[Three Successful Girls by Julia Crouch—Second Part]

 

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CHAPTER VIII.

SUNDRY MATTERS.

 

THERE are so many things to tell about in the history of three young girls, with different aims and objects, that at times one knows hardly what thread of the narrative to take up, and therefore gets into some little confusion and doubt. If, therefore, this feeling makes itself at times apparent, the reader must consider the difficult position of the writer, and be governed accordingly.

The visit to Plymouth Church, with all its attractions, had a great influence on the sisters’ minds, and gave them food for thought for many days. It also quickened their aspirations, and caused them to feel greater confidence in their final success. On Monday they commenced their duties with redoubled energy. Mary started off in high spirits to give her first lesson. Kate went, as usual, to Cooper’s; and Hannah, after their steps had died away in the long hall, took a heap of manuscript from her trunk, and, piling it upon the table, sat down to inspect it. It consisted of several sketches, and one story of half a dozen chapters. They had been written at different times, and she had very little confidence in them, though she hoped they might realize to her a few dollars.

She had a list of a number of sensational papers, and the places of their publication; and it was there

 

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where her hopes lay of disposing of the manuscript. Hannah had a more just idea of her powers than most young authors, and more modest hopes and desires for the future. Long in the past, it seemed to her, she had thought of fame and popularity, when she saw her simple verses in family papers, and built air-castles pf the glorious time when she should be crowned with a laurel wreath, and applauded by the world; but with her growth of mind and experience, such vanity had passed away, and left her ambitious only for sufficient success to benefit the world, and secure to herself a comfortable income. She was not a genius, and she knew it; but she hoped that there accompanied her love for authorship sufficient talent to enable her to follow the profession she loved with profit to herself and others. She had already seen dark days, but her darkest were yet to come. Perseverance and labor alone would bring her success, and she was willing to give both; and she thought all this, as she looked over the manuscript that invigorating Monday morning.

“I hope these few stories will not prove detrimental to any one who may read them,” she said to herself, “and I don’t think they will, for I tried to have a good moral to them all.” But her conscience was not at rest; she was working beneath the standard of her noblest ideas and her highest light. How much like trash those sketches were, —passion, revenge, suicide, and lunacy! She felt her face flush as she read them over; but then such stuff was in good demand. She was not brilliant enough to write for any high-tolled journal, and receive any emolument, and she must live; and what harm was there in it, after all? In this way she tried to reason herself into the belief that it was well and justifiable; and though she succeeded

 

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in partially stifling the voice of conscience, she did not overcome it; and there was on her face an expression not entirely frank and clear, as she took her manuscript in her hand and started out into the hall. Down to the lower part of the city she wended her way, and at last came to a sign on Fulton Street, which made her heart beat fast, for here she had decided to make her first call. With a mighty effort she ran up the steps, not daring to trust herself to walk, through fear she should be tempted to turn back; and climbing two flights of dirty, narrow, dingy stairs, guided by a notice, she rapped at a door, and a sallow-faced lad opened it.

The editor came, —a small, black-eyed, slovenly dressed man, —and told her he could not attend to her manuscript for two months at least, and seemed hurried and out of sorts; and Hannah gave a long sigh of relief when she found herself safely in the street again; but this repulse had made her bold, instead of timid, and caused her to say to herself with a little decided nod of her head, “I’ve a right to try my luck, and I will. I expect to be repulsed; but that won’t discourage me.”

At the next office, which was that of a popular sensational paper, she met with a kinder reception. “Leave your manuscript by all means,” the proprietor said, “and we will read it within a few days, and, if it proves suitable to our columns, will be glad to buy it of you; “ and so the manuscript was left; and receiving the promise that it would be looked over by the next Saturday, Hannah ran down the stairs, feeling as though she had left behind her- a burden of many pounds’ weight. She walked home briskly, and, seating herself at the table, wrote a letter to little Dill; and

 

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in no better way can I give the state of her mind than by inserting it.

 

“MY DEAR LITTLE DILL, —By this time I think you are looking for a letter from me; and that you may not be disappointed, I will write you one. We are now comfortably settled and doing nicely, and are fast becoming acquainted with the great city, which at first bewildered and deafened us. We get around quite easily, often alone, which latter fact you may keep to yourself. There is so much to be seen here, one hardly knows what to give attention to, except it is the pictures. We never feel in doubt concerning those, and stop to look at them wherever they appear. It is so very lively and busy here, you would think from appearances that it was an extra occasion. Everybody seems to be in a hurry, and the merchants bring their goods, even to stoves, out on the sidewalks for display. We have had one caller, and I wish you could have seep her. She reminded me some of Dan Pike’s sister Jerusha, though she had a city air about her, which Jerusha hasn’t got. She came to invite us to go to church with her, and introduced herself as Desire Brechandon. We laughed a good deal after she was gone, which I think wasn’t quite proper and right, as she talked very solemnly to us. She is a very stiff church-woman, and would make an excellent deacon, if a man; and now I think of it, I don’t see why she wouldn’t do just as well as she is, for if a man, she couldn’t be more solemn, stiff, or earnest. We were almost ready to start for Beecher’s, and so of course were obliged to decline her invitation.

“I suppose I ought to say to you, before I tell how beautiful was Mr. Beecher’s sermon, that there are

 

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some church-people who think it wrong to go to hear him, and say he is not a real, genuine, pious minister of the gospel; but the question which I am now trying to solve is, whether religion is made for the good of man and the world, instituted by a wise Father, who loves us, or whether it is made simply for God’s glory and praise. Perhaps I do not make the idea quite plain to you, as I am somewhat confused myself; but thus far I can see neither use, or beauty, or benefit, in such religion as Miss Brechandon preaches. Somehow it doesn’t seem to amount to anything, and seems to draw people within themselves, and confine them to putting on long faces, going through certain dry ceremonies, and strictly obeying some old Mosaic law, to the neglect of the beautiful commandments of Christ, the sum and substance of which is love. Why it is that people make such prominent mistakes in their desire to obey the will of God, I cannot tell. Why they should make such selections among the commandments, and adhere to them so strongly, is a wonder to me. If there is anything harsh or fearful, they are sure to find it, and overlook the merciful, loving passages. The life of Christ was so liberal and grand. He did not confine himself to sect or country; and we as Christians are to be followers of Him. His crowning glory was love, good-will, and mercy; and to be his followers, our crowning glory, it seems to me, must be the same. I cannot see quite clearly yet on the question of church and creeds; but there is one thing that I begin to grow sure of, and that is this. If we feel a love for all our fellow-creatures, if we desire to benefit them in every way possible, are charitable, kind, and forgiving, the spirit of Christ is within us. It must be so; and you, my dear little friend,

 

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have but to think over calmly your feelings in this respect, and if you love all your fellow-creatures with a desire to see them all happy, you love Christ. The sermon we heard yesterday was so grand and elevating, it went through and through me, and coincided so thoroughly with my nature, that I can give you only its spirit, and that was charity. It was not at all like Mr. Hayes’s; and instead of drawing the hearers into a narrower circle, as it always seemed to me that his did, it cut away the bars of superstition, self-righteousness, and sectarianism, and left them in a great field where real practical work was to be performed, and self was left in an insignificant corner. I can see no better way, then, Dill, to gain for yourself a lasting peace, than to forget yourself and try to make others happy; for if there is anything which will blind us and make us wretched, it is selfishness. I feel that I have written enough this time; and hoping you may find some comfort in what I have written, I am

“Your loving friend,

“HANNAH.”

 

Hannah was somewhat venturesome, and possessed curiosity in a greater degree than her sisters; and after she had finished the letter to Dill, she took the mysterious answer to Mary’s advertisement, and read it several times over, with a very keen desire to know the author. In her imagination he was an old, white-haired man, with a kind fatherly face, to whom she would much like to offer her thanks, at least for his timely advice. The chirography was of such a character as to give no clew to the writer, whether man or woman, —a running hand not very distinct, and not at all even and elegant, but representative of the author’s familiarity with the pen.

 

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Hannah sat silent a long time over this letter; but her thoughts were busy in revolving in her mind whether she should throw it aside, and forget it, as her sisters would be sure to do, or whether she should answer it, and express her gratitude. Of course it was Mary’s letter, but then it made no difference; she considered the advice as much a favor to herself as to her sister; and then, Mary never fancied writing, and she was always interested that way.

The result of her thoughts was the conclusion to write an answer; and she did so, —a very expressive and characteristic reply, in which she offered her thanks and best wishes, and daringly signed her own name, accompanied by the street and number of her residence. Had she waited an hour after this was done the letter never would have been sent; but on the impulse of the moment she dropped it, together with Dill’s, into the letter-box; and the moment it slid down out of sight she repented, and would have given much to have it in her hand again.

She lingered around the lamp-post till she, was ashamed, and finally went back to her room oppressed and frightened. What would the girls say? Why should she have been so silly? If only she hadn’t signed her own name! What an oversight that was! This was the burden of her thoughts as she ascended to her room, and sat down dejected. “I hope this will teach me a lesson,” she said, bringing her hand down hard upon the table. “Now I’ve made myself this trouble for nothing, and to think I should be writing to an unknown person so soon after coming to the city! Now I think of it, he may be some flirt or pickpocket who wrote the letter just to see what would come of it. If this won’t teach me deliberation,

 

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nothing will.” She heard quick, tripping steps in the hall, and Mary came laughing into the room, but stopped suddenly on beholding Hannah’s dubious countenance. “What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “What has happened?”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Hannah, looking up as if surprised.

“Your face,” said Mary, “is like a book, and I am skilled in reading it; and it tells me something has gone wrong to-day.”

“I’ve only been so foolish as to write an answer to that mysterious letter,” said Hannah, making a clean breast of it, “and I was just thinking perhaps I ought not to have done it.”

“O, is that all? I’m glad you’ve done it; the good man ought to receive a reply,” said Mary in a relieved tone. “And now,” she continued, “do ask me something about my luck.”

“Tell without being asked, won’t you? I’m anxious enough to hear, and should have overwhelmed you with questions the first thing, if I hadn’t been busily indulging in regret.”

“Well, I had such a funny time trying to find the place! I went in the wrong direction, took the wrong car, and it seemed as though I never should find the place; and when I did—well, I was amazed. It was a tenement house, and I kept going up-stairs, and finally, away up in an attic, I found a piano, that must have been very fine in its day, and a little boy. O, dear, I just want to cry whenever I think of him. He was cruelly deformed, but his face was beautiful, only it had an old look, and was so very white; and he is my scholar. His mother was there sewing at the window, and hardly looked up once or spoke while I stayed.

 

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The room was almost bare of furniture, —a mattress in the corner on the floor, no carpet, a small table, little stove, two old chairs, and the piano. I kept thinking all the time how brave and unselfish that mother was, and I wanted to speak to her in sympathy and praise; but her reserve forbade it. The boy, whose name is Neil Blossom, is eight years old, and is a genius. I looked on with astonishment as he touched with so much feeling and understanding the keys with his slender little fingers; but I am afraid he will never live to be a man, poor thing!”

“And this is the first one of your scholars that you have seen?”

“Yes, and what a beginning! I don’t actually feel as though I could take one penny from that poor woman. I wish I could afford to give all such poor little geniuses lessons for nothing.”

“Mary, this is a singular world, a very strange, uneven world. It is no trifle for a girl to earn just what she requires to eat and wear and be comfortable, without giving one thought further; but to earn one’s living and education besides is a larger item than can be understood without experience: but we, can do it, Mary, —you and Kate and I; and as to this poor little scholar of yours, teach him all you can, and see what time will bring about.”

“That’s consoling, and the only way to do; and now that I have my class engaged, I want to commence taking lessons, Hannah. How it hurts and humbles me to think I can’t have some old master to teach me, but must drill away with some common teacher!”

“We can only hope for that in the future;” and as Hannah said this, she thought how hard she would work, and try to give, or help to give, both Kate and

 

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Mary the advantages they longed for. She thought of her morning calls in Fulton Street, and wondered if her manuscript would be accepted; but she said nothing of this, and silently Mary arose and began to make preparations for going out again.

“Where are you going now?” asked Hannah. “To the ‘Conservatory of Music’ on Broadway,” answered Mary, her lip quivering slightly. “It is the only way I know. O Hannah, Hannah, I want to be an organist.”

“And you shall be one; there is time enough. Learn all you can now, dear, and a way will be opened for you, I am sure.”

So Mary passed down into the street, with the ten dollars her father had given her pinned snugly in the belt of her dress, for her lessons were to be paid for in advance. On her way back, having made satisfactory arrangements at the Conservatory, she fell to thinking in great earnestness of how she should find a piano to practice on. She had tried at several piano establishments for an opportunity to practice there, but without success; and their room was so small at home, there was no use in trying to get one in there. What should she do? for do something she must; but her troubled brain could devise no means, so she wound up her speculations on the subject, as was her custom, with the encouraging thought, “Perhaps the girls can invent some plan,” and then she hurried home to find consolation and rest.

What a comfort and help these three sisters were to each other! Three busy minds were much better than one; and so unselfishly did each plan and work for the other that it would have been impossible to separate their interests. How to find a piano for Mary was now

 

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the main point of consideration; and at night, when Kate had come from Cooper’s, an earnest consultation was held, and many impracticable ways proposed and abandoned; but at last Kate, who had often been termed the inventor of the family, straightened herself from the leaning position she had been occupying, and exclaimed, —

“I have it, girls; and why I didn’t think of it before is a wonder. You see that niche in the corner there, don’t you, made by the chimney?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you haven’t seen an upright piano, but I have; and it’s my opinion that niche is just large enough for one. I am always peering into all the music stores I come to; and Saturday, when going up the Bowery, I saw an upright piano, but thought it a very odd thing, nor had an idea we should ever want it; but I can see no other way now, but to get such a one.”

“Why, what is it?” said Mary. “I don’t want some horrid, old-fashioned thing. I never can endure to touch it.”

“All you have got to do is to go and see it; and if you don’t like it, we must contrive some other way.”

And Mary did go to see it the next morning; and though she would have preferred one of greater magnitude, yet she found the tone tolerable, and the price five dollars per month; and after much whispering with Kate, and a reckoning over and over concerning the money, the piano was at last engaged and sent to their room. Trunks were piled together, to give space for it; and though there was hardly comfortable paths about the room, yet the girls declared the piano was a great improvement, and was sure to be a pleasure to

 

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them, as well as profit. And so the arduous labor of the winter commenced, only to increase as the days went by. Mary drilled at the upright piano all her spare moments. Hannah commenced her writing, and Kate worked from morning till night at her easel. Hannah, in spite of her endeavors to forget the circumstance, looked anxiously for a reply to the letter she had so imprudently written, though she never mentioned it to her sisters; and when the letter was at last put into her hands, she trembled, and, going back to her room, locked the door, and, sitting down at the table, broke the seal and glanced the first thing at the signature. As she did this, she drew a long sigh of relief, for it was a woman’s name, —Lisa Waterhouse, —and only a few words were written; but they were very significant.

 

“MISS WINDSOR, —I am delighted with your letter; would be happy to make your acquaintance. Call around at No. — Twelfth Street, some afternoon at four, and we will have a pleasant chat.

“Don’t be afraid. I am only a lone little widow, and shall expect you. Truly yours,

“LISA WATERHOUSE.”

 

To say that Hannah was pleased with this letter would hardly express the true state of her feelings. Having chosen authorship as her profession, she was ever on the lookout for characters and incidents; besides, she was naturally fond of adventure and of making new discoveries, and delighted in solving mysteries. Her quiet home teaching, liberal, yet pure, and full of caution, always warned her against rashness and impulse; but this once, in answering this letter, she had

 

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felt that she had not used caution; and when, after all her conjectures and fears, she found she had been writing only to a “little widow,” and the harmless individual had invited her to call on her, she was at the same time relieved of the anxiety she had felt, and delighted with her good luck, as she called it. However, she resolved to go no farther with the acquaintance until she had discussed the matter freely with the girls; and so, when all three sat at the table eating their supper of bread and cheese, the pretty little note was produced and read and commented on.

“And so the dear old gray-headed man of our imagination has proved to be only a little widow,” said Kate.

