“But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have attracted your notice, as well as mine.”
“I know nothing of her whatever,” replied the young man, “except that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks, upon the Warren Bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her vail is usually drawn.”
“Who can she visit in Charlestown?”
“No one, I have good reason to think.”
“Why so?”
“I had once the curiosity to follow her as far as I deemed it prudent and courteous. She kept on entirely through the town—at least through the thickly settled portion of it. Her step was too quick for the step of one who was merely going to pay a friendly visit.”
“You have had, if I understand you, at least a glimpse of her countenance?”
“Yes. Once, in passing her, her vail was half drawn aside, as if to get a freer draught of air.”
“And her face?”
“Was thin and pale.”
“And beautiful?”
“So I should call it. Not pretty—not a mere doll’s face—but intellectually beautiful; yet full of softness. In fact, the face of a woman with a mind and heart. But sorrow had touched her—and pain. And, above all, the marks of crushed affection were too plainly visible upon her young countenance. All this could be seen at the single glance I obtained, before her vail was drawn hurriedly down.”
“Strange that she should seek so to hide her face from every eye. Can it be that she is some one we have known, who has fallen so low?”
“No, I think not,” replied Milford. “I am certain that I have never seen her before. Her face is a strange one to me. At least, the glance I had revealed no familiar feature.”
“Well, I, for one, am resolved to know more about her,” remarked Perkins, as the two friends paused before separating. “Since she has awakened so sudden, and yet so strong an interest in my mind, I should feel that I was not doing right if I made no effort to learn something of her true position in our city, where, I am much inclined to think, she is a stranger.”
The young men, after a few more words, separated, Perkins getting into an “hourly” and going oyer to Charlestown to see a man on some business who could not be at his house until late in the day. The transaction of this business took more time than he had expected, and it was nearly an hour after nightfall before he returned to Boston. After passing the “draw,” as he crossed the old bridge, he perceived by the light of a lamp, some distance ahead, a female figure hurrying on with rapid steps.
“It’s the strange girl I saw at Berlaps’, as I live!” he mentally ejaculated, quickening his pace. “I must see where she hides herself away.”
The night was very dark, and the form of the stranger, as she hurried forward, was soon buried in obscurity. In a little while, she emerged into the little circle of light that diffused itself around the lamp that stood at the termination of the bridge, and in the next moment was again invisible. Perkins now pressed forward, and was soon clear of the bridge, and moving along the dark, lonely avenue that led up to the more busy part of the city. He had advanced here but a few paces, when a faint scream caused him to bound onward at full speed. In a moment after, he came to the corner of a narrow, dark street, down which he perceived two forms hurrying; one, a female, evidently struggling against the superior force of the other.
His warning cry, and the sound of his rapidly advancing footsteps, caused the man to relax his hold, when the female figure glided away with wind-like fleetness. The man hesitated an instant; but, before Perkins reached the spot where he stood, ran off in an opposite direction to that taken by the woman.
Here was an adventure calculated to give to the mind of Perkins a new and keener interest in the young seamstress. He paused but a moment, and then ran at the height of his speed in the direction the female form, which he had good reason to believe was hers, had taken. But she was nowhere to be seen. Either she had sought a shelter in one of the houses, or had hurried forward with a fleetness that carried her far beyond his reach.
Thoughtful and uneasy in mind, he could hardly tell why, he sought his lodgings; and, retiring at once to his chamber, seated himself by a table upon which were books and papers, and soon became lost in sad memories of the past that strongly linked themselves, why he could not tell, for they had no visible connection, with the present. For a long time he sat in this abstract mood, his hand shading his face from the light. At last he arose slowly and went to a drawer, from which he took a small morocco case, and, returning with it to the table, seated himself again near the lamp. He opened the case, and let the light fall strongly upon the miniature of a most beautiful female. Her light brown hair, that fell in rich and glossy ringlets to her neck, relieved tastefully her broad white forehead, and the gentle roundness of her pure cheeks, that were just tinged with the flush of health and beauty. But these took not away from the instant attraction of her dark hazel eyes, that beamed tenderly upon the gazer’s face. Perkins bent for many minutes over this sweet image; then pressing it to his lips, he murmured, as he leaned back, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling—
“Where, where in the spirit-land dost thou dwell, dear angel? In what dark and undiscovered cave of the ocean rests, in dreamless sleep, thy beautiful but unconscious body? Snatched from me in the bloom of youth, when fresh flowers blossomed in thy young heart to bless me with their fragrance, how hast thou left me in loneliness and desolation of spirit! And yet thou seemest near to me, and, of late, nearer and dearer than ever. Oh, that I could hear thy real voice, even if spoken to the ear of my spirit, and see once more thy real face, were it only a spiritual presence!”
The young man then fell into a dreamy state of mind, in which we will leave him for the present.
CHAPTER V.
SOME OF THE TROUBLES OF A NEEDLEWOMAN.—A FRIEND IN NEED.
THE prompt assistance rendered, by Dr. R—to Mrs. Gaston came just in time. It enabled her to pay her month’s rent, due for several days, to settle the amount owed to Mrs. Grubb, and lay in more wood for the coming winter. This consumed all her money, and left her once more dependent upon the meagre reward of her hard labor to supply food and clothing for herself and her two remaining children. From a state of almost complete paralysis of mind, consequent upon the death of Ella, her necessities aroused her. On the second day after the child had been taken, she again resumed her suspended toil. The sight of the unfinished garment which had been laid aside after bending over it
