"Of course," said Vincent, laughing; "she was the most trusting little thing you ever saw, primevally innocent in fact; it was quite refreshing. How's the wine, Grey?"

"Capital," answered his friend, refilling his glass and holding it up to the light with the gusto of a connoisseur. "Capital; but, Vincent, you are a wicked dog."

"Think so?" drawled Vincent quite proudly, surveying his handsome face in an opposite mirror.

"Yes," said Grey, "I am bad enough; but shoot me if I could be the first to lead a woman astray."

"You sneaking poltroon," laughed Vincent; "if you did not, somebody else would."

"That does not follow," answered Grey; "don't you believe that there are virtuous women?"

"Ha! ha! you ought to have your picture taken now," laughed Vincent. "Propound that question, most innocent Joseph, at our next club-meeting, will you? The explosion of a basket of Champagne corks would be nothing to the fizz it would make. A virtuous woman! no woman, my dear boy, was ever virtuous but for lack of temptation and opportunity."

"I will never subscribe to that," said Grey, with a flushed cheek; "no – not as I honor my mother and my sister."

Vincent's only answer was a slight elevation of the eyebrow, as he pushed the bottle again toward Grey.

"No, thank you; no more for me," answered Grey, in disgust, as he left the room.

"Green yet," said Vincent, lighting a cigar. "I can remember when I was just such a simpleton. 'Virtuous women!' If women are virtuous, why do they give the cold shoulder to steady moral fellows, to smile on a reckless dog like me? I have always found women much more anxious to ascertain the state of a man's purse than the state of his morals. If I am an infidel on the subject of female virtue, women have only themselves to thank for it. I believed in it once."

CHAPTER XXI

"She's down stairs, she's back again, the young woman and her baby. I knew you wouldn't like to hear it, ma'am."

"Go down stairs, and tell her I am not at home, Patty."

"I did tell her so, knowing your mind, ma'am; but she said I was mistaken, for that she saw you at the window."

"Say that I am sick, then, and can not be disturbed; and, Patty, tell the cook to see that her custards are ready for dessert; Mr. Finels dines here to-day."

Patty retired with her instructions, but presently returned in great haste.

"Bless us all, ma'am, the baby is taken in a fit in the entry, and is rolling up its eyes horrid! Shall I tell her to go away with it?"

"Yes!" said Mrs. Howe – "yes – no – how provoking! I don't believe it – I'll go down myself, Patty."

Throwing a large cashmere shawl over her robe-de-chambre, Mrs. Howe went reluctantly down stairs.

The baby did look "horrid," as Patty had said, and Rose stood over it wringing her hands.

"I don't see what you have come back for," grumbled Mrs. Howe, turning her back upon the convulsed baby.

"What shall I do? oh, tell me what to do for him!" said the young mother – "he will die! Charley will die!"

"All the better for him, if he should," said Mrs. Howe.

"Oh," said Rose, kneeling at her feet, "you have lost a little one, can not you pity me."

Even this touching appeal would have been powerless to move Mrs. Howe, had not the twitch of the bell-wire announced a visitor at the front door. Hastily running to Patty, she said, "Take that child up stairs and lay it on your bed. I am sure I don't know what to do with him; my nerves are all unstrung; take him away; I suppose he will come out of his fit before long."

Patty stooped to take Charley in her arms, but Rose anticipated her, and carried the poor tortured child up into the attic. He came out of that fit only to go into another, and Rose, agonized beyond endurance, fell senseless across the bed.

"They are dying, both of 'em!" screamed Patty, bursting into Mrs. Howe's room again; "you will have to attend to it now, ma'am, sure. I know I can't stay by them."

"Go for the doctor, then," said Mrs. Howe, thinking this might be preferable to a coroner's inquest; "not our doctor, but the one in the next street."

"Your doctor is the nearest, ma'am," suggested Patty.

"Do as I tell you!" said the frowning Mrs. Howe, going leisurely up stairs.

"Just see what a spot of work, ma'am," said the cook, who had run up to see what was the matter; "that child must be undressed, ma'am, and put into a warm bath."

"Let it alone," said Mrs. Howe; "the doctor will be here presently. How do you know it is the right thing to do with the child?"