“Widows, I have heard, are artful,” said Mary; “but then it is folly to be afraid of them. There is one thing plain to be understood. Hannah will not be satisfied until she calls on the mysterious lady, and so there is no kind of policy in opposing the affair.”

“I want to act wisely in the matter, anyhow,” said Hannah; “and if you girls think it would be better to pay no more attention to it, I will give it up; but then the lady has done us a ‘good turn,’ and might be a good friend to us. For my part, I see no harm in calling, as she invited me.”

“I haven’t the least objection,” said Kate. “You might, by doing so, gain some new and valuable ideas. If a man, instead of a woman, I would say, ‘Let him alone entirely, and as soon as possible;’ for above all other things, let us avoid everything that has a tendency to bring the heart in danger of the darts of Cupid. That would be sure death to our plans. Don’t you know how they have talked at home? How many times they have said, ‘It’s all nonsense and

 

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time lost for those Windsor girls to study so much; they never’ll make any use of their learning, but will be married in a year or two, and forget all their high-flown education.’ It would be splendid to have gentlemen friends if only it wasn’t dangerous; and pray don’t let us run any risk.”

“As for me,” said Hannah, “my day is past; besides, I am neither pretty nor attractive, and therefore consider myself safe, and destined to use my education to earn my living for many years to come.”

“For my part,” said Mary, “I must confess that I think it nice and agreeable and pleasant to have a ‘beau;’ somebody to think you are prettier and better than anybody else, and give you rides and nice bows; and I’m afraid nothing but music, my glorious music, keeps me from being vain and silly, like so many girls who seem to live only to dress, and simper, and have beaux; for though I often long to have a great many pretty clothes and ornaments, yet I can willingly sacrifice them all for music.”

“Brave little sister!” said Hannah, hastily brushing a tear from her eye; “there is something in your heart besides your love of music, that makes you so persevering and determined; and nothing could ever make you vain and silly.”

“As for me,” said Kate, drawing a long breath, as though she had been deep in thought, “I never expect to marry. I am not of the marrying kind; besides, I believe there is nothing that will so enchain and bind and satisfy a person like the study of Art. Marrying is one of the easiest and commonest things in the world; and there will be enough of it done undoubtedly, if I remain single.”

“Which is to say that you don’t feel it a duty en-

 

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joined upon you to marry,” said Hannah; “but this talk is all moonshine, Kate; when the right one comes, you’ll not refuse him.”

“But I am so bold as to class myself among those who never find the right one. However, this is not to the point exactly. Maybe we shall all marry; but we are not ready yet.”

“And we don’t want to give Cupid any encouragement to come near us, especially while we are lodged in this little room, with the hopes of past years to weave into realities. All of our time is required for the advancement of our objects; and I hope none of us will be silly enough to disturb our stay here with even the hint of a love affair.”

“I think we are all agreed on that point,” said Mary; “and I hope the little widow will in some way be a help to us. Call on her to-morrow, won’t you, Hannah?”

“Perhaps that will be as good a time as any,” said Hannah, much pleased with the way the conversation had terminated.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Kate, as they all arose from the table, “that I saw Miss Brechandon tonight.”

“O did you? where? what did she say?” asked Hannah, all in a breath.

“Yes, I did,” said Kate, laughing, “down in the hall; and she said ‘Good evening.’“

“Is that all?”

“No; she condescended to ask me how I liked Beecher, and gave me this tract. She belongs to the Lutheran Church.”

“No wonder, then, she objects to Beecher,” said Hannah.

 

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“What do the Lutherans believe?” asked Mary. “I mean, how do they differ from Beecher?”

“Well, in a good many ways, I should think, though I don’t know much about their creed. For one thing, they believe in the total depravity of man’s nature.”

“It’s not strange, then, perhaps, that Miss Brechandon is so uncharitable toward Plymouth Church and the Catholics,” said Kate. “She looked tired, and I thought she looked friendless; so I gave her a tiny little bouquet that I bought of a blind woman for you.”

“I’m sure that was very kind and thoughtful of you, Kate, and shows that your nature at least isn’t wholly depraved,” said Hannah.

“You didn’t ask her about the pale young man, did you?” asked Mary.

“No, I didn’t ask her; but she told me, of her own accord, that he walked out alone to-day, and she seemed pleased with the fact. She appears to have a lively interest in him, in spite of his Catholic sentiments.”

“Did you get any idea of what’ she does, or who she is?” asked Mary.

“No, but I had a glance into her room, and it actually looked cozy. There was a white kitten curled up on the rug, just where a sunbeam lay; and the carpet was bright and pretty.”

“She has asked us to call on her, and why can’t we, some time?” said Mary.

“We can as well as not. She invited us again to-night.”

“What did she say to the flowers?” asked Hannah.

“She didn’t say much, but I know she was pleased with them. She is so odd, and seems so afraid of dis-

 

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playing an emotion, except on religion. I wish we knew something of her history, poor thing!”

“I don’t think she would relish that epithet applied to herself, though,” said Hannah.

“She is a poor thing enough, however, if she believes our natures are totally depraved,” said Mary, who had been busy thinking for some moments on this belief.

The girls laughed, and Mary soon commenced an uproarious march on the piano, which threatened to drown entirely the rumble in the street. It was nearly dark now, and so they lighted their little lamp; and after singing, “Do they pray for me at home?” they gathered around the little table, and while Kate mended her gloves, and Mary darned her stockings, Hannah read from a well-worn volume of Tennyson, which they had brought from home, and the evening passed pleasantly.

 

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CHAPTER IX.

THE LONE LITTLE WIDOW.

 

THE house was one of the finest and pleasantest on Twelfth Street, and was shaded by an old sycamore tree. I mean the house where the “lone little widow” had rooms, and spent many listless, idle moments. Her parlor was a delightful little place of ease, elegance, and comfort; and here she lounged away many hours which might as well never have come to her, for all the good she derived from them.

Hannah trembled with excitement, when, at four o’clock the next day, she rung the bell, and stood waiting to be presented to the fashionable little widow. She had dressed herself with unusual care, and in her very best; but the house was grand, and she felt of her hair, and the bow at her throat, and glanced down at her plain gray poplin with some anxiety. The door opened.

Was Mrs. Waterhouse at home? she inquired of the servant; and would she tell her that Hannah Windsor had called?

In a few moments she found herself following the servant up a wide and elegant stairway; and every step she advanced, her heart beat faster, until it seemed to flutter in her bosom. Her cool and well-defined thoughts of an hour before had vanished; and her mind was in a state of confusion.

 

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Mrs. Waterhouse was half reclining in an easy-chair by the window; and when Hannah entered the rooms she arose, shook her hand cordially, saying, “This is my unknown correspondent; be seated, Miss Windsor; I am glad to meet you.” She said this with the air of one who knew no such thing as embarrassment or confusion of ideas. Hannah, who had hardly spoken, sat down; and Mrs. Waterhouse, sitting opposite, scrutinized her from head to foot.

“I am very glad,” stammered Hannah, “to be able to thank you in person for your kind advice to my sister.”

The lady laughed merrily.

“You are welcome to the advice,” she said; “but I am not the one to thank for it, after all.”

Hannah’s face grew red.

“Then you are not the lady who answered my sister’s advertisement?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly. You are disappointed and shocked, Miss Windsor, I see it in your face; but it’s no trick, I assure you; and you might not have received the advice, but for me.”

Mrs. Waterhouse was intently looking at Hannah as she said this. She herself was disappointed; for she had expected to see a pale little face, and tender blue eyes with a beseeching look in them, and a scanty wardrobe that told of poverty; but instead, she beheld a very ordinary being, with nothing about her costume that spoke of interesting poverty, with features that spoke of character and decision rather than fascination and beauty.

“To whom, then, am I indebted?” asked Hannah with a touch of sarcasm in her tone. Mrs. Waterhouse laughed again.

 

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“I’ll tell you the whole story,” she said; “I have got an uncle who is the oddest and most wonderful man in the world. He is as full of eccentricities as my pincushion is of pins. He is as dear a soul as ever lived, and as good as a saint, which is saying too much of a mortal, for saints belong in heaven only. Well, this uncle of mine is always inventing ways to benefit people, and makes himself a martyr to filthy and poverty-stricken objects in the streets. He comes in to see me often, and generally reads his morning paper at my window; and is always saying, ‘Liza, can’t you find something to do that will benefit yourself and somebody else?’ but dear me, what could I do? He seldom fails to look over the advertising sheet of the ‘Herald,’ and sometimes answers an advertisement as in your case.”

“If he, then, gave us the advice, why did you answer my letter?” asked Hannah, her eyes growing brighter, and her embarrassment vanishing away.

“I haven’t quite finished my story,” said Mrs. Waterhouse, laughing. “One morning he came in, sat down at the window, and began reading as usual. Suddenly he looked up as if struck with a new idea. ‘Liza,’ he said, ‘here is an advertisement that I am impressed will never do any good; it is too common-place. Some one must have written it who is wholly inexperienced, and needs some advice; but I want to do it in your name.’ I asked him why. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘ I think that would be a better way. If the person happens to be a young lady, I will have nothing to do with assisting her.’ I was willing, for I thought it might give me some amusement; so he wrote the letter with the understanding that if there was a reply, I should receive and answer it, or not, as

 

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I liked. There was one; I liked it, and answered it; so here you are, and I am glad to see you, and would be glad to know how your sister is progressing.”

Hannah, as she listened to this explanation made in the easy, pleasant way of the widow, gradually gained her composure; and when the story was finished, was ready to converse with as much ease as her hostess.

She gave a little account of her sister’s experience in advertising, in a way so attractive that the little widow found herself greatly entertained, and the plain gray poplin that Hannah wore, she was soon convinced, fitted her admirably; and her disappointment concerning the tender blue eyes and pale face vanished.

“What an interesting circumstance!” said Mrs. Waterhouse, after Hannah had told her of her two sisters and their occupations. “How very strange! you write for papers, one sister is an artist, and one teaches music. This is as good as a story; and you all live together. Why don’t you get married like other girls? I was married before I was twenty.”

“And you are younger than I am now,” said Hannah. “I can’t tell why we don’t get married, but I think our minds run in another direction.”

“Dear me, it is so odd, I must tell uncle about it. He thinks women generally are such silly creatures, and care for nothing but marrying well; but I tell him they are just what they are made to be, and the men ought to be satisfied. But uncle, you see, is an exception; for I don’t know a man in the world besides him who likes women to be anything but pretty creatures, dressed in good taste, and ready to entertain them with light talk, for they don’t like depth in women; but then uncle, as I said, is an exception.”

“It is a new idea to me,” said Hannah, “ that men

 

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like shallowness in women, —true men I mean, who are not shallow themselves; but then you probably know more about it than I, for I have only a few gentlemen friends, and they are not fashionable ones.”

“What a rarity you are!” said Mrs. Waterhouse, “and your sisters must be worth seeing. Do you really like to be so odd and so seclusive?”

“If you call it odd to earn our living, and to study for future usefulness, we like it; for we could never endure idleness without an aim in life.”

“Why, all girls have an aim in life, of course; but yours is so different, so much like men’s aims. I always had an aim, which was to make myself as attractive as possible, and marry well; and it seems strange that women should have any other aim.”

“Perhaps,” said Hannah, “if you had possessed no beauty or attractions, you would have turned your attention in another direction.”

“Where is the woman who thinks she possesses neither?” laughed Mrs. Waterhouse. “Dress, you know, has much to do with looks and appearance. Now, for instance, suppose you were dressed in an elegant black silk (black, I am sure, would be more becoming to you than anything else) with a long train, trimmed elaborately with black lace; and suppose your hair was frizzed and combed in a becoming manner; and suppose, besides, your chief aim was to make yourself attractive and agreeable: don’t you think you could succeed to a considerable extent?”

Hannah thought a moment.

“I am sure I shouldn’t know what to do,” she said. “I neither dance, nor play, nor flirt.”

“But you could very easily learn to do the first and last.”

 

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“But I am not rich, and poor people cannot afford such attractions; besides, if I possessed them to their fullest extent, they would do me no service, if I had no money.”

“I suppose you are right; and that working women can marry working men, and be happy.”

“And rich women, with all the advantages of life, must leave all the good things for the poor ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, if women of wealth only try to be attractive by dressing well, and dancing, and flirting, and the poor women gain the true knowledge and expand their minds, they get the cream, and their sisters the skimmed milk.”

“Pooh! that’s where we differ. They only get the roughest and hardest part of life; while we get the luxury, ease, and comfort, and the petting and loving too.”

“Well, I had rather work than be idle, and would give more for a well-stored mind than a well-filled purse.”

“You haven’t tried the latter, perhaps.”

“No, but I can see what it gives to people, and yet I prefer knowledge.”

“One of the notions that goes with poverty.”

“If you had said blessings, instead of notions, I would have heartily acquiesced.”

The conversation was getting too deep for the little widow; but her interest in Hannah and her sisters was increasing.

“Three sisters with such different tastes are so interesting. How delighted my uncle would be with you! only he doesn’t like the young ladies at all, and he might not speak a word to you; but I am sure,

 

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when I tell him, he will be pleased, though incredulous; he will think you are either ugly or designing.”

“Why?”

“Just because he is odd, I suppose; because he thinks all women vain and eager to marry.”

“Has he got a wife?”

“Mercy! no, I hope not; he is a bachelor; but one would think he had lived a hundred years, to hear him talk.”

“Don’t tell him about us, please, Mrs. Waterhouse, if he will think so ill of us. We are only trying to learn something that we may be independent, and we do not boast of anything. Tell him, please, that we thank him for writing; but don’t say anything farther concerning us.”

“O, I couldn’t promise that. I must tell him; he may have faith in you; and it’s only fair that he should know something concerning you.”

“Well, do just as you think best, Mrs. Waterhouse. We can only hope for his belief in us; but whether he thinks us ugly or designing, we shall only work on the same. I suppose it will not affect our energies or ambition.”

“Of course not; uncle is a saint, but so full of eccentricities and strange notions.”

The conversation was kept up for more than an hour, and Hannah at last arose to go.

“I am glad to have made your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Waterhouse, “and I am anxious that you and your sisters should call on me. Promise that when I send you an invitation, you will come.”

“I can only promise that we will if convenient.”

“That will do, then; call at four, Miss Windsor, whenever you will; I shall always be glad to see you.

 

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I get so tired of everything sometimes, that something rare does me good.”

“I would invite you to return my call,” said Hannah, blushing, “if we were situated to receive callers. You would hardly care to come to our little room, I am sure.”

“Then you shall return your own calls, and I will be satisfied.”

Kate and Mary were both at home when Hannah returned, eager to hear of her interview with the little widow.

“How did she look?” asked Mary; “did you like her?”

 “She is a perfect little beauty, I think,” answered Hannah; “but I don’t know whether I liked her or not.”

“That is unsatisfactory,” said Kate. “What kind of a house does she live in?”

“Elegant, just on the corner, with a great sycamore tree in front, and her parlor is so inviting.”

“What did she say to you?” asked Mary.

“Well, girls, to tell the plain truth, she isn’t at all what I supposed, and I was greatly disappointed. She didn’t even write the answer to the advertisement.”

“Didn’t? who did, then?” exclaimed both in a breath.

“Her uncle, a strange man, who has an antipathy toward young ladies, and believes all women are silly and eager to get married.”

“Ignoramus!” said Kate, indignantly; “if he is so silly as that, why did he answer Mary’s advertisement?”

“O, well, the little widow says he is a saint on

 

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earth, and helps the poor, but has no faith in women as regards mind and intelligence.”

“Which belief is no credit to his understanding,” said Kate.

“So I thought, and had half a mind to tell her so; but she thinks women were made to be frivolous, or pretty creatures, as she said, and thought I was such a rarity.”

The girls laughed.

“Did you present her with any of your rare thoughts?” asked Kate.

“I suppose she thought your dress exceedingly plain,” said Mary.

“O yes, I suppose so. She, looked at it sharply; but she is a bewitching little thing, not quite as old as I am, and looks so well in black.”

“But tell us, do, before you go any farther, why the man wrote the answer to the advertisement, and the little widow answered the letter you wrote,” said Kate.

