Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[Chapter I. Hattie’s Letter.]

[Chapter II. Miss Scrimp’s Disappointment.]

[Chapter III. The Foreman’s Discovery.]

[Chapter IV. Tea-table Talk.]

[Chapter V. Does He Love Her?]

[Chapter VI. Joy to Toil-worn Hearts.]

[Chapter VII. Who Can She Be?]

[Chapter VIII. What Can This Mean?]

[Chapter IX. “Lizzie, I’ve Seen Her!”]

[Chapter X. Miss Scrimp’s Curiosity.]

[Chapter XI. Detected.]

[Chapter XII. Will She Keep Her Promises?]

[Chapter XIII. “It Is a Gem!” He Cried.]

[Chapter XIV. A Marked Change.]

[Chapter XV. A Proposition.]

[Chapter XVI. Hattie’s Resolve.]

[Chapter XVII. The Interview.]

[Chapter XVIII. Criticising the Sketches.]

[Chapter XIX. A Task Accomplished.]

[Chapter XX. Good Advice.]

[Chapter XXI. Jessie Albemarle.]

[Chapter XXII. The Ride Home.]

[Chapter XXIII. The Offer Refused.]

[Chapter XXIV. Scene in the Yosemite.]

[Chapter XXV. Frank’s Talk With His Sister.]

[Chapter XXVI. “It Is As I Feared.”]

[Chapter XXVII. Aunt Louisa.]

[Chapter XXVIII. “I Am That Child’s Mother!”]

[Chapter XXIX. Reunited.]

[Chapter XXX. “Oh! I Am So Unhappy!”]

[Chapter XXXI. The New Help.]

[Chapter XXXII. “She Is Dying!”]

[Chapter XXXIII. “My Mother Is Dying!”]

[Chapter XXXIV. Hattie’s Sex Defended.]

[Chapter XXXV. Battling With the Storm.]

[Chapter XXXVI. Safe in Port.]

[Chapter XXXVII. How the News Was Received.]

[Chapter XXXVIII. An Important Dispatch.]

[Chapter XXXIX. Mr. Jones Promoted.]

[Chapter XL. Captain Smith.]

[Chapter XLI. Hattie’s Welcome.]

[Chapter XLII. Found.]

[Chapter XLIII. Hattie Leaves the Bindery.]

[Chapter XLIV. Thine Forever!]

EAGLE
LIBRARY

No. 8

Beautiful But Poor

By Julia Edwards

From copyright photo by Aime Dupont, N. Y.

STREET & SMITH
Publishers — New York

All stories copyrighted. Cannot be had in any other edition.

Copyrighted Fiction by the Best Authors

NEW EAGLE SERIES

Price, 15 Cents :: Issued Weekly

(Trade supplied exclusively by the American News Company and its branches.)

The books in this line comprise an unrivaled collection of copyrighted novels by authors who have won fame wherever the English language is spoken. Foremost among these is Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, whose works are contained in this line exclusively. Every book in the New Eagle Series is of generous length, of attractive appearance, and of undoubted merit. No better literature can be had at any price. Beware of imitations of the S. & S. novels, which are sold cheap because their publishers were put to no expense in the matter of purchasing manuscripts and making plates.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

NOTICE:—If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

THE EAGLE SERIES

OF POPULAR FICTION

Principally Copyrights Elegant Colored Covers

PRICE, TEN CENTS

(Trade supplied exclusively by the American News Company and its branches.)

While the books in the New Eagle Series are undoubtedly better value, being bigger books, the stories offered to the public in this line must not be underestimated. There are over four hundred copyrighted books by the famous authors, which cannot be had in any other line. No other publisher in the world has a line that contains so many different titles, nor can any publisher ever hope to secure books that will match those in the Eagle Series in quality.

This is the pioneer line of copyrighted ten cent novels, and that it has struck popular fancy just right is proven by the fact that for ten years it has been the first choice of American readers. The only reason that we can afford to give such excellent reading at ten cents per copy, is that our unlimited capital and great organization enable us to manufacture books more cheaply and to sell more of them without expensive advertising, than any other publisher.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

NOTICE:—If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.

Stories for boys must be true to life. If they are not, boys will have nothing to do with them. This has been our experience with the MEDAL LIBRARY books. In it we publish all the books that other publishers get a dollar for. What do we ask for them? Only ten cents!

THE MEDAL
LIBRARY

contains stories by Horatio Alger, Jr., Oliver Optic, G. A. Henty, Frank H. Converse, James Otis and a hundred others who are just as famous. Take our word for it, a boy never bought better reading matter or had a more generous list to select from than what we are now offering to you at ten cents per copy in the MEDAL LIBRARY.

PRICE, TEN CENTS PER COPY

“The Right Books at the Right Price”

NOTICE—If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York

The Only Book Line Devoted
to Buffalo Bill’s Adventures

THE FAR WEST
LIBRARY

¶ The days are past when it was unsafe for a man to go alone beyond the Mississippi River, but thousands of people like to read about the old days in which the rattle of muskets and war whoops of savages closely mingled.