"I am sure of it, ma'am, begging your pardon; my sister's child had just the like of those fits, and that was what we always did for him, but just as you please, ma'am – hadn't you better hold some smelling-salts to its mother's face? she's in a faint, like."

Patty arrived at length with the doctor, who puffed considerably at climbing so many stairs, and disconcerted Mrs. Howe still more by his keen survey of the barren attic, Mrs. Howe's expensive apparel, and the two patients before him.

Charley he pronounced in a critical state, owing to the length of time he had lain in the fit; he then wrote a prescription, applied some remedies, and recommended perfect quiet, and attentive nursing.

"He can not be moved, then?" asked Rose, who had recovered sufficiently to know what was passing.

"By no means," said the doctor, "is it your child?" he asked, looking with surprise at the girlish form before him.

Rose bowed her head.

"In fact," said the doctor, "I shouldn't think you were fit to go yourself, if that were your intention."

Mrs. Howe's face flushed, and she walked up and down the floor uneasily.

"How long before he will be able to be moved?" asked Rose.

"It is impossible to tell. I think he may have a run of fever. I can tell better to-morrow. Perhaps it would be better, on account of this window," suggested the doctor, as he pointed to the broken panes of glass, "to remove the child into another room. Don't you think so, madam?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Howe.

"Oh, of course, certainly," replied Mrs. Howe, "he ought to have every comfort the house affords."

Had the doctor known Mrs. Howe better, he would not have been deceived at the seeming Samaritanism of this sarcastic reply. Rose could only groan in anguish.

"It would be well to have those recipes attended to as soon as possible, madam," said the doctor, handing them to Mrs. Howe, "shall you take charge of my patient, madam?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Howe, with another withering aside glance at Rose.

"Well, then, madam, if you will have the goodness to watch the child closely, until after he has taken his second powder – you see there are two of them, one to be taken as soon as it arrives, and the other three hours after. Should any thing unforeseen occur, you know my address," and the doctor, resuming his hat and cane, left the room, followed by Mrs. Howe.

"Oh! Charley, Charley!" murmured Rose, pressing her lips to the little hot hand which lay upon the bed, "do not leave me."

But the desolate mother had little time for reflection, for Mrs. Howe returned immediately after having seen the doctor down stairs, and coming up to the bed-side, demanded of Rose "what she meant by bringing that sick child into town to burden her?"

"He was quite well when I started; I am very sorry, very, that I can not go back. I lost a letter here, the only one I ever had from – "

"Your husband, I suppose you would say," said Mrs. Howe. "It is astonishing that you will persist in keeping up that humbug; I should think you might have learned by this time that your husband, as you call him, could never have had much love for a woman whom he has neglected so long; and so all this bother has come of a search for a precious piece of his writing? 'Tis all a pretense, and you needn't believe that I don't see through it."

Rose knew it was quite useless to attempt any justification of herself and made no reply.

"I am glad you have sense enough not to deny it," said Mrs. Howe, bent upon irritating her; "I am quite a match for your cunning in every respect, Rose. I suppose you will have to stay here now, till the child gets a little better, but I want you distinctly to understand that you must wait upon yourself; my servants have something else to do, and when you have occasion to go below, see that you go down the back stairs, and do not allow yourself to be seen. You can move into the next room, Bridget's room, if the Doctor cares for that broken window; that is some of Patty's carelessness, I suppose. I shall insist upon your leaving the house at the earliest possible opportunity; when the medicine comes you must attend to it yourself;" and gathering up her flowing skirts, Mrs. Howe left the room.

CHAPTER XXII

"It is very curious that Rose does not come back; it is only five miles into the city. I begin to think that something has happened to the poor child," said old Mrs. Bond. "I feel quite uneasy. Mrs. Howe certainly would not keep her any longer than she could help. Something must have happened;" and she walked from one window to the other, put up her spectacles, and took them out, then took a book down from the shelf, and after reading it upside down a few minutes, returned it to its place again.

"I must certainly go into town and see what is the matter," said she. "I never shall rest easy till I know;" and going out to the barn, she called the cow-boy, and by his help, harnessed the old gray horse into the chaise, for a drive into the city.