“O that was a plan between them. The whole was done in Mrs. Waterhouse’s name, because her uncle wanted nothing to do with young ladies. If I had known the whole circumstance, arid understood the little widow as I do now, I hardly think I would have called.”

“Why not?” asked Mary.

“Well, you see she is merely a fashionable woman, and her acquaintance, I am inclined to think, will do us no good.”

“It may, though; I would like to see her,” said Mary.

“So she would like to see you and Kate, and is to send an invitation for all of us to come and see her some time.”

 

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“That is good news, and I want to go; don’t you, Kate?”

“Yes, I do. I think we needn’t be afraid of a silly, fashionable woman’s harming us. She will make us all the stronger of course, when her folly is so apparent.”

“Do you know, girls, I half hoped she was a literary woman? but only think how far she is from it. Every one seems to think it so strange that we should all choose occupations so different, and I don’t know but it is rather rare; but how nice it is! Letters, painting, and music. Our choice shows that we at least had decided tastes, and that is in our favor in regard to success. I shall be glad when my manuscript is read, and I know its fate. How it worries me!”

“They will undoubtedly pay you something for it,” ;aid Kate. “What have you written to-day?”

“A story, —a wild, startling romance; how I despise such things!”

A decided rap on the door just then hushed their conversation.

Miss Brechandon entered.

“Good evening,” she said, glancing quickly at the upright piano in the niche. “I thought I heard music in this room; I was sure of it; but I couldn’t imagine what it came from. Who plays?”

“I do,” said Mary promptly.

“Not for amusement, I’m thinking?”

“O, no, ma’am; I am a music teacher.”

“Oho, indeed, are you? Just what I suspected. I most generally get anything right, and that is what I told them. Poor David is so crazy over music; and he was so anxious to know if there was a piano in this room.”

 

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“And who is poor David?” asked Hannah.

“Why, the young man who has a room just under here; the Roman Catholic who has lost his health.”

“There, I knew he must love the beautiful,” said Mary eagerly. “Does he play himself?”

“Play himself! well, yes, I rather think that he does: not the piano, though, but the organ, in one of the great Roman Catholic churches.”

“O does he indeed?” exclaimed Mary delightedly.

“Yes, he does,” answered Miss Brechandon sharply, “and what is that to go into ecstasies over? I’m sure it’s more a thing to make one weep; and I’ve told him so enough.”

“His playing in a Catholic church isn’t what pleases me, but to learn that he is an organist surprised me so. I hadn’t thought of such a thing,” said Mary.

“He doesn’t play, now he is so feeble, of course?” said Hannah.

“Yes, he does; and I tell him I do believe he would play if he was dying; and he said, if you will believe it, that he was sure nothing would give him greater pleasure if he was strong enough. O, it’s a terrible thing that he can’t see the true way, —that he can’t be born into the true church.”

“Miss Brechandon, what is the true church?” asked Kate.

“It isn’t the Roman Catholic,” said Miss Brechandon sharply.

“But the Catholics think so,” said Hannah.

“Yes, and the Mormons think theirs is, but we know it isn’t.”

“Well, but what is?”

“An idle question, miss. Do you suppose I

 

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would belong to a church I didn’t believe the true one?”

“Then the true church, you think, is the Lutheran, of course,” said Hannah.

“Well, of course I do; and the reason you don’t is because you know nothing about it. But I am in a hurry; I have an errand out, but will come back in a few moments if you have no objections; and if you,” pointing at Mary, “will play a tune for me, I will be greatly obliged.”

“Certainly, I will be glad to do so,” said Mary; and Miss Brechandon walked out, but soon returned. She seemed somewhat anxious and disturbed, yet in good spirits. “Now play your very best,” she said; “I am a pretty good judge of music: please play what you consider your best piece.” Mary was silent a moment, but finally commenced an elaborate piece, full of variations and melody. And she played as if really inspired, while Miss Brechandon looked on, astonished and charmed. She finished, and, rising from the stool suddenly, ran to the door, saying, “How warm! I must open this door ;” and in spite of Miss Brechandon’s terrified scream, “O, don’t, don’t, it’s plenty cool, play on, do,” she threw the door open, and then started back; for she stood face to face with the pale young man she had met already several times. There was confusion for a moment. Miss Brechandon wrung her hands, not from anguish, but from nervous excitement; and the young man took several steps backward, and tried to stammer out an excuse. Finally Miss Brechandon regained her composure sufficiently to make an explanation.

“It is all my fault,” she said. “Don’t blame the young man; he doubted the propriety of coming up,

 

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but I assured him there was no harm in it; and he is so bewitched to hear music; and I knew Miss Mary was a good player by the looks of her eyes and her fingers; and so I begged him to come up and listen while she played; and he did so; and what is the harm?”

“If the door hadn’t been opened so suddenly, no one would have been the wiser,” said the young man; “but I beg your pardon for playing eavesdropper, and will promise to listen no more without your permission; but I cannot be sorry I came up and heard the music, for I can assure you it was worth hearing.” He bowed to Mary, and smiled.

“Thank you,” said Mary, pleasantly. “I am glad you listened, if it gave you any pleasure.”

“I might as well introduce you now,” said Miss Brechandon, “and undoubtedly you will be good friends. Young ladies, this is Mr. David De Witt; Mr. De Witt, these are the Misses Windsor;” and the young man bowed politely in the dusky hall; and the girls bowed, standing in the door; and this was their introduction. He only said “Good night” after this, and went away.

“I never set my eyes on that boy,” said Miss Brechandon, after he had gone, “without sighing for his soul. To think he should confess his sins to a priest! It is enough to distract one, I say.”

“Miss Brechandon,” said Hannah, “how shall I know what the true church is? There are so many, it would take me a life-time to study the creeds of them all. Mr. Beecher says one thing, you another, and Mr. De Witt another. All of you are good people; and which of you shall I believe?”

Miss Brechandon was silent a moment, as if con-

 

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sidering what to advise; then she said, “Is your soul in a state of inquiry? If so, I will send you in a little book which I think will help you to become converted.”

“I have no objection to books, Miss Brechandon; but somehow I have no idea that such a book as you name will do me any good. I do not feel rebellious; I am not suffering from any fears; for whatever else comes, I cling in faith to the kind Father who created us. The time of doubts and fears has passed away with me, concerning the will of God; and I only think now of churches and creeds, and would like to know something of theology, that I may be prepared to help those who are troubled about these matters.”

Miss Brechandon stared at the speaker as if stricken with wonder.

“What?” she said, “a girl like you talking of the study of theology! that is a thing that doesn’t concern us, but ministers of the gospel. Come out from the world, and confess Christ, joining yourself with the church of God; that is the only way you can be saved.”

“What is confessing Christ, Miss Brechandon?” asked Kate, who had been listening attentively.

“Can it be possible that you are so ignorant as not to know? A pitiable state you are in, indeed,” said Miss Brechandon.

“It seems to me,” said Hannah, “that the only true way to confess that we love and work for Christ, to show to the world that we are Christians, is to follow his example; for we cannot be his followers without imitating his good works and meek and gentle spirit.”

“The infidel boasts of his good works, Miss Windsor; but where is he?”

 

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“But the infidel possesses not the spirit of Christ; he is self-sufficient; he boasts of his own strength, and a person of that kind cannot be a follower of Jesus Christ.”

“You are a strange girl,” said Miss Brechandon. “Have you instituted a religion of your own?”

“O no, no; I believe in no religion but the religion of Christ; and the greatest thing I am at a loss about is, whether it is a duty to be a church-member, and if so, what church should I unite with?”

Miss Brechandon seemed ill at ease, and looked at Hannah as though she had found a wonder.

“You must be somehow wrong,” she said, “and I advise you to pray earnestly and constantly to understand what is right.”

“So I do, my dear Miss Brechandon; for earnest and pure desire is prayer always, I am ,inclined to think, and I am sure I am always anxious to learn the truth.”

“The heart is so prone to evil,” said Miss Brechandon, “and unless ye be born again, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

“After all,” said Hannah, “there is no way but to hope, and learn, and wait; and while I do so, I will not be afraid, for though—

 

‘I know not where his islands lift

Their fronded palms in air;

I only know I cannot drift

Beyond his love and care.’”

 

Miss Brechandon looked anxious and uneasy. Hannah’s words influenced her strangely, and made her feel, though vaguely, somewhat ashamed of her stiff doctrine, for which she had found herself so incapable of giving a reason. Hannah and her sisters seemed so

 

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charitable to all, and so kind and loving to each other, and then there was so much faith there, that in spite of herself Miss Brechandon was drawn toward them, and fascinated by their fresh manners and pure hearts.

“Good night,” she said abruptly, and was gone.

“How wise Hannah is!” said Mary.

“How weak I am!” said Hannah.

“But, girlies, we are all strong in love,” said Kate; and they embraced each other tenderly.

 

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CHAPTER X.

DARK CLOUDS.

 

“O HANNAH! is that true?”

“Yes, dearies, it is true, and I am for once discouraged;” and brave-hearted Hannah sank into a chair, and, dropping her face in her hands, burst into tears.

“How could it be so?” asked Mary, kneeling at Hannah’s side. “You felt so sure it would be accepted, and so did we all. I hardly thought of such a disappointment.”

“What objections did they have to it?” asked Kate, leaning on the back of Hannah’s chair.

“I hardly know. I can’t think. I was so surprised when he gave me back the manuscript. I suppose I haven’t enough ability to write a good story. I can find no other excuse,” returned Hannah, raising her head, and wiping her tearful eyes. “I thought as I came home through the street that the better way for me was to stop this foolish scribbling, and go to work by the week, and earn a decent living, and be content, like a thousand other girls.”

The sisters had now been in the city more than a month, and the money they had taken from home was wholly exhausted. Kate had become so absorbed in her work that so long as a penny lasted, she would sit at her easel from morning till night; and though her improvement was rapid, and praise from her teacher

 

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frequent, yet her means were passing away; and often as she lay on her little bed, she tossed her arms, and thought far into the night, trying to devise some means to earn a few more dollars.

Mary had continued to give lessons to her four scholars while she took her own at the Conservatory, and practiced all her spare moments on the upright piano.

The little boy, Neil Blossom, had gained both her pity and affection; and to no place did she go with more cheerfulness or pleasure than into that little bare room, so suggestive of poverty, where the pale mother sat always at the window, sewing steadily, as though her life depended on her industry; and so it did.

Poor woman! like how many other mothers she was giving away her strength and life for the benefit of her child! but the brightening of her pale face, and the smile that came to her thin lips, as the boy played, as only the inspired can, showed that she was well repaid for all her labor; and so Mary found it both a joy and benefit to teach the crippled boy, where she had expected only anxiety and pity. Hannah had been wholly unsuccessful in trying to dispose of her manuscript. The sketches, and story of several chapters, which she had left with a publisher on Fulton Street, had not been accepted. With what strange emotions, that Saturday afternoon, she had climbed the dirty stairs! and how her heart had fluttered, as she inquired, with an effort, if the manuscript was read!

Yes, it was read, the man told her; but they had concluded not to purchase, as it was hardly adapted to their columns. Too much description and moralizing, and too little plot. It was well written, he said, and it was probable that with some effort she might do well; he had noticed the disappointment that crept into her face.

 

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Perhaps, he said, she could succeed in writing a serial; they were in want of one. It must contain eighteen or twenty chapters of ordinary length, and be of such a character as to absorb the reader, and make him always anxious for the next number. They bought very few sketches, except from their regular contributors, unless they were uncommonly interesting.

Hannah caught at the idea of writing a serial. She would suit, she thought, she must succeed when so determined; and so she told him she wished to try, and asked how soon he wished to use it. In a fortnight, he said, and gave her a few hints concerning the style. Hannah had gone home with the rejected manuscript in her hand, but a hope in her heart that in two weeks she might receive thirty dollars, —the price offered for the serial, if it suited. Kate should have her paints then, she thought, and not be obliged to go to work for a living, but could continue to work at her easel. The girls had listened eagerly to her plans, and had entire faith in her success. How nice it would be! they said; and undoubtedly she could write more after that was finished, and at that price would soon make her fortune. Thirty dollars in two weeks! More than they had dreamed of; and with this money they could all get well started, and very soon they could earn enough to pay her; for they should pay her every cent. She would suit the publisher any way, Hannah said, she was determined; and she had already thought of an excellent plot, and she could find plenty of incident by going into the streets. As for those sketches, she said, it was not at all strange that he refused them, for they were rather tame, now she thought of it; though before, she had thought them

 

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startling in the extreme. Kate, she said, must continue to work at Cooper’s, and learn as fast as she could, and she should be sure to get the thirty dollars and more to do after it; so there was nothing to fear. Long they had talked that night, and planned, lying in their little white beds; and had at last fallen asleep with their hearts full of hope and ambition. The next morning, Hannah had arisen an hour earlier than usual; and while Kate and Mary were fast asleep, she commenced the first chapter of the forthcoming story, and by the time her sisters had awakened, had nearly finished it. Her face was flushed, and her pen flew along rapidly, but not rapidly enough to keep pace with the thoughts that were flooding her brain.

“Why, Hannah!” Kate had said, rubbing her eyes; and Mary had repeated the words, springing from her pillow, and throwing from her face the wealth of brown hair. O what a day of hope that was! and how Hannah wrote and wrote, only growing weary at night, and then going out into the streets to freshen her thoughts and invigorate her mind How the girls gathered around the little table every night to listen to what had been written during the day, and how they laughed and cried over it, and declared it intensely interesting, certain it would be accepted; how could it be otherwise?

And so the two weeks had passed away; and the story was finished. During the time even the little widow had been forgotten and neglected; and the invitation she had promised them, had not been received from her; but even if it had, it would have been refused, for no visiting was on that two weeks’ programme.

Miss Brechandon, too, had received very little of

 

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Hannah’s attention, though her sisters had been twice to her room, where they met the pale young man, and found him, they said, such a gentleman, and so pleasant and agreeable, and Miss Brechandon so odd, but so very kind in her own way.

And when the story was really finished, and the manuscript lay in a heap, so neat and plain, on the table, what a time of rejoicing it was! Hannah’s flushed cheeks were kissed a half-dozen times by her enthusiastic sisters; and when she wrapped it snugly in a paper, and took it under her shawl, she could really hear her heart beat; and the girls somehow felt a sensation they had never felt before; and Kate, almost before she was aware, exclaimed, “O Hannah, what if it should be rejected!” and Mary had replied, “But it won’t be, for it is so beautiful;” and Hannah had gone on her way to Fulton Street; and her success is explained in the conversation with which this chapter opens. The very next day they had read it, and rejected it.

“Yes,” continued Hannah, “I half concluded, while coming home, that I would give up writing; for it is evident I have no ability or tact; for only think how steadily and hard I have worked for two weeks, and all to no purpose. I’d better have been at work in a factory.”

“O dear, it is such a disappointment,” said Kate; “but do tell us why it was rejected.”

“The same old story, —not startling enough; and I’m sure I couldn’t make anything any more so; but they had just received one they liked better.”

“There, that’s why they rejected yours, I know; and the rejection don’t prove that you have no ability.”

 

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“And I have got a bit of good news, after all,” said Kate.

“Good news! What is it? though I’m sure nothing can raise my spirits now.”

“Well, I have got some work to do. Look here!” and Kate displayed heaps of black silk cord in a paper bag. “I am to make these into cloak trimmings like this sample. It is quite easy; and I shall have eighteen cents per dozen.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Miss Brechandon told me of the place, though she didn’t know I wanted work. She was telling Mary and me a story of a poor work-girl who had formerly made these trimmings, but was now sick. I inquired the number and street where the work was to be obtained, and I do not think she had an idea I wanted work; and then I went there almost immediately, and got all this cord; so there is no danger of starving.”

“Is there enough for me?” asked Hannah.

“O yes; but you’ll not give up writing.”

“I must, for the present at least, because I cannot sell my manuscript; and I can’t work for nothing. I have only a dollar in my pocket, and that will last only a short time.”

“What will you do with your story?” asked Mary. “Won’t somebody buy it?”

“It will be, some time before I can get courage to offer it to any one else; and I am so ashamed of myself, too, for allowing the publisher to see my great disappointment. I hardly stayed a moment, fearing I should burst into tears. I might have known it was at least doubtful about its being accepted; but I felt so very sure. I shall never again have confidence in anything I write.”