¶ The Far West Library publishes stories of the West as it was, and no one who likes vigorous tales of the West can do better at any where near the price, than these splendid stories.

¶ They were all written by a friend of Mr. Cody who has had many narrow escapes in company with the famous “Buffalo Bill” and who knows that redoubtable warrior better than any other living man.

¶ Bound in exceptionally attractive covers and printed from good, clear, readable type.

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

“THE RIGHT BOOKS AT THE RIGHT PRICE”

NOTICE: If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York

WORTH THE PRICE

The New Romance
Library

We have tried hard to make this a line of first-class big books—books that no reader can possibly hesitate about paying fifteen cents for. The titles and authors are just as popular as we could make them, and the books are generous in quantity as well as in quality.

We want you to become acquainted with the New Romance Library for its very name is fast becoming synonymous with first-class fiction.

If you cannot get these from your dealer, send us his name and address and we will endeavor to get him to supply you with copies.

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS PER COPY

“The Right Books at the Right Price”

NOTICE—If these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage.

Street & Smith, Publishers, New York

BEAUTIFUL BUT POOR.

BY
JULIA EDWARDS,

AUTHOR OF
“Prettiest of All,” “The Little Widow”, Etc.

NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers.

Copyright, 1892,

By STREET & SMITH

Publishers Note

Notwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains undiminished.

There are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their thoughts to a set of entirely different characters.

The S. & S. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics. Our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction. Every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the S. & S. lines, each one making them stronger, better and more invincible.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers
79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

BEAUTIFUL BUT POOR.

CHAPTER I.
HATTIE’S LETTER.

Fancy a dingy old brick house on B—— street, New York city—dusty outside and moldy in all its ragged, papered walls inside—a dreary house with small, poorly ventilated rooms—these rooms wretchedly furnished, and I have made you at home in “Miss Scrimp’s Boarding-House for ladies only—no gentlemen boarded, lodged, or admitted.”

For this was the inscription on a faded tin sign nailed over the front door.

And in this building existed—I will not say lived—most of the time, between thirty and fifty working girls, attracted there by the cheapness of board, which enabled them to make ends meet on the wretched wages due to “hard times,” or hard-hearted employers, or perhaps to a medium between the two.

Miss Scrimp, a maiden lady, who acknowledged herself to be forty-five—one of the oldest boarders said that had been her age for over ten years—only charged four dollars a week for boarders in her best, lower rooms, and it ran as low as two dollars and a half in the upper story, and two attic chambers—for this was a four-story house. She had but two servants—one to cook, wash, and iron, the other a pitiful, thin little creature, as errand girl, waitress, maid of all work, and all work it was for her, from early dawn till far into the night. She did all the sweeping, set out the table, helped to wash and wipe dishes, carried Miss Scrimp’s market-basket, went to the grocery, cleaned and lighted lamps—indeed, did almost everything that had to be done outside of the kitchen, and bore the abuse of Biddy Lanigan, the cook, and that of her mistress, like a little martyr, as she in truth was.

Little Jess they called her—her full name was Jessie Albemarle—was as good as she could be to all around her, no matter how she was treated, but there was one young girl in that house whom she almost worshiped—first, because Hattie Butler was very good to her; next, because Hattie was really the most beautiful creature she had ever seen on earth.

Though Hattie lodged in the very topmost room of the house, when she came home weary from her daily toil she would find her room swept as clean as clean could be, fresh water in her pitcher, and often a bouquet of flowers, picked up at market or elsewhere, perfuming the little room. And she knew Little Jess had done all this for the love there was between them.

Hattie, I said before, was very beautiful. Just seventeen, and entering on her eighteenth year, her form was full of that slender grace so peculiar to budding womanhood—just tall enough to pass the medium, without being an approach to awkwardness. Eyes of a jet, sparkling black, shaded by long, fringe-like lashes, features of the Grecian type, complexion rich, but not too brown, the expressiveness of her face a very marvel.

No one, to look at her white hands, her slim, tapering fingers, her general appearance, even in her plain dress, would have, at first glance, taken her for a working girl, though she sewed folios in a book-bindery down town for ten hours every day sure, and often much longer when there was overwork to do.

She was a quiet girl, making but few friends, and no intimates, though when I write of her she had been for nearly two years a boarder with Miss Scrimp. The latter, for a wonder, liked her, though, as a general thing, she seemed to hate pretty girls, simply because they were pretty; while she had most likely kept her state of single wretchedness because she was more than plain—she was ugly. She had a sharp, hook nose—a parrot-bill nose, if we dare insult the bird by a comparison. She was cross-eyed, and her eyes were small and greenish-gray in hue. Her cheek bones were high, her chin long and sharp. Her thin lips opened almost from ear to ear, and in her dirty morning gown, slopping around, her form looked like an old coffee-bag, half filled with paper scraps, perambulating about over a pair of old slippers—number sevens if an inch.

But Miss Scrimp really liked Hattie Butler, beautiful as she was, and this was the reason:

At supper-time, before she ate a mouthful, every Saturday night Hattie laid her board money, two dollars and a half, down at the head of the table where Miss Scrimp presided. It had been her habit ever since she came; it was a good example to others, though all did not follow it.