It was slow work, that ride; for the old, stiff-jointed creature, knowing well the all-enduring patience of his mistress, crawled leisurely up and down the long hills, stopped to pay his respects to every water-trough he came across, and nosed round the sides of the road after the grass-patches, in the most zig-zag fashion; now and then stopping short, and insisting upon an entire reprieve from locomotion, to be lengthened or shortened, at his own discretion. As to the whip, old Gray stood in no fear of that, because his mistress never used it for any thing but to drive off the flies. It is not astonishing, therefore, that it was well on toward noon before he and Mrs. Bond reached the city. It was as much of an event for old Gray, as for his mistress, to see it. It was many years since either had been there. Its kaleidoscope frivolities had little charm for Mrs. Bond; her necessary wants were easily supplied from the village, and she was so fortunate as to have no artificial ones.

Old Gray stopped short, as the city's din fell upon his unsophisticated ear; and as he moved on and listened to the lashings less favored nags were receiving from merciless drivers, as he saw the enormous loads under which they staggered – stumbled – and oftentimes fell upon the plentifully watered, and slippery pavement, rising (if they rose at all) with strained and excoriated limbs, he probably thought, if horses ever think, that "God made the country, and man made the town."

"Whip up your old skeleton. Get out of the way there, can't ye?" muttered one of the progressives. "Drive to the left there, ma'am; drive to the right; halt there, ma'am," and similar other expostulations, coupled with invectives, were thundered in the ears of Mrs. Bond; who, in her benevolence of heart, jerked this way and that, backed, sidled, and went forward, and in the vain attempt to oblige all, displeased every body; still she maintained her placidity, and smiled as sweetly as if every person in the blockaded thoroughfare were not wishing her in the torrid zone.

The old lady's greatest trouble, was her fear of running over some one of the many pedestrians, of all sizes and ages, who traversed so fearlessly that Babel of horses and carriages.

"Dear heart!" she would ejaculate, as some little child made his unprotected way through the vehicles. "Dear heart! it will certainly get killed!"

Good old soul! she did not know how miraculously city children live on, in spite of crowded streets, schoolteachers, milk-men, and foolish mammas.

But at length, a stable is reached near Mrs. Howe's; and the jolly hostlers nudge each other in the ribs, as the old ark rattles into the paved yard; and Mrs. Bond climbs carefully out, and resigns old Gray into their hands, with many charges as to his plentiful supply of water and oats. As the nice old lady turns her back, they go into convulsions of merriment over the whole establishment, from harness to hub; interrogating old Gray about his pedigree in a way which they think immensely funny.

Mrs. Bond threads her way along on foot, now good-naturedly picking up a parcel for some person who had unconsciously dropped one, now fumbling from out her pocket a penny for the little vagrants who are tossing mud back and forth over the crossings, with very questionable stubs of brooms, to the imminent risk of pedestrians; and now she slides a newspaper, which the truant wind has displaced, under the door crack for which it was destined.

Now she sees a group of ragged, dirty little children, nestled upon a door-step, upon which they have spread out a dingy cloth, containing old bones, bits of meat, cold potatoes, and crusts of bread, upon which their hungry eyes are gloating. It is too much for the old lady. She points to the gutter, where she wishes their unwholesome meal thrown, and beckoning them toward a baker's window, plentifully supplies the whole party with fresh bread and crackers.

And now she stops short, for she hears a name uttered dear as her hopes of heaven.

"Jesus Christ!"

The speaker's hands are not clasped, his head is not bowed, no prayer followed that dear name; it was not reverently spoken. She turns on the gentleman who uttered it a look, not of reproof but pity – such a look as might have lingered on the Saviour's face when he said, "Father forgive them; they know not what they do."

A crimson blush overspread his face, and his "Pardon me, madam" was answered only by a gathering tear in the old lady's eye as she bowed her head and turned slowly away, her lips moving as if in prayer. He felt it – and the jest died upon his lip as his eyes involuntarily followed her feeble footsteps, and thoughts of a sainted mother's long-forgotten prayers came rushing through his mind with childhood's freshness.

Ah, who shall say into what pits of selfish and unhallowed pleasure that look shall haunt the recipient? What night shall be dark enough to hide it, what day bright enough to absorb its intensity? Who shall say that hallelujahs shall not yet tremble on the lips where erst were curses?

CHAPTER XXIII

Mrs. Howe was lying on a sofa in her boudoir, in a showy robe-de-chambre of green, with cherry facings, over an elaborately embroidered white petticoat. She had on also toilet slippers, with green and cherry trimmings, and a very fanciful breakfast cap.