 

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“Can it be possible that Mary and I are no judges at all? We were so deeply interested.”

“Probably because of your interest in me. If you had read it without any knowledge of the author, you would have thought it probably a failure.”

“No, no, we shouldn’t, I am sure,” said Mary. “It would have interested me wherever I had read it. Little Jim, only think what a comical character he was! and that old darkey, and the poor, little sick girl. I’m sure the man had no taste or judgment who refused it.”

“It is probable that ours are inferior to his; for he has had more experience, and is less prejudiced, than we,” said Hannah.

“Well, allowing all this,” spoke up Kate, with flashing eyes, “I am sure of one thing, and that is this. Your story is infinitely better than many I have read; and it must be there is somebody in the city who would buy it.”

“But if my courage rises on no higher key than it is now, I can never offer it to another publisher; and I shall work on this trimming. I am so glad you got it, Kate. It is well we made the acquaintance of Miss Brechandon. She has such a good heart, and her religion is only false teaching; her heart is full of charity. Only think how kind she is to Mr. De Witt.”

“She is greatly attached to him,” said Mary. “You see, when he was very sick a few weeks ago, she stayed with him a great deal, for his mother is an old woman and feeble; and in this way she became acquainted and attached to him, in spite of his being a Catholic.”

 “Well, I must go to work immediately,”‘ said Han-

 

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nah, rising and throwing aside her hat and shawl. “I have no time to waste; please give me a little information about this work, Kate. Perhaps I can make a dozen to-night.”

“O no, you can’t possibly,” said Kate, “because it is new work; but you can learn; and I am going to work too immediately;” and so they gathered around the table, the inseparable three, and all sewed in the dim lamp-light.

“Now,” said Kate, while they sewed, “ let us forget all about the manuscript to-night, and I will tell you a plan of mine. You see I have been thinking if I could only get five dollars, I would buy me some water-colors, and learn to color photographs. They say it is excellent business; and there is a girl at the Institute who says she will show me how to mix the paints; and I’m sure I could learn the rest myself, if I had a sample.”

“Who would you color them for?” asked Mary.

“Why, just go around to the galleries, and get work; and I have been thinking besides, girls, that I must have some oil paints and brushes, and they will cost me twelve dollars sure. How hard it is to do anything!”

“Everything would have been right, if I had only written a good story. O girls, why did I fail when so confident and determined?”

“It is probably all for the best,” said Kate; “we can’t expect to sail in clear waters always; and if I could only get my paints now, I am sure I could do something.”

“Well, let us work for them,” said Hannah. “I will work too,” said Mary, “and we can soon earn five dollars.”

 

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So the girls worked as fast as their fingers would fly; but the cord was stiff, and they did not accomplish so much as they had anticipated. Yet they tried to be cheerful and hopeful, and the days went by. But there was the rent to pay, and then washer- woman and the baker; and they began to despair of ever getting the five dollars together; but a bit of good luck was in store for them.

One morning Kate started, as usual, for Cooper’s, and left Hannah busily sewing, and Mary at the piano. She had not been gone long before her step was heard in the hall, which was a sure sign that she had brought a letter.

“From mother, girls! from mother!” said she, bursting into the room, and flourishing a yellow envelope; and then tearing it open, lo and behold, a green-back, soiled but genuine, fluttered out and fell directly on Hannah’s lap.

“Five dollars!” exclaimed Hannah, picking it up. Five dollars! just what you need, Kate; read the letter now, don’t wait;” and Kate read the letter; and as usual, all brushed tears from their eyes, which left them bright as stars.

“We send you five dollars,” the letter said; “you will undoubtedly need it; and we will try to send you some more soon.”

“Will it be right,” said Kate, “to take it for myself?”

“Right? exclaimed Hannah and Mary in a breath. “Of course; we don’t need it,”

“But, girls, I have changed my mind about the water-colors. It is time I commenced to paint in oil; and shall I take this money to start with?”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” said Hannah.

 

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And soon Kate commenced painting in oil; and this was her forte. A new world opened to her; and the inexpressible joy of the artist began to swell in her bosom. Her teacher looked on surprised, and told her he never saw one who had a better eye for color; but the lack of means held her back, and she could only paint a few hours in a day. How reluctantly she would leave her easel and pallet! and how she became more and more absorbed in her work, until poverty was forgotten, although it stared at her persistently, while often one dry cracker served for her supper! Hannah sat at the little table arid sewed from morning till night; for she dared not spend her time to write again with no promise of success. A few dollars came to her now and then from a publisher who at times published a sketch for her; but it was only as a drop in the bucket. Ah! these were trying days; but the three sisters determined to succeed, comforted each other, and worked on. Early and late they worked, their interests all in common, helping and cheering and blessing each other. Their letters to their friends at home betrayed not the trials they were obliged to endure; and none knew but themselves how hard they labored, and how indomitably they persevered. As a natural and unavoidable consequence, their wardrobes began to grow shabby; their boots, from so much tramping in the streets, lost their pretty, stiff, and genteel look, which was most mortifying to their sense of, taste and elegance. Their gloves became soiled and worn; and often they lay down upon their little beds, and looked off at the stars hungry and disheartened. A few dollars came from home sometimes, but there was always a use for such receipts in another direction than food or clothes. Their improvement

 

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could not be rapid, they had so little time for practice. As for Hannah, she continued to sew as if for dear life, and was only happy in assisting her sisters. Kate at last obtained the water-colors she so much longed for, and made a trial of coloring photographs. She had received some instruction from a friend; and with high hopes after a little practice, and the praise of her enthusiastic sisters, she went out to look for work in the picture galleries. Along the Bowery she took her way; and owing to her lack of confidence in herself, she selected the most insignificant gallery she could find, and, entering, made known her errand. O yes, the artist said, he had work enough, and would be glad to engage her; but then of course he must see some of her work. So he gave her several pictures to color as specimens. Flushed and happy, she almost ran down the stairs and through the streets, until she arrived home.

Hannah stopped her sewing, and Mary her playing, when Kate came into the room, and exclaimed, “I’m going to work immediately; for I can get plenty of work if only I can color these photographs to please the artist;” and before the girls had time to answer, she had taken her place by the window, with her paints before her, and there she worked and worked, her courage failing, instead of increasing, with every touch of her brush; but she was determined to do her best, however poorly that might be; and she told none of her misgivings to her sisters, who waited anxiously for the pictures to be finished.

When they were done, the girls scrutinized them with some misgivings.

“The fact is,” said Hannah, after she had gazed in silence a long time, “you can’t expect to paint as well

 

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as those who have received instructions, and had much practice.”

Kate laughed constrainedly.

“Which is as much as to say the coloring isn’t good.”

“Why, no, maybe they will like them, Kate; I am no judge; but it does seem that they are rather highly colored.”

“I don’t believe they are,” said Mary. “Anyhow, don’t be afraid to take them home.”

So Kate wrapped them up carefully, and with faltering steps sought the gallery where she had received them. The artist received her kindly; but when he saw the photographs, which were really colored wretchedly, he told the anxious young girl politely that she might do very well undoubtedly with practice, but those were hardly up to the mark, at least not just what he wished; and, blushing deeply, Kate went away; and her face was still rosy red when she entered the room again, where Hannah and Mary were anxiously awaiting her return. The affair seemed just at that moment to strike them as ludicrous; and so they all burst out into laughter, and Kate said, —

“We might as well laugh as cry. I wasn’t very much disappointed that he refused to give me any more work. I was in reality sure they were not done good; but I must confess I felt ashamed to have him look at the pictures, and my face felt like fire.”

“So that plan has played out?” said Mary, still laughing.

“No, indeed,” said Kate. “I’ll show you yet that I can color a photograph that none of us need be ashamed of.”

“We might have known,” said Hannah, “that you

 

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could do nothing with no instruction and no practice. I do believe we are a parcel of ninnies.”

“I believe so too, and I’ll just go to work again on that trimming, and wait till I learn a little more, before I beg any more photographs to color.”

“There is Miss Brechandon’s step,” said Hannah. I wonder what errand she has now.”

“A letter for Miss Windsor, said Miss Brechandon, standing in the door-way, “and a note for Miss Mary,” flinging two letters on the table, and vanishing as suddenly as she had entered.

“From the little widow,” said Hannah, opening hers.

“And mine, —why, girls!” and Mary stopped, and looked confused.

“What is it? no bad news, I hope,” said Kate.

“Why, it is really from David De Witt; and what can he want, and how beautifully he writes! O girls! I see what it is, —an invitation to St. Stephen’s Church to-morrow, to hear the organ. Girls, girls, shall I go with him? I never went to a Catholic church in my life; and St. Stephen’s is such a grand one, they say.”

The letter was passed from one to the other, and read silently.

“O no, there’s no use, after all; I’ve nothing decent to wear,” said Mary after a moment; “and what excuse can I give?”

“Would you really stay at home for that reason?” asked Hannah earnestly.

“Why, wouldn’t you? only think of my boots and gloves.”

“That reminds me of my new discovery,” said Kate. “This morning, while you two were out, I looked down at my boots, and was actually discouraged,

 

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they were rubbed so, and looked so shabby; so I caught the first thing of a liquid nature near me, which happened to be my bottle of mucilage, and rubbed some on the toe of one of my boots, and you would have been surprised at the improvement it made. So, Mary, there’s a remedy for your boots.”

“The fact is,” said Hannah, “we might go alone to St. Stephen’s, just as well, and then no one would recognize us, or perhaps think of our dress; but to go with Mr. De Witt is quite another thing. I am almost sorry, girls, that we have made any acquaintances; but then we ought to be glad to find friends at all times, and Mr. De Witt doesn’t dress so elegantly as some.”

“But wouldn’t it look strange to go off with a Roman Catholic? What would the people at home say?”

“They will never know it. What would they say if they knew how we sew on that trimming, and live in this little room and on a crust of bread, —we who were thought almost haughty at home? I would like to go with Mr. De Witt, he is so appreciative of music; and then I like him somehow; he is very agreeable.”

“So I think, and what is the harm?” said Kate. “You and I, Hannah, can go to Dr. Chapin’s, as we intended; and there will be something new to talk about, if Mary goes to St. Stephen’s.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s no harm in it; so let us see what the little widow writes this time. Another invitation, as sure as the world! What are we coming to, girls? we, poor creatures, who can hardly get enough to eat, invited to a ball!”

“A ball!” shrieked Kate. “A ball! Hannah, are we crazy, or is the little widow losing her reason?”

 

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“A real ball!” exclaimed Mary. “We invited to a real ball? No, you are joking. How we would look at a ball? Gray poplins, nearly worn thread-bare, boots plastered over with mucilage, and soiled gloves;” and all laughed merrily.

“And these invitations have come in our most poverty-stricken time. Suppose the little widow, with all her comforts, could have a faint realization of our circumstances,” said Kate.

“Perhaps it would be well to hear all she says on the subject;” and Hannah read the letter through aloud.

“O, it’s to be in a hall, and we can go in street costume and sit in the gallery, and only look on; and that odd uncle of hers will go with us, and we needn’t dance at all; that seems a little more reasonable, doesn’t it?” said Kate.

“What a shrewd little thing she is for contriving,” said Mary; “we are to go up there, and start with them. Do, now, girls, let us go; we never went to a real ball in the world, and this is such a good opportunity; besides, our spirits are not very lively just now, and it might do us good; though, dear me! I am really afraid we would shock the little widow with our plain dress; but the odd uncle, —somehow I don’t care at all for him.”

“Doesn’t it look reckless and rash?” asked Hannah.

“And wouldn’t it be better to keep a little more secluded?” asked Kate. “If we make acquaintances, we shall get ashamed of our clothes, and that will give us extra trouble.”

“But why need we get ashamed of our clothes? are we so small-minded as that? Haven’t we learned yet

 

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that such feelings are all foolishness? and if we wish to learn anything, why not take the opportunities offered to do so, and be thankful for them? Our clothes are still neat and clean; and if the little widow and her odd uncle are not ashamed to accompany us, why should we be ashamed to go? The fact is, girls, we are poor; and we can’t help it; but if we chose to, we could go to work by the day or week, and spend all our money for clothes, and look much better, or at least more fashionable and showy, than we do now; but would we be any better? should we, after all, feel any more independent, or have any more self-respect? I’m sure I like to see people dressed well, but always according to their means and circumstances. Don’t, then, let us stay at home from the ball on account of our dress. If we thought of nothing but dress, it would then be so different; but we have higher aims, and we need not feel ashamed or afraid.”

“How often do you think it is, girls, that we have just such a talk as this?” said Mary.

“Every time occasion requires it,” said Kate, “and that is quite often. How much good such talks do us! They make us feel so much stronger and better.”

“And it’s no wonder, is it, that so many girls go farther and farther into fashion and show, when they have no such dear good talks as we do to encourage them to be independent? I really need my independence strengthened quite often.”

“People in general think too little,” said Hannah. “An hour of sound thought and reasoning would keep many a person from utter shipwreck. Now, girls, we have a right to judge by ourselves, as we think ourselves somewhat sensible, and like other people in nature. Who would you respect the more, —a lady who

 

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dressed charmingly, and spent all her money to do so, or a woman who dressed even exceedingly plain in order to elevate her mind and prepare herself for future usefulness and happiness?”

“Why, the latter of course; that is reason.”

“And reason is what we should make use of,” said Hannah. “And now, dears, do you think we could gain anything by going to this ball—anything that will in after years be of use to us? If you do, let us go by all means, in spite of our dresses.”

Neither of the girls spoke, and .Hannah continued: “I am inclined to think it would be a benefit to us. I am anxious from curiosity to go. Let us see for once what they do at these balls that is fascinating enough to detain them till five o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes, let us by all means. I always wanted to know,” said Kate.

“I’m sure it will do us good,” said Mary, delightedly. “I would like to go in full dress and dance. How they must enjoy it, to dress just as they please, and then dance well! Sometimes, O how I long to have nothing to do more than these rich ladies!”

“Sometimes I think it would be so delightful, but then” —

“We can talk of these things better on our return from the ball; and we have hindered already too long,” said Hannah, sewing with redoubled energy. And so it was that the three sisters formed acquaintances through these invitations that were to affect their whole lives.

 

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CHAPTER XI.

A SACRIFICE FOR PRINCIPLE.

 

“DON’T lose my lace handkerchief, now; you know it’s my last pretense to elegance; and I wouldn’t have it used if it wasn’t quite necessary that you have something that speaks of refinement,” said Kate, giving Mary’s dress an extra brush; “and don’t soil it either, because you know I want to carry it to the ball.”

“Don’t let Mr. De Witt convert you to the Catholic faith,” said Hannah, looking over her box of trinkets with the hope of finding something to improve Mary’s wardrobe, but without success. “Let me see your boots again. Why, they look almost like new; that mucilage, without mistake, is an invention. I mean the idea of putting it on shoes; and, Kate, you ought to just color it black, get it patented, and advertise ‘Windsor’s Liquid Blacking for Ladies’ Boots;’ but then Mary will persist in wearing off one side of the heel, which gives her a kind of sideways look.”

“You don’t think there is any impropriety in Mary’s going, do you?” asked Kate.

“Well, I’ve thought it over carefully, and I can’t see that there is. She knows how to take care of herself; and Mr. De Witt is a gentleman,” said Hannah.

“But how about our conclusions concerning gentlemen friends?”

 

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“What matters it whether he is a gentleman or not? he is simply to me a musician and an agreeable person, and as such I shall treat him. I shall wait till circumstances are more favorable, and my wardrobe not quite so limited, before I fall in love,” said Mary; “besides, I couldn’t be safer with any one so far as love is concerned, than with a Roman Catholic; so, anxious hearts, be at rest. Music is my one lover, and I’m a faithful lassie;” and Mary made a graceful little courtesy.

“Mother wouldn’t care, think she would?” asked Hannah.

“Not if she knew the whole case; of course,” said Kate. “Mother isn’t prudish, and she trusts us.”

