temperature of her apartment high enough to be comfortable. Those who occupied the other two rooms, in each of which, like her own, was a bed, a couple of chairs, and a table, with a small looking-glass, were seamstresses, who were compelled, as she was, to earn a scanty subsistence by working for the slop-shops. But they could work many more hours than she could, and consequently earned more money than she was able to do. Her food—the small portion she consumed—she provided herself, and prepared it at the stove, which was common property.
On returning from the tailor’s, as has been seen, she laid her bundle of work upon the bed, and seated herself with a thoughtful air, resting her head upon her hand. The more she thought, the more she seemed disturbed; and finally arose, and commenced walking the floor slowly. Suddenly pausing, at length she sighed heavily, and went to the bed upon which lay her work, took it up, unrolled the bundle, and seating herself by the table, entered once more upon her daily toil. But her mind was too much disturbed, from some cause, to permit her to pursue her work steadily. In a little while she laid aside the garment upon which she had begun to sew, and, leaning forward, rested her head upon the table, sighing heavily as she did so, and pressing one hand hard against her side, as if to relieve pain. A tap at the door aroused her from this state of abstraction. As she turned, the door was quietly opened, and the woman she had seen at the tailor’s a short time before, entered. She started to her feet at this unexpected apparition, and gazed, with a look of surprise, inquiry, and hope, upon her visitor.
“Can it be Mrs. Gaston? But no! no!” and the young creature shook her head mournfully.
“Eugenia!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston, springing forward, and instantly the two were locked in each other’s arms, and clinging together with convulsive eagerness.
“But no, no! It cannot be my own Eugenia,” said Mrs. Gaston, slowly disengaging herself, and holding the young woman from her, while she read over every feature of her pale, thin face. “Surely I am in a strange dream!”
“Yes, I am your own Eugenia Ballantine! my more than mother! Or, the wreck of her, which a wave of life’s ever restless ocean has heaved upon the shore.”
“Eugenia Ballantine! How can it be! Lost years ago at sea, how can she be in this room, and in this condition! It is impossible! And yet you are, you must be, my own dear Eugenia.”
“I am! I am!” sobbed the maiden, leaning her head upon the bosom of Mrs. Gaston, and weeping until tears fell in large drops upon the floor.
“But the sea gives not up its dead,” said Mrs. Gaston, in a doubting, bewildered tone.
“True—but the sea never claimed me as a victim.”
“And your father?”
The maiden’s face flushed a moment, while a shade of anguish passed over it.
“At another time, I will tell you all. My mind is now too much agitated and confused. But why do I find you here? And more than all, why as a poor seamstress, toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of water? Where is your husband? Where are your children?”
“Three years ago,” replied Mrs. Gaston, “we removed to this city. My husband entered into business, and was unsuccessful. He lost every thing, and about a year ago died, leaving me destitute. I have struggled on, since then, the best I could, but to little purpose. The pittance I have been able to earn at the miserable prices we are paid by the tailors has scarcely sufficed to keep my children from starving. But one of them”—and the mother’s voice trembled—”my sweet Ella! was not permitted to remain with me, when I could no longer provide things comfortable for my little ones. A few short weeks ago, she was taken away to a better world. It was a hard trial, but I would not have her back again. And Henry, the dear boy, you remember—I have been forced to let him go from my side out into the world. I have neither seen nor heard from him since I parted with him. Emma alone remains.”
Mrs. Gaston’s feelings so overcame her at this relation, that she wept and sobbed for some time.
“But, my dear Eugenia!—my child that I loved so tenderly, and have so long mourned as lost,” she said, at length, drawing her arm affectionately around Miss Ballantine, “in better and happier times, we made one household for more than five pleasant years. Let us not be separated now, when there are clouds over our heads and sorrow on our paths. Together we shall be able to bear up better and longer than when separated. I have a room, into which I moved a week since, that is pleasanter than this. One room, one bed, one fire, and one light, will do for two as well as one. We shall be better able to contend with our lot together. Will you come with me, Eugenia?”
“Will I not, Mrs. Gaston? Oh, to be once more with you! To have one who can love me as you will love me! One to whom I can unburden my heart—Oh, I shall be too happy!”
And the poor creature hung upon the neck of her maternal friend, and wept aloud.
“Then come at once,” said Mrs. Gaston. “You have nothing to keep you here?”
“No, nothing,” replied Eugenia.
“I will get some one to take your trunk.” And Mrs. Gaston turned away and left the room. In a little while, she came back with a man, who removed the trunk to her humble dwelling-place. Thence we will follow them.
“And now, my dear Eugenia,” said Mrs. Gaston, after they had become settled down, and their minds had assumed a more even flow, “clear up to me this strange mystery. Why are you here, and in this destitute condition? How did you escape death? Tell me all, or I shall still think myself only in the bewildering mazes of a dream.”
CHAPTER X.
LIZZY GLENN’S NARRATIVE TO MRS. GASTON.
WITHOUT venturing the remotest allusion to her parting with her lover, Miss Ballantine commenced her narrative by saying—
“When I left New York with my father, for New Orleans, no voyage could have promised fairer. Mild, sunny weather, with good breezes and a noble ship, that scarcely seemed to feel the deep swell of the ocean, bore us pleasantly on toward the desired port. But, when only five days out, an awful calamity befel us. One night I was awakened from sleep by a terrific crash; and in a little while the startling cry of ‘The ship’s on fire!’ thrilled upon my ear, and sent an icy shudder to my heart. I arose from my berth, and put on my clothes hastily. By this time my father had come, dreadfully agitated, into the cabin; and while his own lips quivered, and his own voice trembled, he endeavored to quiet my fears, by telling me that there was no danger; that the ship had been struck with lightning; but that the fire occasioned thereby would readily be put out.
“When I ascended to the deck, however, I saw that we had little to hope for. While the masts and rigging were all enveloped in flame, a dense smoke was rising from the hold, indicating that the electric fluid, in its descent through the ship, had come in contact with something in the cargo that was highly combustible. Passengers and crew stood looking on with pale, horror-stricken faces. But the captain, a man of self-possession, aroused all from their lethargy by ordering, in a loud, clear voice, the masts and rigging to be cut away instantly. This order was