"Fall fashions open to-day, eh?" said she, laying a nicely printed envelope, scented with "millefleurs," with which Madame Du Pont had announced that important fact to her customers.

"Madame will have loves of things, just as she always does. I shall be so happy in looking them over. I think I must have a lilac hat; madame thinks lilac best suited to my complexion. Mr. Finels likes me in lilac; as to John, he don't appear to know one color from another. I don't think, however, a man ever knows what his wife has on. Madame Du Pont would make very little if we had only our husbands to dress for; yes, I will have a lilac hat, and I will go there before any other woman has a chance to make a selection of the best. I must go in a carriage: Madame Du Pont never pays any attention to a lady who comes on foot; a hackney-coach is terribly vulgar. I must persuade John to set up a carriage. I will contrive the livery myself. I wonder what is our family coat-of-arms? I must go to the heraldry office, I think, and buy one; a bear would be most emblematical of John – how cross he is getting! I never should get along at all without Finels." And Mrs. Howe drew out her gold watch, and then rising, surveyed herself in the long glass.

"Well, Mary, what is wanted?"

"If you please, ma'am, Mr. – Mr. – , I forget his name, is below, and wants to speak with you a few minutes."

"You stupid creature, you should have brought up his card. How am I to know who it is? or whether it is worth while to make any change in my dress or not?"

"I guess it is, ma'am," said Polly, with a sly look. "It is – Mr. – , Mr. – Fin – Tin – "

"Finels?" asked Mrs. Howe, innocently.

"That's just the name, ma'am. I never can remember it. It is the gentleman who always says to me if Mr. Howe is busy not to call him; that Mrs. Howe will do just as well," and Polly grinned behind her apron corner.

"How tiresome to call so early!" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, with ill-concealed delight. "Well, I suppose you must tell him that I will be down directly. Is the parlor all right, Mary?"

"Yes, ma'am, and Mr. Howe has just gone out."

This last remark, of course, was not heeded by Mrs. Howe, who was playing in a very indifferent manner with her cap strings.

"You must really excuse my robe-de-chambre, Mr. Finels," said Mrs. Howe, making use of the only French phrase she knew, to draw attention to her new negligée which a poor dress-maker had set up all night to finish for the present occasion.

"I could not have excused you had you not worn it," said Finels, quite accustomed to the little transparent trickeries of the sex, "it is in perfect taste, as is every thing you wear; and I feel more particularly flattered by your wearing it on the present occasion, because I consider that when a lady dispenses with etiquette in this way toward a gentleman friend, she pays a silent compliment to the good sense of her visitor," and Finels made one of his Chesterfieldian bows, and placed his right hand on his velvet vest. "Beside, my dear madam, one who is so superior as yourself to all the adornments of dress, should at any rate be exempt from the tyranny of custom."

"Oh, thank you," minced Mrs. Howe, playing with her robe tassels, and trying to improvise a blush.

"Here is a volume of poems which I had the luck to stumble upon yesterday. I have brought them to you, because I like to share such a pleasure with an appreciative spirit," said the wily Finels, who always complimented a woman for some mental, or physical perfection, of which she knew herself to be entirely destitute. "It is a book I could speak of to but few persons, for I hoard such a treasure as a miser does his gold."

Mrs. Howe really– blushed with pleasure. The diplomatic Finels was not astonished, he was accustomed to such results.

"You will find some marked passages here," said Finels, turning over the leaves. "They are perfect gems; I thought of you when I read them. I risk nothing in hoping that you will admire them equally with myself," and he handed her the book. "Is Mr. Howe not yet in?" he asked in a loud tone of voice as he heard that gentleman's footsteps approaching. "Ah – how d'ye do, Howe? I was beginning to despair of seeing you."

"Thank you, thank you," muttered John, gruffly, throwing up the window in extreme disgust at the strong odor of patchouli on Finel's handkerchief, "thank you, you are too good."

"I came," said Finels, "this morning to consult you on important business matters. We literary people are sadly deficient in practical affairs, and I know of no one in whose judgment I could so safely rely as your own. Can you give me your arm down street?"

"Any time to-morrow I will be happy to oblige you," said the mollified John; "to-day I have an unpostponable business engagement with the stockholders of the – Railroad."