“Try to remember one thing,” said Hannah, with gravity, “ and that is to talk at least enough to prove you have a tongue. One wouldn’t think, to hear you chattering with us, that you would turn into a mute when with a stranger. Such bashfulness does very well for young misses who have just left off pinafores; but for a young lady who is independently earning her own living, and trying to make a useful woman, it is altogether in the way. Of course if you have nothing to say, it will be better to say nothing; but you will have something to say, if only you can raise enough spirit to say it. Perhaps Mr. De Witt will have the power of ‘calling you out,’ as they say.”

“I shall talk, if it is in my power to do so,” said Mary. “I thought that subject over pretty thoroughly last night, and I concluded that I should make a dunce of myself if I didn’t talk, and I’m bound to say something, if it isn’t quite so nice; and if Mr. De Witt will talk about music, there will be no trouble, and I am almost sure he will; and coming home, you know, we can talk about the church. Maybe I can appear quite respectably.”

 

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“Don’t do anything for effect, however,” said Kate.

“Act out your own dear self,” said Hannah, “and you will satisfy yourself and others too.”

“It’s wonderful how much advice I need,” said Mary, “ when I go away for about two hours; but I’ll remember it. Adieu, fair ladies; it is time I went to Miss Brechandon’s room to meet my escort.”

“Remember all you see and hear,” said Kate.

“And tell us how you would like to be a Catholic,” said Hannah; “and don’t for the world give a thought to your clothes; for it will only disturb you, and you look good enough; indeed, you look very good, and whoever slights you because you are not dressed more fashionably, isn’t the person you wish for an associate; but you understand all this, you’ve heard it many times.”

“Anything more?” said Mary, striking an attitude of meekness and patience.

“Yes,” said Kate, “remember and not lose my handkerchief. Don’t get so absorbed in the music as to drop the handkerchief, and never think of it again till I remind you.”

“I’ll keep it in one corner of my mind the whole time, Kate; and now I go; good morning.”

Mr. De Witt, though his face was pale, and his eyes expressive of melancholy, had, after all, a sufficient degree of vivacity and humor, and this morning was especially good-natured and pleasant. His health was much improved, and to Mary he hardly seemed the same young man she assisted up the steps when she first came to the city. He was dressed very genteelly too, and gave her a bow and a smile so frank and gracious, she felt easy at once, and somehow they fell to conversing without any effort.

 

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“Shall I help you to descend these steps, as you once assisted me in ascending them?” he said, when they had closed the outer door of the hall.

“It is much easier, they say,” said Mary, “to go down than up, though the journey is usually pleasanter going up than down, I should think.”

After this was said, Mary thought it a most untimely remark; but it started a pleasant conversation.

“Undoubtedly the path is pleasanter going up than down as regards our lives,” said Mr. De Witt; “but climbing always requires exertion and self-sacrifice, and so there are comparatively few climbers; but I hope we are among the number, Miss Windsor.”

“I hope so,” stammered Mary; “but sometimes I am afraid I rise very slowly, and fall back very often.”

“But what if you do. If your face is always toward the ‘palace Beautiful,’ and your heart is set on reaching it, you will surely arrive there at last.”

“But time may not be long enough to take me there.”

“But the end of time is only the beginning of eternity; and how can we labor in vain? ‘What time denies, eternity will give.’ Don’t you believe it?”

“I don’t know, but sometimes it seems that we have a very short time given us to accomplish great objects; especially for those who are poor.”

Mr. De Witt smiled, but the old melancholy settled a moment on his face.

“It is hard to be poor,” he said; “but it is harder to be sick, and lie days and days, and think how the time is passing away, while we, are unable to improve it. While we can work, even if it is merely to support the wants of the body, we can feel ourselves growing strong, and time-will not be lost; but to lie helpless,

 

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with the fire of ambition burning in your heart, while you have no power to push forward your aims toward the object you long to attain, and count the days as they go by as entirely void of any accomplishment of yours, —if ever there is a time to think life short, Miss Windsor, it is then.”

Just then they entered a car, and the conversation was discontinued.

“How grand!” said Mary, when they stood in front of St. Stephen’s Church on Twenty-eighth Street, that imposing structure, built in the Romanesque style of architecture, which is a transition between the old Roman and mediaeval Gothic style, and said to be the most magnificent church in the city.

“Its greatest attractions are within,” said Mr. De Witt, and they mounted the steps, and passed into the church. He did not stop to sprinkle himself with holy water, or kneel and cross himself, as so many did; but when they had entered a pew in front of the high altar, he knelt and bowed his head as if in prayer. Mary looked about her with wondering eyes. She looked above, and her eyes were dazzled; for the ceiling was painted after the style of many of the oldest cathedrals of Europe, of an exquisite shape of lapis lazuli, or ultramarine blue, and studded over with golden stars. The upper part of the church was filled with rainbow tints; made from the light which was thrown through the gorgeous frames of stained glass of the two immense rose windows in the ends of the transept above the galleries, while the body of the church was lighted by four large arched windows on each side of the nave above the galleries, and a corresponding number below, filled with rich stained glass.

But most magnificent of all were the chancel and

 

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altars, ornamented with gilded tracery upon the pillars and around the fretted frame-works that inclosed tile paintings and ornaments, that literally covered the whole space from floor to ceiling. Back of the high altar was the picture of the Crucifixion, which covered eleven hundred and fifty feet in space. Mary studied this wonderful picture with intense interest, and wished many times that Kate was with her. It represented the moment when the Saviour cried with a loud voice, “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.” Above the clouds was the dimly sketched picture of the Father, with arms extended, and the Heavenly Dove, the Paraclete, issuing from his bosom and descending on a beam of light to the crucified Son, whose upturned face showed that He had caught a glimpse of the beautiful vision.

Upon the right hand stood Mary the mother of Jesus, her attitude and face expressive of anguish divinely supported. On the left, clasping the foot of the cross, was Magdalen; and the Apostles were grouped around. The ladder, the sponge and spear, and all the instruments of the execution, lay around on the ground, while in the foreground the rude Roman soldiery were “ casting lots for his garments.” The light from an unseen window above shone down upon this picture, and half startled Mary into the belief that she was looking at the reality instead of a representation.

Her heart was touched; and she half wished to kneel, as Mr. De Witt had done, in adoration and wonder. How earnest and devout all seemed! with what longing, trustful eyes they seemed to look at the picture and statue of the crucified Son! and how earnestly many of them thumbed a string of black beads,

 

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saying their prayers. But O, the ceremonies were so long, and so much alike, that but for the music Mary would have grown tired; but even with this attraction she was glad when it was over, and she stood again with Mr. De Witt on the pavement.

“Did you like the music?” he asked.

“Like it? how could I help it? but somehow its grandeur seemed somewhat lessened by the tedious ceremonies,” said Mary frankly.

“Undoubtedly it seemed so to you,” said he, smiling, “but it is the boasted temple of ecclesiastical music in New York. Jenny Lind, Piccolomini, and most of the celebrated artists from Europe who have visited this country have sung or performed there.”

The day was cool and delightful, and they did not take a car, but walked on slowly.

“Everything was so overwhelmingly grand,” said Mary, “ that really, when in the midst of it, I should think people would find it wholly impossible to concentrate their minds, and have a true understanding of worship and religion; and then all those ceremonies, which surely cannot be understood by the most of the congregation, seem to me so superfluous.”

“Undoubtedly. Indeed, Miss Windsor, they often seem so to me; but they are to keep in memory the crucifixion of Christ; and though many do not understand them wholly apart from each other, yet as a whole they comprehend their teaching.”

“But what good does the teaching do? does it elevate them?”

“If you consider the contemplation of Christ’s sufferings for us and the worship of Divinity elevating, then I would say yes to your question.”

“All seemed very devout and earnest,” said Mary;

 

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“and at first when I saw that most magnificent picture of the Crucifixion, I felt like falling down before it in adoration; but it was probably only the stirring up of my veneration and reverence, my religious nature, which would find something to worship if I had never heard of the true God. The fact is, Mr. De Witt, that which we are taught from infancy cannot leave us entirely; and everything was so new to me there I could not possibly feel lifted up or drawn nearer the Father and Son, though the pictures and ceremonies, you say, were all to keep fresh in our minds the divinity and sufferings of Christ.”

“Early teaching exerts a great influence,” said Mr. De Witt; “but there are those who come from the Protestant Church to the Catholic. Their childhood’s teaching is set aside by the original thought and experience of maturer years.”

“So people are changing continually in every direction; but circumstances and influence often have more to do with it than independent thought. The building and furnishing of St. Stephen’s Church must have cost a great deal, Mr. De Witt.”

“So it did; but the number of communicants in the parish is over twenty-five thousand.”

“Yes, but many of them must be poor, and can ill afford to support such splendor.”

“But they are willing to sacrifice much for the church; and every one feels a kind of ownership in the magnificent building.”

“I am undoubtedly prejudiced by the teachings I have always received; but really I could feel the presence of Christ better to stand in the open field, with the great blue sky over my head, and only Nature’s murmurings around me, than beneath that ceiling of

 

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blue studded with golden stars, with the beams of light streaming through the stained glass, and even that boasted and cultivated music charming me; but you will pardon me for speaking so plainly, sir. They say my sisters and I are hardly like other girls; and we talk a great deal on all these subjects.”

“You must have thought or talked of them to have your own ideas so positively,” said Mr. De Witt, “and it is a pleasure to hear you express them. I have often thought of the money which is expended on the churches, Protestant as well as Catholic, and doubted myself whether it makes people any better, or whether any more are converted. If we could prove that it does increase the Christian flock, I suppose we would raise no more objections; but so long as we are in doubt, we indulge in doubtful speculations. Do you belong to any church, Miss Windsor?”

“No; but on account of this, do you suppose I receive any the less care and love from God? Do you think He, any the less forgives my errors when I repent?”

Mr. De Witt was silent, and looked into Mary’s bright face earnestly.

“Well, Miss Windsor,” he said at last, ‘I see you have opinions of your own, and I am glad to see it. As for me, I have attended the Catholic Church ever since I can remember; and when I was twelve years old, it was decided that I should be a priest. But ill health changed the decision, and I think ‘tis better so; for otherwise I should have lost what I have found in music. And now I’ve come to what I wish to say to you; and my invitation to you to go with me today was partly that I might say it. I know something of your situation from Miss Brechandon, who is

 

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a clever soul, though stiff enough in religious creed; and I can feel your great desire to study music and receive first-class instruction. ‘Tis seldom that I give much individual aid; for being ill so much gives me less time for action than most have; and when I am well, to make up for lost time, I devote myself to music, and therefore make few acquaintances, and learn the wants of persons seldom. For some wise purpose we have met, and your kind assistance up those, tedious steps awoke in me an interest in you; for believe me, few young girls would have given their arm to a young man and a perfect stranger, forgetting the girl’s diffidence and fear of seeming bold, in the desire to lend assistance. It was a little thing, but it touched my heart; and I did not forget you, and often wondered who you were, till Miss Brechandon told me what she knew of you, and at last, not much against my will, persuaded me to play eavesdropper. Then I’ve met you since, and one time heard you sing alto to a little piece, when your sister sung soprano. I have been thinking for weeks how I could assist you; and a way is now opened, an opportunity that might not come again in years.”

“Indeed, Mr. De Witt, I did not expect this,” said Mary, her heart beating quick, and a thousand thoughts flooding her brain all circled round with hope. “I have done nothing to merit this interest and kindness from you.”

“Don’t talk of that; you are striving to attain a worthy object, and all such merit assistance. I shall only aid you to help yourself. You already know that I am organist in ——— Church. Only last Wednesday the lady who has sung first alto in our choir for six years at least, suddenly married, and went away to

 

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the West; and her place shall be occupied by yourself, with your consent; and your salary shall be four hundred dollars.”

He ceased speaking, and Mary stopped suddenly in the street an instant, and then went on. She did not speak. The pretty, rosy tinge had fled from her cheeks, and she looked pale and troubled, instead of joyous, as Mr. De Witt had expected. They walked on some time in silence, while Mary thought and thought. Should she accept? Four hundred dollars a year would make her independent; and then how much she should enjoy the singing, and how much it would benefit her! It pricked her conscience to think of it. What would her parents say, —and friends? Would the girls agree to it, when they so much needed the money? O what a temptation it was! Mr. De Witt saw that her face was pale, and that she was undecided. She might think of it, and talk about it with her sisters, he said kindly, and let him know in the morning. Mary made an effort to speak; but the first word choked her, and her face grew red.

“You are very kind,” she said finally; “and I thanks you very, very much, and consider myself highly honored by your offer; but it has so confused me. To-morrow morning, as you say, I will let you know my decision.”

Somehow Mary did not feel at all lively or boisterous; and she opened the door of her little room softly. It was very still inside; and she was somewhat surprised to find the girls, Hannah and Kate, sitting side by side on one of the little beds, with their arms about each other, and their faces drawn down solemnly and dolefully.

“What is the matter?” said Mary, stopping short.

 

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“Well, we are hungry,” said Kate; “and there is nothing to eat but that loaf of dry bread and the mug of syrup. We want some meat, and we were just condoling with ourselves a little, that’s all.”

The four hundred dollars a year offered her, Mary thought of with such a flutter of her heart, and such a rush of blood to her face, that she could not speak; so she sat down on the little bed with the girls, and dropped her head on Hannah’s shoulder.

“I am hungry too,” she said, after a moment’s silence; “and the sight of all the splendor of St. Stephen’s did not appease my hunger.”

“Dear little girl,” said Hannah, with her hand on Mary’s head, “you should be at home, and run about as you like, and not have such trials so young. Don’t you want to go home, dear, and let Kate and I remain? You can be so comfortable there.”

“O, that’s what you and Kate have been condoling about, to get rid of me, —I understand,” said Mary, bobbing her head up and looking into the girls’ faces.

In a moment she grew serious. “Really, girls,” she said, “ would you be better off without me?”

“O, dear me, no,” said Kate.

“Why, that’s not the point at all,” said Hannah; “but we think you would be better off; and you are young, you know, and have time enough to learn; that is why we suggest your going home.”

“If that is all, girls, I shan’t go. I can go hungry as long as you can; and I want to stay with you; besides, I don’t want to leave my scholars, especially little Neil Blossom; and I just wish you would give up your private confabs on that subject.”

“Well, we will consider it settled now,” said Han-

 

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nah; “and we will all stay together, and do the best we can; and I am so glad, Mary, that you wish to stay after all.”

“It would be awful to have you go,” said Kate; “but that dry bread and syrup! I am hungry enough, but I shall be hungrier than now before I can relish that.”

“Girls!” Mary looked very grave and earnest.

“What? what is it?” asked Hannah anxiously.

“I have got some news,” said Mary.

“Well, it’s the first time you didn’t mention it the first thing,” said Kate. “If it is anything to increase our anxieties, I hardly know how we can endure it. Tell it, though, whatever it is.”

“In the first place, I want to ask you if you think the Catholic Church is so very bad? I can’t see but that Mr. De Witt talks like a Christian.”

“Dear me!” said Hannah, “‘ I suppose there are as good people among the Catholics as ever lived; and so it is in every denomination, of course; but I think it is a false church.”

“Why, have you been having an argument with Mr. De Witt?” said Kate.

“But that isn’t the idea,” said Mary. “Now, girls, would you do anything to uphold this church?”

“Why don’t you ask us if we would do anything to uphold what we didn’t believe right?” asked Hannah.

“Which is to say you wouldn’t,” said Mary. “I knew it would be so; and so here is the news, —Mr. De Witt has made me an offer.”

“Made you an offer!” exclaimed Hannah, giving Mary a sudden little shake, that sent her hair over her eyes.

 

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“An offer of what?” screamed Kate, springing up and stamping her foot not very gently on the floor.

“O what a time!” said Mary, beginning to laugh; “not an offer of marriage, you silly girls! so keep quiet and listen, or I’ll comb my hair that Hannah has shaken down before I tell you.”

Kate sat down in a chair, and Hannah looked sober.

“Do you suppose,” began Mary again, “that it would be wrong to write an article in favor of something which was against our belief, for a heap of money, if we really needed the money very much?”

“What is the child driving at? are you crazy, Mary?” said Hannah.

“Well, I will tell you now, sure. Mr. De Witt has offered me a salary of four hundred dollars a year to sing in the church where he plays.”

“O, I wish he hadn’t,” groaned Kate.

