resume once more her wearying task. Unrolling one of the coarse jackets she had brought home, she found that it was of heavy beaver cloth, and had to be sewed with strong thread. For a moment or two, after she spread it out upon the table, she looked at the many pieces to be wrought up into a well-finished whole, and thought of the hours of hard labor it would require to accomplish the task. A feeling of discouragement stole into her heart, and she leaned her head listlessly upon the table. But only a moment or two elapsed before a thought of her children aroused her flagging energies.
It was after eleven o’clock before she was fairly at work. The first thing to be done, after laying aside the different portions of the garment in order, was to put in the pockets. This was not accomplished before one o’clock, when she had to leave her work to prepare a meal for herself and little ones. There remained from their supper and breakfast, a small portion of the fish and potatoes. Both of these had been boiled, and hashed up together, and, of what remained, all that was required was to make it into balls and fry it. This was not a matter to occasion much delay. In fifteen minutes from the time she laid aside her needle and thimble, the table had been set, with its one dish upon it, and Harry and little Emma were eating with keen appetites their simple meal. But, to Mrs. Gaston, the food was unpalatable; and Ella turned from it with loathing. There was, however, nothing more, in the house; and both Ella and her mother had to practice self-denial and patience.
After the table was cleared away, Mrs. Gaston again resumed her labor; but Emma was unusually fretful, and hung about her mother nearly the whole afternoon, worrying her mind, and keeping her back a good deal, so that, when the brief afternoon had worn away, and the deepening twilight compelled her to suspend her labors, she had made but little perceptible progress in her work.
“Be good children now until I come back,” she said, as she rose from her chair, put on her, bonnet, and drew an old Rob Roy shawl around her shoulders. Descending then into the street, she took her way with a quick step toward that part of the city in which her employer kept his store. Her heart beat anxiously as she drew near, and trembled lest she should not find him in. If not?—but the fear made her feel sick. She had no food in the house, no friends to whom she could apply, and there was no one of whom she could venture to ask to be trusted for even a single loaf of bread. At length she reached the well-lighted store, in which were several customers, upon whom both Berlaps and his clerk were attending with business assiduity. The sight of the tailor relieved the feelings of poor Mrs. Gaston very much. Passing on to the back part of the store, she stood patiently awaiting his leisure. But his customers were hard to please. And, moreover, one was scarcely suited, before another came in. Thus it continued for nearly half an hour, when, the poor woman became so anxious about the little ones she had left at home, and especially about Ella, who had appeared to have a good deal of fever when she came away, that she walked slowly down the store, and paused opposite to where Berlaps stood waiting upon a customer, in order to attract his attention. But he took not the slightest notice of her. She remained thus for nearly ten minutes longer. Then she came up to the side of the counter, and, leaning over toward him, said, in a half whisper—
“Can I speak a word with you, Mr. Berlaps?”
“I’ve no time to attend to you now, woman,” he answered, gruffly, and the half-frightened creature shrunk away quickly, and again stood far back in the store.
It was full half an hour after this before the shop was cleared, and then the tailor, instead of coming back to where Mrs. Gaston stood, commenced folding up and replacing his goods upon the shelves. Fearful lest other customers would enter, the seamstress came slowly forward, and again stood near Berlaps.
“What do you want here to-night, woman?” asked the tailor, without lifting his eyes from the employment in which he was engaged.
“I brought home the other pair of trowsers this morning, but you were not in,” Mrs. Gaston replied.
“Well?”
“Michael couldn’t pay me, and so I’ve run up this evening.”
“You’re a very troublesome kind of a person,” said Berlaps, looking her rebukingly in the face. Then taking a dollar and five cents from the drawer, he pushed them toward her on the counter, adding, as he did so, “There, take your money. One would think you were actually starving.”
Mrs. Gaston picked up the coin eagerly, and hurried away. It was more than an hour since she had left home. Her children were alone, and the night had closed in some time before. The thought of this made her quicken her pace to a run. As she passed on, the sight of an orange in a window reminded her of her promise to Ella. She stopped and bought a small one, and then hurried again on her way.
“Here’s half a dollar of what I owe you, Mrs. Grubb,” said she, as she stepped into the shop of that personage, and threw the coin she named upon the counter. “And now give me a loaf of bread, quickly; some molasses in this cup, and a pint of milk in this,” drawing two little mugs from under her shawl as she spoke.
The articles she mentioned were soon ready for her. She had paid for them, and was about stepping from the door, when she paused, and, turning about, said:
“Oh, I had like to have forgotten! I want two cent candles. I shall have to work late to-night.”
The candles were cut from a large bunch hanging above the narrow counter, wrapped in a very small bit of paper, and given to Mrs. Gaston, who took them and went quickly away.
All was dark and still in the room that contained her children, as she gained the house that sheltered them. She lit one of her candles below, and went up-stairs. As she entered, Ella’s bright eyes glistened upon her from the bed; but little Emma had fallen asleep with her head in the lap of Henry, who was seated upon the floor with his back against the wall, himself likewise locked in the arms of forgetfulness. The fire had nearly gone out, and the room was quite cold.
“Oh, mother, why did yon stay so long?” Ella asked, looking her earnestly in the face.
“I couldn’t get back any sooner, my dear. But see! I’ve brought the orange you have wished for so long. You can eat it all by yourself, for Emma is fast asleep on the floor, and can’t cry for it.”
But Emma roused up, at the moment, and began to fret and cry for something to eat.
“Don’t cry, dear. You shall have your supper in a little while. I have brought you home some nice bread and molasses,” said the mother, in tones meant to soothe and quiet her hungry and impatient little one. But Emma continued to fret and cry on.
“It’s so cold, mamma!” she said. “It’s so cold, and I’m hungry!”
“Don’t cry, dear,” again urged the mother. “I’ll make the fire up nice and warm in a little while, and then you shall have something good to eat.”
But—”It’s so cold, mamma! it’s so cold, and I’m hungry!” was the continued and incessant complaint of the