"Any time – any time, my dear fellow," said Finels, who was not at all sorry for the reprieve; "I shall not think of deciding, at any rate, until I see you again," and with as faultless a bow to Mrs. Howe as Finels alone could make in a husband's presence, he backed gracefully out.

"Finels is a pretty good fellow, after all," said Mr. Howe, "rather too much of a fop. What's this?" he asked, taking up the book which that gentleman had left.

"Good gracious, Mr. Howe! see the paint on your new coat," said his wife, remembering the marked passages and marginal notes, in the poems, intended for her eye alone; "good gracious, Mr. Howe! do come up into my dressing-room, and let me take it off while it is fresh."

A little sponge wet with spirits of turpentine, if it did not obliterate the paint that never was there, at least obliterated all recollection of the book from John's innocent mind; and Mrs. Howe, seeing her lord safely out of the house with his spotless coat, prepared for her call at Du Pont's.

"Please, ma'am," said Patty, "there is an old woman below, as wants to see you bad."

"Didn't I tell you to send away all beggars, Patty?"

"She is not a beggar, and yet she is not a lady exactly, and yet she is," said the puzzled Patty. "She is very respectable, ma'am; she said her name was – was – I declare ma'am, I am shocking at names."

"Well – send her off, any way," said Mrs. Howe; "tell her I am out."

"But I have told her you was in, ma'am, not knowing as you might want to see her."

"You never should do that, Patty, you should always say that you will see if I am in; that gives me a chance, you see. Go tell her then, that I am engaged."

"Please ma'am," said Patty, returning after a few minutes, "she says her name is 'Mrs. Bond,' and wants to know if she can see the young woman, and the sick baby; shall I show her up there?"

"Yes – yes – don't bother – I never shall get off to Madame Du Pont's."

One – two – three – four – five pair of back stairs, dark as only city back stairs can be. Poor old Mrs. Bond stumbled and panted, panted and stumbled breathlessly up toward the attic.

Patty threw open the door of the cook's room which Mrs. Howe, out of her abundance, had benevolently appropriated to the use of the sick child. The floor was uncarpeted, the window was without a blind, and the fat cook's ample petticoat had been pinned up by Mrs. Howe, not out of kindness to the sick child, but to keep out the eyes of prying neighbors.

Rose sat on the only seat in the room, a low cricket, swaying to and fro with Charley in her lap, vainly trying to hush his moanings; her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her face was even whiter than Charley's, for through the long weary hours, she had paced the floor with him, or sat on the cricket, lulling him as best she could, watching every change of expression in his little wan face.

At sight of Mrs. Bond, her pent up heart found vent, and laying her head upon her shoulder she sobbed aloud.

"Don't, darling, don't," said Mrs. Bond, with difficulty restraining her own emotions at Rose's distress, and the comfortless look of every thing about her. "Dear heart, don't cry;" and taking Charley in her matronly arms, she pushed Rose gently toward the bed, and sat down beside her.

"I see – I see" – she whispered, looking round the room, "you needn't say a word, dear, it is hard to bear; but turn over, and try to catch a nap while I hold the baby;" and cuddling him up into her comfortably fat neck, the good hearted old lady commenced her weary walk up and down the attic floor. Her gentle lulling and gentler touch, for babies know well how to appreciate an experienced and skillful hand, soon soothed the little sufferer. Rose, too, relieved from the pressure of responsibility which had weighed so heavily on her inexperience, yielded to the exhaustion which overpowered her, and sank into a fitful slumber.

Mrs. Bond laid Charley down on the foot of the bed, enveloped in her own warm shawl, and with velvet tread and noiseless touch, rinsed the glasses and spoons which stood on the window-seat near her, rearranged the cook's petticoat over the window, and sat down to watch her charge.

How even those few hours' sickness had blanched Charley's cheek, and paled Rose's lip! – "How could Mrs. Howe?" – but no, she would not think about it, if she could help it; and yet it was cruel; no, no, she would not think of it, and leaning her head forward upon the bed, she prayed God to make the stony heart a heart of flesh.

Rose started up – she was not dreaming, for there sat good Mrs. Bond, with her snowy cap and heart-warming smile.

"Dear heart! what a nice little nap you have had," she says, kissing Rose's forehead; "try and sleep again, dear."