“What an excellent chance if you had no conscience!” said Hannah.

“But what hurt can it do to sing beautiful hymns and chants to people?” asked Mary. “I am only one among many. I could go there quietly every Sunday, you know, and come away quietly; and whal harm could possibly result from it?”

“What a lift it would be out of the Slough of Despond!” said Kate.

“I know it; but could you do it, Mary, and feel as free and as independent as you do now? Wouldn’t there be something always heavy on your conscience even if you received the four hundred dollars, which I must allow would make you quite independent in a pecuniary point of view.”

“Well, only think how we need the money, and how much good it would do us. We may lose our

 

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health living in this way ; and by accepting the offer, I could take lessons and practice more.”

“Do you really think of accepting the offer, Mary? asked Kate.

“O dear, girls, it is so hard to give it up, it is such a good opportunity; but I couldn’t accept, after all.”

“Good! good! Mary, your decided words are meat i and drink for me,” said Kate, “and I feel stronger this minute. How we should despise ourselves, should e do what we believe not right! If you should sing in the Catholic church, you would be lending your influence in that direction; and that must be wrong.”

“Still it may be only a superstitious notion,” said Mary; “and I may be very silly in giving up such a rare opportunity. Don’t you know, by accepting this position, we could all get along faster, and fit ourselves sooner to work in the world; and Hannah can write good articles, which will benefit people, and singing, you know, never did harm any one; and when I have gotten well started, I can resign my position, and take one more influential for good; besides, the Catholics do a great deal for humanity. St. Stephen’s Church, they say, has a temperance society of one thousand members; and I am sure the preaching to-day was excellent. I wouldn’t have thought of the minister’s being a Catholic if I hadn’t known. Mr. De Witt seems liberal too, much more so even than Miss Brechandon; and he doesn’t observe all the forms of the church although he is a member. So why can’t I believe the good part, and sing for them; nor feel responsible for that which I do not believe? The fact is, girls, I’m afraid we should find something to disbelieve in-every church. At home we thought Mr. Hayes too strict and even uncharitable; and even Mr. Beecher we criticised somewhat.”

 

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“But that’s not at all on the subject,” said Hannah. “In the Catholic Church there is an aristocracy. I don’t mean among the members; that is observable in every church: but it is an aristocratic form of government, so to speak, and the poor people are kept ignorant, and believe that if they confess their sins to the priest, they are safe. I know such intelligent members as Mr. De Witt understand the matter on a higher plane, but most do not; and then they pray to the Virgin Mary, and other departed beings they call saints; when we believe our prayers are heard and answered only when sincerely offered to our Heavenly Father. It is probable and even certain that they do much good by their benevolent institutions, etc.; but we think the general teaching is wrong and detrimental to the world. That the sincere members of that church are just as good as members of the Protestant church, and will be as surely saved, I have no doubt; but so long as we believe the church lends an influence which is not good, then is it not our duty not to lend our influence toward sustaining it?”

“For my part,” said Kate, “I think I am somewhat prejudiced against the Catholics; and I think the Protestants are generally; and this feeling surely cannot be quite right.”

“Of course it isn’t right,” said Hannah; “ and the world cannot be united in good-will, and all the people feel as brethren, until this selfish sectarianism is dead. Because we do not quite agree with a creed does not condemn it, though we are to act according to our highest light, and try always to climb higher, and make improvements. None of man’s institutions are perfect enough to need no improvement; and if any church lives, it must grow more liberal and charitable; and

 

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when the Catholics and Protestants throw aside prejudice, and meet as brothers, in my humble opinion the false ideas of the Catholic Church will be abolished little by little, and an improvement be apparent in many directions.”

“Hannah, why don’t you found a new society? I do believe you are capable, and I will join it,” said Kate.

“We are a society, we three,” answered Hannah, “and have preaching oftener than most societies, I think.”

“Hannah, why don’t you write a book on religion?” asked Mary. “I believe you express some ideas worth knowing. Do tell me something about Dr. Chapin and his church. I forgot to ask. How did you like the sermon?”

“To tell the plain truth, we didn’t listen to it as we ought, for Horace Greeley sat in front of us, and we gave most of our attention to him,” said Hannah.

“Then you saw Mr. Greeley? good! Did he look at all as you thought?”

“I knew him at once,” said Kate “though it’s doubtful if I should have known him but for the newspapers stuffed in his pockets.”

“O did he really have newspapers with him in church? how significant!” laughed Mary. “I wish I could have seen him.”

“His head is bald, and his hair white; and he seemed to be very sleepy, and nodded a good part of the time,” said Hannah. “I presume he didn’t sleep much the night before.”

“The collar of his overcoat was half turned in, and I had half a mind to pull it out; I dare say I could without his knowing; but others would have seen me,” remarked Kate.

 

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“He seemed very good-natured and easy,” said Hannah, “and shook hands heartily with as many as a dozen after meeting was over, and talked and laughed like a common mortal.”

“And undoubtedly had a good dinner when he went home. I wonder what he would have done had he known exactly how we felt sitting there behind him, and what we were obliged to eat for our dinners if we ate anything,” said Kate. “Dear me! if it isn’t hard enough for a girl to do anything, and no wonder when only one in a thousand attempts it. How the women do dress! I should think they would get disgusted with it, and turn their attention to something else. I believe, if ever I get rich, I’ll prepare some kind of an arrangement for all girls who are trying to make their way in the world like us, to work a few hours in the day, just to earn their living, and give them most excellent wages, and good opportunity to study what they please.”

“I’ll assist you,” said Mary; “but we must eat our dinners, or I shall starve.”

They ate their dinners, after which they wrote their letters home as usual; and the sensitive mother’s heart detected in them a tone of despondency, though they tried to write cheerfully. Mary hardly felt reconciled to giving up the rare chance which had been offered her; and she could hardly resist thinking yet of the good time they all might have if only she could earn four hundred dollars a year; and she wondered what Mr. De Witt would say, and if he would think her overscrupulous. But in the morning she gave him a refusal of his offer; and he looked at her in blank amazement, which changed to one of admiration; and then he gave her his hand, and simply said, “I didn’t

 

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expect such a sacrifice for principle in a young lady like you;” and then he called Miss Brechandon, for her door was open, and they stood in the hall near it. “Come here,” he said; “Miss Windsor has refused that nice offer I made her. What do you think of such a young lady?”

Miss Brechandon looked a moment at Mary’s pretty, flushed face, and then straight into the eyes of Mr. De Witt.

“If there’s no trick of selfishness about it anywhere, I’ll say I’m surprised, for one thing,” she said; “and to think not one of them belongs to any church at all! I say such a course is worthy of the strictest Lutheran; for I’m sure the money’s needed bad enough.”

Miss Brechandon was obliged to blow her nose furiously just here, and Mary said: —

“I don’t deserve any praise at all. I simply thought it would be wrong to accept, and so refused; though I shall never forget the favor.”

“No, you never will, that’s certain,” said Miss Brechandon, striking her hands together, making a noise like a percussion cap; “such folks never do. You just go on now, David De Witt, you are needed here no longer; and, Miss Mary, you just come here, I’ve got something for you.”

So, with a bow and a smile, Mr. De Witt passed out into the street, and Mary followed Miss Brechandon into her neat little room.

“Just sit down there, child, a minute,” she said; and very soon she came with a glass of sparkling wine.

“Now just drink that; it will do you so much good.”

“No, I can’t, Miss Brechandon; I never drink wine,” said Mary with an effort.

 

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“Well, there!” and the glass went down suddenly on the table, and some of the purple juice was spilled.

“Real little Puritans you are, in everything but religion.”

“Doing always what we think is right is our religion,” said Mary, feeling for some reason the happiest she had for days.

“Well, well, go home, do, and give me time to think,” said Miss Brechandon; and Mary ran home, glad enough to tell her eager sisters what had transpired.

 

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CHAPTER XII.

A TASTE OF FASHONABLE LIFE.

 

“GOING to a ball!” exclaimed Miss Brechandon. “Well, then, it’s all up with you. Mind what I say. It will turn your heads.” She shook her head dolefully, and continued as if to herself: “Yes, that’s what ruins them, just what ruins them; they get bewitched, then, before you know it, they are in love, and then there’s no more hope.” She rubbed her hands together nervously, and the girls had never seen her act so strangely.

“There is not much danger in our case,” said Hannah; “we shall hardly be likely to be drawn into the whirlpool of fashion, dressed in this manner.”

 “No matter about that. She wasn’t dressed in ball costume,” said Miss Brechandon, in a mysterious manner. [“]It’ll turn your heads. O what an age of delusions it is!”

“O, but just one ball, Miss Brechandon,” said Kate; “the very first we ever attended.”

“Yes, ‘only one! the very first!’ that’s just what she said. Didn’t you ever hear of the only one’s being one too many? Fresh from the country, that’s what they’ll say, mark my words. They know just how to flatter and bewitch young girls. It’s just what comes from not belonging to the church, and it’s just what I told her. The church is the only safeguard

 

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against the wiles of the devil. I did think, —but then no matter what I thought. There’s no use in talking; I found that out years ago.”

Miss Brechandon talked in such a mysterious, dubious manner, the girls felt a little gloomy.

“O fie! Miss Brechandon,” said Mary. “We’ve no notion of getting bewildered over one ball, trust us for that;” and Mary gave Miss. Brechandon’s sleeve an affectionate pat.

“Almost the same words she said, and her eyes shone as full of innocence as the angels’,” said Miss Brechandon.

The girls wondered who she was; but Miss Brechandon’s face forbade questioning; and suddenly she turned about with a jerk, saying sharply, “Go, and be done with it; I’m always making a fool of myself;” and, going straight into her room, she slammed the door hard after her, and left the girls standing astonished in the hall.

They had started for the little widow’s, from whence they were to proceed to Irving Hall. They had worked with renewed energy that week. The sacrifice of the four hundred dollars made them feel stronger and even more encouraged than before. Monday morning, while it was yet twilight in the hall, Miss Brechandon had knocked at the door, and appeared before them with a plate of steaming hot cakes, which she declared she wanted to get rid of, and she didn’t know but it might save them some trouble, as they were always busy. When she was gone, the girls had fallen to eating them with a relish. The weather was frosty, but they could afford no fire when there was no use for it but to keep them warm; and for an hour or two they sat as usual at the little table, and sewed steadily while

 

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they chattered merrily. They felt a little blue and cold, though their shawls were pinned closely about them; but they worked on without making any allusion to it. When Kate and Mary had gone to their respective labors, Hannah, whose mind felt a little lighter and more courageous than it had been for some time, fell to thinking of her manuscript. The result of her cogitations may be summed up in her concluding thoughts, as she put her work by. “The walk will undoubtedly do me good. I am almost shivering with cold; it will take but a short time; and if it isn’t accepted, it won’t make me any the worse off. How 1 wish I could afford to write all day or as long as I please! I feel just like it; but at least I’ll leave this manuscript with some publisher.” So she prepared herself for the walk, and, taking her manuscript, started on her errand. The walk did do her good. It warmed her blood, and sent it leaping through her veins; and she had felt so new and bright, that the publisher she called to see seemed to catch some of the same spirit, and shuffled the leaves of her manuscript in quite an enthusiastic manner, and treated her with considerable deference.

“I’ve no ideal’ she had said to herself, when in the street again, “ that he will accept it; but I’m glad I brought it, for I feel better, and there’s no harm in trying;” and she went home with renewed courage. Kate also had felt some of the same ambitious spirit, and had taken again to coloring photographs; not for work, but for practice, working at odd spells, and improving continually, though she had no teacher. Mary kept on the same line of duty, but was much cheered by the progress of her scholars, and the sheet of charming music which Mr. De Witt left with Miss Brechan-

 

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don for her, with a pretty French phrase, and his own name marked upon it.

“It was so kind in Mr. De Witt,” they had all said; and Mary set herself to learning it immediately.

So the night of the ball came at last; arid after a great deal of fixing and chattering, the girls had declared themselves “fixed” as much as they could be with nothing to fix with, and had started on their way feeling a little odd and strange. As usual, when Miss Brechandon heard them tripping down the stairs one after the other, she put her head into the hall and asked by her manner where they were going. After she had expressed herself and then slammed the door so unceremoniously, the girls walked on, smiling amusedly and speaking in whispers until they reached the street. It was dark when they arrived at the little widow’s, and the gas in the great carved chandeliers was lighted; and the little widow sat as usual in her lounging chair by the window.

As she greeted them, she scanned them closely, and a close observer might have noticed that her pretty lip curled slightly, and that she gave a little shrug to her sloping shoulder; but she said in an absent kind of way, “Yes, these are your sisters; not much like you. Take seats; there are a good two hours yet before we start for the ball.”

“We thought it would be better to come early,” suggested Hannah.

“O yes, it’s not at all the thing for girls to be out alone in the streets. I told uncle you wouldn’t accept the invitation, for you were not at all fashionable; but he declared you would, and insisted that I should send you one at least. He has no belief in women’s not being fashionable from choice; and I presume he is

 

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right.” There was a touch of sarcasm in her tone the cause of which might be explained by the fact that her uncle had promised her a new gold chain enameled with black, with a gem attached containing a diamond, if the girls refused the invitation; but she did not tell this, and they tried to feel easy and welcome; but somehow they much dreaded the odd uncle, and they moved nearer each other on the crimson sofa, and seemed as green and unsophisticated as country girls we read about. The little widow excused herself for a moment; and when she was gone, a confused whispering commenced.

“This is a pretty scrape!” said Hannah. “Mrs. Waterhouse and her uncle evidently bet on our accepting the invitation. Dear me! I wish we had stayed at home.”

“She didn’t expect us to accept,” whispered Mary, in a tone full of disgust not to be misunderstood, even under cover of the whisper, “and I saw her looking at our clothes sharply, and she isn’t pleased with us; but fie! let us fight it out on this line, and make believe we haven’t the least suspicion of the truth.”

“That is evidently the best way to do,” said Kate; “but I do wish —hark!”

There were heavy steps in the hall. The door was slightly ajar, and they heard a man’s voice, deep and rich, but sneering and bitter. “I told you so,” he said. “Three silly girls, no doubt hunting for beaux, and I’ve got to escort them. The Furies! on time too, bah! don’t try to make me believe any more of your nonsense. Literary, artistic, musical!” and then there followed a forced laugh.

“Help you out of the fix now? I’ll do as I agreed. Come, don’t stand shivering there; take me in and in-

 

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troduce me to the” —the word was lost; the girls clung closer together. They entered the parlor, —the little widow in her elegant black dress, and behind her a tall, muscular man, with dark face and heavy hair all in confusion, and dropping over his wide forehead. His eyes were of an exquisitely soft and melting blue; but the expression of distrust and almost fierceness as much obscured the color as the stormy, billowy waves break up the gentle azure of a sleeping lake. The lower part of his face was obscured by a heavy growth of shaggy beard; but his form, though muscular, was most harmoniously proportioned, and his manners, though somewhat reckless and fierce, were graceful, and would display a native polish which he seemed to try to avoid. He scowled on the three young girls sitting closely together on the sofa; and Kate, who had been studying the matter with resentment, flashed back upon him a look as defiant and significant at least as his own.

“Good evening, sir,” she said as they all arose and bowed to him. “We are very glad of an opportunity to go to a ball, and generally take advantage of all our opportunities, which are few enough.” She said this scornfully, and received a sly nudge on both sides from the girls.

“You like balls, then?” he said, flinging himself into a chair, and assuming a most “don’t care” attitude.

“How do we know till we have tried them? It’s no virtue in a person to like or dislike a thing that she knows nothing of,” said Kate, inwardly thinking she would like to see the man imprisoned for a short time at least.

”Which one is the artist?” he said, abruptly turning to Mrs. Waterhouse.

 

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“I am,” said Kate decisively, resolving in her mind to meet the man with his own weapons.

“And you are the blue-stocking, I know,” he said, pointing to Hannah, whose face colored instantly with indignation; and she heartily wished she had never been so silly as to answer the letter, for the man was a bear at least, she thought.

“I write a little when I please,” she said, not recognizing the fib till she had told it; for if there was anything she didn’t do, it was to write when she pleased.

“And you teach music?” to Mary.

“I endeavor to, sir,” with a most comical display of dignity.

The man laughed again, loud and harsh, the girls thought.

“You’ll do,” he said, and, wheeling himself near the gas-light, drew from his pocket a rumpled paper, and soon seemed oblivious to all but its contents. The girls sat as still as mice a long, long time, it seemed to them an age, while the uncle read; and the little widow, at the farther end of the parlor, worked over a pile of worsted.

“Uncle,” she said after a while, “ it’s time to go.”

He threw his paper down in a heap, and looked as if he had just been awakened out of a deep sleep.

“O, the ball, that’s it, these ladies wish to go to the ball;” and he gave them a. sharp look from under his scowling brows. How those three girls wished themselves at home in their little room! How they regretted accepting the invitation, and how they wanted to flee away! but they had started, and they meant to go through with it. They were not afraid of the man; but they despised him, and shrank somewhat from his fierce look and words. It was an adventure

 

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at least, Mary thought, though she clung to Hannah’s sleeve with her arm behind Kate’s back.

“Well, Lisa, are you ready?” asked her uncle.

“I am not going,” said the little widow, absorbed in drawing a green thread of worsted through the canvas.

“O, you are not going?” he sneered; “ you back down, and leave me to fight the battle.” He started up, and strode into the hall, coming back soon, muffled in an overcoat and a strange fur cap.

“Well, ladies, if you are ready, we will start for the ball.” The girls arose.

“Good night,” they said to Mrs. Waterhouse.

“Good night,” she replied shortly, and kept on with her work; and the girls passed out into the hall feeling much as if they had done something of which they were ashamed. When they reached the street, they had a strong desire to leave Mr. St. Maur, and walk home as quickly as possible; but he said, “This way,” with so much authority that almost before they knew it, they were walking after him. He seemed to act as odd and ungallant as possible, and hardly spoke a word the whole way, which, however, was but a short distance.

“I feel just like a fool,” whispered Hannah; “and if ever we get through with this scrape it will be some time before I get into another like it.”

“Only think, that little goose of a widow has sent us off alone with this great bear,” said Kate, making a grimace at the great overcoat and fur cap.

“Yes, and we shall be disgraced forever if he goes on in this way,” whispered Mary. When they arrived at the hall, they found that the band had just begun to play. They followed Mr. St. Maur around the

 

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gallery, where sat a few persons, looking down on the waxed floor, where were the managers walking briskly around in their dress-coats and white gloves. They sat down, side by side; and in a moment all was forgotten but the brilliant scene which was soon spread out before them, for couples began to pour in through the doors and promenade slowly around the room, while the band kept playing; and everything grew merry and exciting. What a brilliant array of dress there was, what long trains, what beautiful women! A subtle perfumery floated through the room; and the air seemed full of intoxicating draughts. The music ceased for a moment; and then there came the hum of voices, and sets began to form for a quadrille. Soon the dancing commenced.

“O dear, girls, how I wish I was down there!” said Mary, leaning forward and gazing with wide-open eyes. “There is one lady with a street suit on, yes, two. Don’t they look splendid, all of them I mean? It’s no wonder they stay till five o’clock, is it? I should think they never would want to go home. Don’t they feel happy?”

“Why were we born to be excluded from such pleasure?” said Kate. “Isn’t that pink-cheeked girl just down there dressed in the most charming style? She looks like a fairy; and how graceful she is!”

Hannah, usually so regardless of dress and fashion, looked on this scene, so new to her and so gorgeous, and thought, though she did not say it, —

“How nice it is to be pretty, and graceful! I wonder why it is some are made so plain, and some so beautiful. How would I look, I wonder, on the floor?”

 

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Mr. St. Maur, as soon as they were seated, had left them; but looking up suddenly, as she thought this, Hannah saw him standing just behind them, gazing at them intently; but when she met his eye, he turned about suddenly and strode off. He came back soon, however, and touched her on her shoulder, saying, ill his authoritative way, “Ladies!” They all looked around; a slender young man stood by his side in ball costume. “I’ve brought Mr. Early to talk to you,” he said. “The Misses Windsor, Tommy.” The girls blushed and bowed; and Tommy, who had a few freckles on his nose, and a slight mustache, made one of his most charming bows, with his eyes fixed on Mary’s pretty face. Kate’s lip curled slightly, and Hannah’s nose took a turn upward, while the two nudged each other, and looked steadily down at the scene below, which was just then the bewildering waltz. Tommy stationed himself near Mary, and directed his conversation to her entirely.

“Do you dance? he asked.

“Not at balls,” said Mary.

“The next dance is a cotillion. You can dance that,” he said. “Go down with me please, and enjoy it.”

“I would like to,” said Mary, looking longingly down upon the merry dancers; “ but then” —

“O, yes, go; it’s no harm, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted,” said he.

“I should like to dance, it is so enchanting,” said Mary, looking sideways at Hannah and Kate, who looked as solemn as though listening to a dry sermon.

Hannah shook her head without looking up, and Kate arched her brows and looked forbidding; but Mary said to herself,

 

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“They don’t like it, but what’s the harm? I’m old enough to know something, and it would do me good, I am sure, to dance once; and I want to go down there and see them when in their midst; it will be so much more satisfactory. I dare say Hannah and Kate are too strict; besides, it all came through Hannah that we are here, and I mean to go. It can’t do any harm.”

The waltzing was finished, and a promenading and laughing and talking commenced.

“You will go, Miss Windsor, I am sure,” said Tommy; and Mary, having concluded that she had a right to do as she pleased, consented.

“I shall go down with Mr. Early to dance a cotillon,” she said to her sisters, in a very independent tone.

“Mary!” said Hannah in a reproachful tone, —Tommy had stepped one side for a moment, — “you must not go; really you ought to know better. That fop! We have been silly enough already; pray don’t let us entirely lose our senses and reason.”

“She won’t go,” said Kate. “I shall think her crazy if she does.”

“Yes, I am going,” said Mary, using as little reason as people generally do in the whirl and excitement of a ball. “I have promised Mr. Early, and I want to dance at a real ball, — it’s no harm;” and almost before they were aware, the animated young girl, bewitched by the splendor and display and the fascinating music, threw her hat and cloak in Hannah’s lap, and, taking the young man’s arm, marched off. As soon as she had gone, Mr. St. Maur took her seat.

“I suppose you would like to dance too, if you had partners?” said he, in a sarcastic tone.

 

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“I don’t know who has a better right than we,” said Kate, determined his sneers should not frighten her into trying to make a good impression. “We did not come to dance; but then I suppose we might by trying.”

“O yes, if you had partners; there’s that sister of yours marching along as proud as a belle.”

“Which she has a right to do,” said Kate again, exceedingly vexed with Mary, but determined not to show it. “Why are you not on the floor?”

“Why? because I don’t choose to be there. I’m not so fond of making a fool of myself, by mixing in with such a parcel of flirts and dandies.”

“I dare say,” said Kate saucily, “there are as good people on the floor dancing as you are.”

“So you don’t have an exalted opinion of me, Miss Artist?”

“I think you have treated us with as little kindness and politeness as I at least expected,” said Kate ; “and I shall be most heartily glad when this is over, and I am at home.”

“You are decidedly plain in your remarks; you would like me to dawdle, and flatter you,” sneered he.

“I don’t care what you do. I dare say we can take care of ourselves.”

“For mercy’s sake! Kate, don’t get the lion roused,” whispered Hannah, who had been intently watching Mary’s maneuvers.

“I’m not afraid of him; and I am going to give him a piece of my mind,” Kate whispered back.

In the mean time Mary was among the dancers. She had gone down very briskly with Mr. Early, forgetful of her dress, and everything but the exciting

 

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music and flying feet. They promenaded very respectably through the room, and took their places in an obscure corner. They commenced to dance, but the dance was unlike what Mary expected; and she became confused and embarrassed, and all at once stepped full upon the long train of a lady in the set next to theirs, and then stumbled herself. The lady looked back over her shoulder with a most scornful flash of her eyes, and said, so that Mary heard her plainly, “Mr. Early has got a perfect little dowdy and bungler for a partner,” and some one replied, —

“A miss from the country! awkward and green.”

O, how Mary’s face flushed then; and how sorry she was that she had not remained with the girls. She wondered if they saw her blunder, and hoped Mr. Early hadn’t heard the remarks. After a while, however, becoming more accustomed to the figure, she was dancing very well, and enjoying it, when suddenly, as she turned toward the wall, she met, to her amazement, the great mournful eyes of Mr. De Witt fixed upon her. Again she became confused, and again blundered; and how glad she was when the dance was through! Mr. De Witt approached her immediately, and cordially shook her hand.

“You are enjoying it?”

“No, I am not,” answered she frankly; “and I don’t want to stay down here another minute. I didn’t know before that you danced.”

“Neither do I,” he said, smiling. “I met a friend on the street a short time ago, and he insisted on my coming in for a few moments; so I have been looking on. I didn’t think you were going to dance, Miss Windsor.”

“Neither did I,” said Mary, in a not very amiable

 

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tone, “and neither will I again. I am going up to the gallery where my sisters are. Good-night, Mr. De Witt.”

She took Mr. Early’s arms and started toward the door.

“Good night. Miss Mary,” said Mr. De Witt, watching her in an abstracted manner until she had disappeared.

“You didn’t stay on the floor long,” said Mr. St. Maur, when Mary stood near him and her sisters, and Mr. Early had vanished. “Why didn’t you try a waltz?”

“I don’t know how to waltz,” said Mary. “O, you don’t? Did you enjoy the cotillion?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t, eh? What was the matter?”

“I suppose she simply didn’t enjoy it,” said Kate, moving and giving Mary a seat. “I would like to go home. I am sleepy, and tired of the affair.”

“So am I,” said Hannah. “It must be very late.”

“Only half past twelve,” said Mr. St. Maur. “Five o’clock is the time to break up; and supper comes at two. You’ll stay for that?”

“We ate our supper at a respectable hour before we came,” said Kate; “and eating at two o’clock is not our habit; and so, if you please, we will go home.”

“You are decided, then?” said Mr. St. Maur, looking at Kate with a strange, quizzical look, and speaking in a tone a trifle more polite.

“We have stayed as long as we wish,” said Hannah. “If you wish to stay longer, we can go alone.”

“I am at your service,” he said, “ and glad to get away so early.”

And so they went.

 

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They passed Mr. De Witt on the stairs, and he bowed to them pleasantly.

“Who is that white-faced young man?” said Mr. St. Maur, abruptly.

“A friend of ours,” answered Kate, in a tone that forbade any more questions.

“Don’t you think I have done my part toward escorting the ladies to the ball?” asked Mr. St. Maur.

“Undoubtedly,” answered Kate, who seemed to take upon herself the responsibility of answering all his questions. “There is a car, sir, that will take us home; and we will trouble you no longer.”

“Very well,” he said, hailing the car.

He assisted the girls to enter, and then passed in after them, and, sitting down, remained silent the whole distance; while the girls, tired, sleepy, and disheartened, leaned on each other, and wished they were at home. When they arrived at their place of destination Mr. St. Maur assisted Kate to alight last, and said to her in a half whisper, —

“You think me a bear?”

“You are responsible for my impressions concerning you,” said Kate.

“Yes? am I? What are you painting?”

“A design.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

“In the Orchard.”

“And you attempt a design like that?”

“We attempt many things, sir, which we cannot accomplish.”

“But you will accomplish this?”

“I hope to.”

“And sell it?”

“I don’t know, sir. Good night.”

 

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They were at the foot of the steps.

“Good night,” he said to all, and instantly walked away.

“O dear, I’m so tired!” said Mary. “I’m sick of balls.”

“All but codfish,” said Kate, dragging herself up the steps.

Miss Brechandon opened the door.

“So soon?” she said. “How happened it?”

“We don’t like balls, and we got as much of them as we want,” said Kate.

Miss Brechandon shook her head.

“O, no,” she said. “You are tired now ; but then you do seem to feel different from her. She was so full of animation, and stayed until five; but it won’t be long before you will be bewitched to go to another.”

“Never,” said Hannah, with a scowl; and they went to their room.

“I have seen some trials in my life,” said Hannah, when they had entered their room; “ but I will say I never passed such a disagreeable, wretched evening before.”

“Nor I,” said Kate; “but if Mary had stayed in her place, we shouldn’t be quite so much in disgrace as we are now. She acted like one possessed. Going down there in that threadbare suit of hers, and with that little dandy too! I do believe there is a spirit of evil in such places, that takes possession of people. At first I was charmed. I was bewitched to be on the floor; but I got so tired of it; and I am now just as much at a loss to know how they can stay till five o’clock, as I was before I went.”

“I knew you would commence on me as soon as we were alone, and I suppose it’s well enough; but I can

 

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tell you one thing, it won’t do any good; for I am as ashamed and disgusted with it as you are; and that little fop! O how I would just like to box his ears this minute!”‘

“Why, wasn’t he polite?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I only know I despise the little simpering dandy.”

“You are the only one in fault after all,” said Hannah. “Poor Tommy probably acted as usual; and because you think you disgraced yourself with him, you despise him.”

“Who said I disgraced myself?” said Mary, who was tired and irritable; “ but then I did,” she continued, “ and Mr. De Witt saw it all.”

“Didn’t you dance well?” asked Kate.

 “Dance well? I didn’t dance at all. I just hopped around in confusion; and I don’t think I’ll ever again have a desire to be a fashionable woman. They lace till they can hardly breathe, and powder their faces, and no doubt paint; and then they are so cross.”

“All of them?” asked Hannah, laughing in spite of her weariness.

“They are all alike probably; and the one that had that horrid long train acted like a snapping turtle. How magnificent she thought she looked! . I’m just disgusted with fine clothes.”

“Well, this is a lesson I shan’t soon forget; and I haven’t forgotten that it all came out of my answering that letter either,” said Hannah; “ but if only the little widow and her uncle had treated us a little more respectfully, I would have found less fault; for it was really a treat to go to a ball.”

“I really hope,” said Kate, “that we never shall

 

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see that man again. The little widow said he was a saint. She must have a poor opinion of saints. She said, too; that he was always helping the poor. He showed little signs of it to-night. Dear me!”

“How shall we feel to-morrow, do you think?” asked Mary. “You know we can’t rest as we used to at home; and such doings don’t pay for us at least.”

“Mr. St. Maur will haunt me all night, I am sure,” said Kate; “ those distrustful, vigilant eyes of his, the heavy, rumpled hair, and shaggy beard; and that voice, —how it makes me shudder to think of it “

“Somehow I shan’t think of him so much as of Mr. De Witt, as he looked when I first saw him in the ball-room. That mournful look in his great eyes seemed a reproof to me; and his face was paler than usual,” said Mary.

I shall think of the little widow as much as anything, sitting so stiff at the farther end of the room, and not deigning to notice us. O, what a mortification that was!” said Hannah.

And so they did dream and mutter in their sleep, and their slumbers were not sweet nor refreshing.

 

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CHAPTER XIII.

AFTER THE BALL.

 

IN the morning the girls awoke with blinding headaches, and their tempers sadly soured. Everything looked so cold and dismal and burdensome; and then they were so dissatisfied with themselves. Besides, Mary had a severe cold in her head, and kept sneezing very loud and forcibly, and breaking in upon her own or her sisters’ remarks.

“I do think,” said Kate at last, “that you sneeze louder than there is any necessity for. You jar everything near you.”

“Well, I don’t,” answered Mary, sneezing again. “I can’t help it; and I guess it troubles me as much as it does you; and I’m going to have a fire too; what is the use in hoarding up a little coal forever? I guess we needn’t freeze to death.”

“I think we need a fire now, if any time,” said Hannah, shivering. “I can’t sit here and sew to-day without a little warmth in the room.”

So a fire was built in the little stove, and it shone and sparkled in the grate, and gave things a more cheerful aspect.

“Good luck for us that to-day is Saturday,” said Kate, when they all sat around the fire. “This work must be carried home this afternoon; and after paying our rent, we shall have a little money. Do let us take

 

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it and buy us something to eat for to-morrow. I can’t live another Sunday- on dry bread and syrup. It does very well when we are busy at work; but when we are idle, it becomes a nuisance.”