"No," replied Rose, rising slowly; "lie down yourself – how very tired you must be, and how kind you are! I don't know how to bear such wretched hours as I have had here; oh, mother – mother!" and Rose sobbed again.

"There – there!" said Mrs. Bond, wiping Rose's eyes with her handkerchief; "don't now, there's a dear. I don't know why this is, but I know God loves us all, though we may not sometimes think so. Bear it, and trust Him, dear; we shall know all by and by. There, don't cry, now;" and Mrs. Bond wiped away her own tears.

A little stifled moan from the shawl announced Charley's waking. Rose took him up, and sat down with him upon her lap; how hot was his little head and hand, and how heavy his eye!

"Give him a sup of cold water, dear; see how parched his lips are."

"There is none up here," said Rose. "Mrs. Howe said I must not call upon the servants, and I could not leave Charley alone to get it; now that you are here, I will go down for some, if you will take Charley."

Mrs. Bond shook her head, and motioning Rose to sit still, took a mug in her hand, and slowly felt her way down the dark back stairway.

On the third landing she had a little more light on more than one subject, as Mrs. Howe's "boudoir" door was then open for the purpose of cleaning it. What soft, downy sofas and cushions! – what a mossy carpet! – what luxurious curtains and chairs! The old lady shook her head mournfully; and, supporting herself by the balustrade, descended another pair. There was light there, too, for the drawing-room door was open; no niggard hand had furnished its gilded mirrors and pictures, its lounges, tête-à-têtes, and candelabras; there was no parsimony in that ample China closet, with its groaning shelves of porcelain, silver, gold, and cut glass. Down still another pair to the kitchen, whose savory odors already greeted her nostrils; no parsimony there, with its turkeys and chickens roasting, its pies and puddings making, its custards and jellies quivering in costly cut glasses – no parsimony there.

"Will you have the goodness to show me to the pump in the yard?" asked the unsophisticated Mrs. Bond.

"Pump in the yard! won't this pump do as well?" asked the "professed cook," with a grin at one of her underlings.

"Yes, thank you," said the dignified old lady, discovering her mistake, and moving toward the pump.

"Civil," whispered the cook to her assistant, "I am sorry I laughed at her. Let me pump it for you," she said, taking the pitcher from the old lady's hand.

"I will be obliged to you if you will," she said, "I don't understand the handle of the pump. Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, with one of her disarming smiles, as she held out her hand for the pitcher.

"Let me carry it up for you," said the cook, "it is such a way up."

"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Bond, quickly, remembering what Rose had told about Mrs. Howe's order not to call on the servants.

But the cook was already out the door with the pitcher, and Mrs. Bond followed her.

"What has come over you, now, I'd like to know," said Patty, as the breathless cook returned to her turkeys, "it is the first time I ever saw you put yourself out to oblige any body."

"Well, it won't be the last time, if that old lady stays here; there's good enough in me, if people only knew how to draw it out; she does, that's the amount of it. I wish my tongue had been torn out before I made fun of her; I felt worse when she said 'thank you,' so civil, than as if she had struck me with that rolling-pin; she's one of the Bible sort; there ain't many of 'em; she'll go to heaven, she will."

"Well, let her go, I'm willing," said Patty, "now sing us the rest of 'Rosy-cheeked Molly.'"

"Oh, I can't," said the cook, breaking down at the end of the first verse, "I wish you would just stir that custard while I run up with this rocking-chair to that old lady; there's nothing on earth but a cricket in that room for her to sit on."

"You'd better not," said Patty, "Mrs. Howe said we weren't one of us to do nothing for them folks up stairs, no how."

"For all that, I shall," said the cook, shouldering the chair; "I am not afraid of Mrs. Howe; I know my value. She wouldn't part with me for her eyes, first because she likes my cooking, and second, because Mrs. Flynn, whom she hates, wants to get me away from her; so now;" and up stairs she trudged, with the rocking-chair.

"P-h-e-w! there's some difference between that garret and this kitchen," said Nancy, when she returned, "both as to distance, and as to accommodations in 'em," said she, looking round upon the plentiful supply of viands. "I begin to think that young girl up there, and her baby, are awful misused; I don't believe Mrs. Howe's story about her; she don't look as if she wasn't clever."