“I’m agreed,” said Hannah. “I am going for my story to-day, too. If I don’t wear it out lugging it from one place to another all over the city, it will be a wonder. How this thread kinks and breaks!”

“Yes, and how stiff the cord is! I can hardly get my needle through it; and my fingers are pricked in a half-dozen places. I wish I was tucked into a feather-bed this minute. That horrid ball!”

“Don’t mention it,” said Hannah. “I was going to suggest that we entirely drop the subject; for it only aggravates us.”

“I want to ask one question first,” said Kate. “Do you suppose Mr. St. Maur introduced ‘Tommy’ to us to tempt us to make fools of ourselves?”

“Yes, I do; and that is all I shall say on the subject,” said Hannah.

“I don’t care for him,” said Mary; “he isn’t worth minding any way;” and the subject was dropped, and seldom referred to afterward.

It was a drizzly, disagreeable day, and the streets were lined with black mud, that would cling to one with impertinent tenacity. Yet in spite of this, in the afternoon, Hannah and Kate started on. their respective errands, —Kate with a bundle of work, and Hannah with a little hope, which she tried to smother, by saying over and over to herself, “Don’t be silly; it won’t be accepted, you know it won’t. Of course not, there’s no hope of it at all; but then it will be better to get the manuscript, and not leave it in their hands forever.”

 

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So she trudged on down town, and Kate up town, crossing the streets and splashing the mud over their boots at every step. Their success was thoroughly discussed at night when they returned, as they sat close together in the dim twilight. Kate arrived first, as out of sorts’ and discouraged as one could imagine. Her shawl was dripping with water, and her skirts bespattered and besmeared with mud, while her boots looked more like the cow-hides of an old farmer than the dainty boots of a lady.

“What a time you must have had!” said Mary, trying to do something, she hardly knew what, to better the poor girl’s situation. “Does it rain?”

“Rain? yes, and everything else disagreeable. What a wretched time I have had!”

“Of course you have,” said Mary, taking off the wet shawl from her sister’s shoulders. “It’s too bad. Here! Let me unbutton your boots. Why do you think it is Hannah don’t come?”

“I don’t know; but I pity her if, she has had such bad luck as I have.”

“Bad luck? what is it?”

“Couldn’t get any more work: now what are we going to do?”

Hannah opened the door then.

“Kate, could get no more work,” burst out Mary, the first thing.

“Couldn’t?” said Hannah, in a not very dubious tone. “Don’t worry over that, girlies, look here;” and Hannah drew a roll of bills from the bosom of her dress. “A bad beginning makes a good ending.”

Mary, who had been unbuttoning Kate’s boots, sprang to her feet and gave Hannah a lively hug over her dripping shawl, and a kiss on her wet cheek.

 

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“O,O, O! you got paid for your story. Hurrah for the ‘ Mystery of Murky Hollow!’” she exclaimed.

Kate forgot her misfortunes in an instant, and stood up with one boot half off, and took the greenbacks from Hannah’s hand, and began to count them.

“Ten, twelve, seventeen, twenty. Twenty dollars. O Hannah, we are rich; but the best of it is, your story was accepted. Pooh! I wouldn’t care now if I was soaked in mud. It seems rather a luxury than otherwise;” and Kate looked at her besmeared skirts complacently; and then they all joined in a happy, merry laugh.

“Just what I thought,” said Hannah, “as I was coming home; and I do believe there was a grin on my face the whole way. I never knew mud and rain to seem of so little consequence before, and I never felt quite so important. I was so anxious to get home, it seemed as if I couldn’t get along fast enough; and what must I do, when coming up the stairs, but rush straight against Mr. De Witt, mud and all, and we both came’ near falling down; and what a fall would there have been, my countrymen!”

They all laughed again.

“Now this has happened,” said Kate, my adventures seem more ludicrous than disheartening; but tell us what the publisher said. Did he like the story?”

“He didn’t say much about it, only that he would pay me twenty dollars for it, though he shouldn’t use it for several weeks; but I was surprised that he took it at all. I didn’t wait for praise, but took my twenty dollars, and came home as soon as possible.”

“I knew it was a good story,” said Mary. “Kate and I are not so poor judges, after all. Twenty dol-

 

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 lars! O you dear children, can you realize the grandeur of that?” and Mary bustled around, hanging up wet shawls and hoods. “I had only just the ‘least little faint hope,’ and chided myself for that.”

“Now I want to hear about your luck and adventures,” said Hannah to Kate. “I’m almost glad you couldn’t get any more work, on my account, for I am going to write another story.”

“Perseverance has done so much for you, I shall try coloring photographs again,” said Kate, with a gleam of renewed ambition in her eye; “but I had an adventure that I must tell you about. After I had found that I could get no more work, I started fort home with a heavy heart, revolving in my mind what should now be done. I was so busy thinking, that I hardly knew where I was going or what I was doing, and so walked straight into a ridiculous mud-puddle. If that had been all, it would hardly be worth relating; but I fell down, for the first time since I came to New York, flat into the mud, which spattered into my face, and entirely covered my hands. I got up as quickly as I could, so ashamed and disgusted and everything; and looking up, what should I behold but the great overcoat and fur cap of Mr. St. Maur? and there was such a look on his face! I can’t define it; but though he seemed inwardly convulsed with laughter, there was, or else I imagined it, a look of pity in his eye. I was hurrying away as fast as I could; but he caught hold of my shawl, and said, as he pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, ‘Here, Miss Windsor, take this; ladies’ handkerchiefs are so small;’ and dropping it on my arm, he walked away. I could have screamed with vexation and mortification; but seeing I was in the street, I contented myself with shedding a few tears

 

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That man is bound to see us in our worst moods; and I kept wishing over and over we never had set our eyes on him.”

“Perhaps we never shall again; and after all, why need we care for him? he is nothing to us,” said Hannah.

This was one of the joyful times for the Windsor girls, and caused them to think there was no use in desponding, for good luck would come around once in a while to the persevering and determined. After this times seemed a little easier; and Hannah wrote busily, while Kate put on the finishing touches to her design, and practiced photograph coloring during her leisure moments until she began to think herself competent to attempt coloring for remuneration. Then she went again to an artist’s gallery; this time choosing one of considerable note and reputation. She took some photographs home as usual to color for specimens, and worked over them long and carefully, and saw herself how much she had improved since her last attempt. She carried the pictures home, and the artist said they were very good, but she needed more practice; and then he told her a little incident, which pleased and even encouraged her.

“Ten years ago,” he said, “a man came to me for work, just as you did. I talked with him, and thought him well skilled in the business of coloring. I had had less experience then than now; and having a picture I was anxious to have colored for the window, I gave it to him. He brought it back in a few days so wretchedly done, I could hardly tell if the object belonged to the human species. Of course I gave him no more work; but now he is one of the first artists and photograph colorists in the city, and he has a

 

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studio on Broadway; so take courage, perseverance will overcome all obstacles. I see at once that you have talent, but you have not practiced sufficiently yet to do first-class work;” and so Kate was encouraged, and continued to practice a few moments now and then, hunting all the galleries in the city, and asking for photographs thrown by. She tried to get more needle-work, but was unsuccessful; and times began to grow hard again. Letters, often came from home full of consoling and comforting words, and often containing a few dollars, which helped them greatly; but they laid their plans wholly independent of this help, determined to help themselves as far as possible. Mary continued to teach her scholars, and they all learned to love her; but one had ceased to take lessons on account of illness, and so there were only three to add to her income.

Hannah’s twenty dollars grew less and less, while she wrote on, relating, in the most startling manner possible, murder scenes, robberies, disclosing mysteries, and making astonishing denouements. It was one very cold, bleak day, when she and Kate were returning home in a car from a walk up town, that she first saw a few chapters of the first story she had sold, in print. She bought the paper containing it of a little dirty-faced newsboy; and sitting closely together, she and Kate began to read it over eagerly. It was illustrated by the most startling picture of a man in the act of hurling a beautiful girl into the seething waters.

While they read, they were conscious of a person’s entering the car and taking a seat by the side of Hannah; but they were too much absorbed to look up until the story was finished; then glancing around, they saw those blue, penetrating eyes of Mr. St. Maur.

 

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Hannah’s first thought was to hide the paper; but her next told her that would be folly; so both bowed to him a little stiffly. He touched the paper with a scornful gesture.

“Do you read trash like this?” he asked, and looked straight at the illustration of Hannah’s story. The fictitious name told no tales. “There are a great many things that are injurious to people’s minds,” he said, “and this paper is one of them; and the writers had better go out to service than help fill these pages.”

He looked straight at Hannah, as if he suspected the truth; and she dared not look up, through fear of committing herself. He seemed a little less fierce than usual; but Hannah felt as if she had no word of justification to utter, and was silent; but Kate said, looking resolutely in the man’s eyes, —

“Wealthy people cannot understand the wants of the poor, and condemn them for much which, if in their place, they would do themselves.”

“That may be in most cases, but it does not make a wrong thing right.”

He said this almost kindly; and Hannah ventured to look into his face. How strong and grand he looked! and she thought, “If one could be shielded and assisted by a great man like this one, even with all his fierceness and plain speaking, how restful it would be!” but she said in her usual decisive way, “Yet, sir, though wrong surely can never be right, the person may sometimes be justified for committing a wrong act.”

He looked at her intently an instant, as though the expression was an excuse for something he could not forgive. He glanced at the paper again. “The

 

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writers of these stories,” he said, “injure themselves, as well as the public; as wrong actions always injure the actors. People who can use their minds only to excite the most heathenish propensities in their readers, are a pitiable set of beings.”

Hannah dropped her eyes with a sense of shame, and the paper fell from her lap to the floor; nor did she touch it again only with her foot. Little more was said until they arose to leave the car.

“You stop here?” said Mr. St. Maur.

“Yes,” replied Hannah, drawing her shawl closely about her, and passing on. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day,” he said; and then to Kate, —

“Is your design finished?”

“Nearly; good day;” and the two girls left the car, and walked on without glancing back.

“I told you,” said Kate, “that man is destined to see the very weakest and worst phases of our character.”

“I almost wish we hadn’t bought that paper,” said Hannah. “It costs six cents, and I left it on the floor. No doubt Mary would like to see it. I am sure he mistrusted that I wrote that story we were reading when he entered the car.”

This little incident exerted a great influence over Hannah’s mind; and continually as she wrote, the scorn in those blue eyes haunted her; and she only consoled herself by saying over and over, “In just a little time I will give up this style of writing, and do better.”

And so she wrote on, often laying aside her pen to go into the streets to make observations; and as Kate no longer had work, and Mary’s scholars were now only three, their future began to look very dark again.

 

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“If only I can finish this story, so as to get the pay for it before Christmas, I shall be perfectly satisfied,” said Hannah one day to her sisters.

“But suppose you can’t, what then?” asked Mary.

“If I can’t, then our Christmas will be the saddest we ever knew,” said Hannah, as she numbered the pages of her manuscript.

“It is weakness to borrow trouble, mother says,” said Kate; “and I have a little project in view, which may give us a Christmas dinner.”

“Then make it known immediately,” said Mary; “for if there is anything we are in need of just now, it is a new project.”

And Kate replied, with a very wise look, “My picture is nearly finished, and my teacher says it is very good; and when he says that, you may be sure he means it decidedly; and I am going to try to sell it.”

“But will he allow it?” answered Hannah.

“He must, for we need the money; and I have besides, you know, a half-dozen drawings and one painting for the exhibition.”

“But it is very difficult, I am sure,” said Hannah, “for an obscure artist like you to sell a picture; and I must confess that I have little hope in that direction.”

“But I can try; and if I fail, it will not be the first failure I have known; and therefore I can bear it.”

“But where will you try to sell it?” asked Mary.

“O, I shall try to have it hung in one of the galleries on Broadway; and it being just before Christmas, it may find a sale of some kind.”

“But don’t get your expectations too high,” said Hannah, remembering her own disappointment when her manuscript was rejected.

“I’ll try not to,” said Kate, thinking of that same

 

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unhappy time, and how Hannah had cried, and they all had felt so disheartened; but she started for Cooper’s with higher hopes and ambitions than she would confess she felt, and went to work on her picture with renewed courage. It was almost night when she gave it the last touch with her brush, and, having carefully wrapped it in paper, started for home.

“O, she has brought it,” exclaimed Mary, as Kate entered the room. “Quick, quick, Kate, for our excitement and curiosity are intense.”

“Turn your faces away,” said Kate, laughing, “until I have placed it in a good light.”

So the girls looked toward the street, until bidden to look at the picture; then they turned about quickly, and beheld for the first time what Kate had been patiently working upon for weeks.

Hannah’s eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon it, while she said, —

“It is so much better than I expected, dear, and it is so very natural and beautiful. I should never grow tired of gazing upon it.”

“What do you think, Mary?” asked Kate.

“I think you are a true-born artist,” answered Mary, giving Kate an affectionate squeeze.

“At first the teacher said it was too elaborate a design for a young artist like me; but I was so interested in it, and the picture was so indelibly stamped on my mind, it was not so very hard, though sometimes I grew disheartened, but only to feel better the next day; and now it is finished, and I am not sorry I attempted it.”

“In the Orchard” being the title of one of the chapters in this story, the reader can easily imagine what was the design of the picture, —three young

 

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girls sitting together on the old mossy ledge in the orchard, with the waving ferns at their feet, and the autumn glory all around them. Their hats were thrown aside, and the breeze had blown their hair into little curls and waves; and all seemed deep in thought. The eyes of one were fixed on the distant rim of the ocean, which the sunset crowned with gold and silver; while the others looked down at the ferns with a less dreamy expression; and all clasped hands, which was an emblem of their affection and constancy.

“There is nothing lacking in the picture, except ‘Nijah,” said Mary, after they had all gazed upon it some moments in silence.

“I wanted to paint him just as we saw him last with the gray squirrels; but I dared not attempt it; and now do you think any one will be pleased with it besides ourselves?”

“I don’t know,” said Hannah. “I haven’t much confidence in my own opinions of late; but really I can’t see how it can fail to get admiration.”

“I will try it at least,” said Kate, and see what will become of it.”

A few days after this, when the picture was varnished, and thought to be as near perfection as it could be made, Kate sought one of the galleries on Broadway, where she had spent many hours in gazing upon the pictures there; and asked the dealer to allow her to leave her design there for sale; but he would not even look at it.

“There is no use,” he said. “I have not the least shadow of a place to hang it in; and though I am sorry to disappoint you, I cannot take it. If you had come in yesterday morning, I would have looked at it.”

So Kate went out, her hope decreased to a consider-

 

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able extent, but her perseverance as strong as ever. She sought another gallery; but the dealer only glanced at the picture.

“No room,” he said; and she was about to turn away, when he said kindly, “If you are anxious to sell the picture, take it down to the auction room, and it may find a purchaser there.”

“Just what I will do,” said Kate to herself, as she left the gallery.

At the auction room she left her picture, hung in an obscure corner, where she said to herself no one would ever notice it; and half tempted to cry, she went out into the street, thinking every step she took that she would go back and get it, and not try to have it sold; but she didn’t go back, and when she arrived home, she had given up all hope of selling the picture, even if she left it in that obscure place a month.

Christmas drew nearer and nearer, and Hannah wrote faster and faster; and at last her story was finished, all in good time, and rejoiced over and pronounced charming, as usual.

“The day before Christmas,” she should receive an answer concerning its rejection or acceptation, the publisher, Solon Drew, said; and that would be time enough to get the Christmas dinner, Hannah thought, and went home well satisfied, especially as the publisher had said, as she was about leaving him, —

“There will be no doubt about its being accepted. Your other story was very good, and I have no doubt about this one; but then we must read it, you know.”

“We must have .just a little Christmas dinner,” said Mary, when Hannah had told of her good luck, “because, you know, it will be so lonesome here, and we shall be so homesick.”

 

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“Of course we must,” said Kate. “Christmas is always such a glorious time at home, and it will be so different here. So we must try to make it just a little pleasant you know.”

“We shall miss making and receiving presents,” said Hannah; “but we can write a long letter to father and mother; and I’m sure no present would suit them better.”

“Well, I don’t see but our circumstances just now look quite favorable,” said Mary; and they all grew merry, and the hours sped on.



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