Again, Hattie ate what was placed before her, and never grumbled. She never found hairs in the rancid butter; or, if she did, she kept it to herself. If her bread was dry and hard she soaked it in her tea or coffee, but did not turn her nose up as others did, and threaten to go away if Miss Scrimp did not set a better table.

And, best of all, Hattie was a light eater, as Miss Scrimp often said, in hearing of her other boarders, too sensible to hurt her complexion by using too much greasy food.

Some of the homelier girls sometimes used the old “gag,” if I may use a story term, and said “she lived on love;” yet the dozen or more who worked in the same bindery with her never saw her receive attentions from any man—never saw any person approach her in a lover-like way.

Her only fault to all who knew her was that there was a mystery about her.

That she was a born lady, her manners, her quiet, dignified way, her brief conversation, ever couched in unexceptionable language, told plainly. But she never told any one about herself. She never spoke of parents or relatives—never alluded to past fortunes. But Little Jess used to look in wonder at a shelf of books in Hattie’s room. There were books in French, German, and Spanish, and on Sundays, when she sometimes stole up stairs to see her favorite among all the boarders, she found her reading these books. And she had a large portfolio of drawings, and at times she added to them with a skillful pencil.

One thing was certain. Hattie was very poor—she had no income beyond that gained by her daily labor. She washed her own clothes, and, by permission of Biddy Lanigan, ironed them on Saturday evenings in the kitchen, for she had even a kind word for Biddy, and kind words are almost as precious as gold to the poor.

Hattie seldom was able to earn over four dollars a week, as wages ran, and thus she had but little to use for dress, though she was ever dressed with exceeding taste, plain though her garments were. These she cut and made, buying the patterns and goods only.

When she had overwork she made more, and she had been seen with a bank-book in her hand, so it was evident she had saved something to help along with should sickness overtake her.

She had been two years and one week boarding at Miss Scrimp’s, when one Thursday the postman, or mail-carrier, rather, delivered a letter at the door directed to her.

Hattie was down at the bindery then, and Jessie Albemarle, answering the bell, got the letter. She would have kept it till Hattie came, but her mistress demanded to see it, and took charge of it.

Little Jess had seen that it was a large letter, postmarked from somewhere in California, and that it had a singular seal in wax on the back. The impression represented two hearts pierced with an arrow.

The address was only the name, street, number, and city.

Miss Scrimp looked at it very closely. Had there been no seal, only gum as a closing medium, it is possible her examination might have been closer.

Biddy Lanigan, once when she quarreled with her mistress and employer, boldly twitted her with having “stamed” letters over her “tay-kettle” and then opened them.

“This is a man’s handwrite!” muttered Miss Scrimp. “I don’t like my boarders having men to write to ’em. But this one is away off in Californy—like as not, rich as all creation. I wish I knew who he is and what he wants. I’ll hand her the letter afore all the boarders at supper to-night, and if she opens it, I’ll watch her face, and maybe I can guess from that what’s up. She’ll never tell no other way. She has just the closest little mouth I ever did see. But come to think, she mightn’t open it at the table. She wouldn’t be apt to, for all the girls would be curious to know if it was a love-letter, and plague her, maybe. And she is too good a girl to be plagued. I’ll keep it till after she has had supper and gone to her room, and then I’ll go up, friendly-like and take a chair—if there’s two in her room, which I’m not sure of—hand her the letter, and wait till she opens it. And I’ll ask her if her brother in Californy is well—make as if some one had told me she had a brother there.”

This plan, talked over to herself, satisfied Miss Scrimp, and she put the letter in one of her capacious pockets, there to remain till evening.

CHAPTER II.
MISS SCRIMP’S DISAPPOINTMENT.

The cracked bell, which had done service all those long years in the establishment of Miss Scrimp, had rung its discordant call for supper. The hour was late, for many of her boarders worked till dark, and had some distance to walk to reach home, and the dining-room was dimly lighted by two hanging lamps, one over each end of the table. They served, however, to show the scattered array of thin sliced bread, still thinner slices of cold meat, and the small plates of very pale butter laid along at distant intervals. Also to show dimly a few rosy faces, but many worn and pale ones—almost all having, like Cassius, “a lean and hungry look.”

The rosy faces were new-comers, who had left good country homes to learn sad lessons in city life.

Little Jessie was hurrying to and fro, carrying the cups of hot beverage, which her mistress called tea, to the boarders, and answering the impatient cries of those not yet served as fast as she could.

Biddy Lanigan, who stood almost six feet high, was fleshy to boot, and had a face almost as red as the coals she worked over, stood with her arms akimbo at the door, which opened into the kitchen, ready for a bitter answer should any fault-finder’s voice reach her ear, and also prepared to refill the tea-urn with hot water when it ran low, on the principle that a second cup of tea should never be as strong as the first.

There was a murmur of many voices at first, but the clatter of knives and forks, and cups and saucers soon drowned all this, and until the dishes were literally emptied, little other noise could be heard.

Long before the rest were done sweet Hattie Butler had finished her single slice of bread and butter, one cracker and a cup of tea, and gone to her room. Grim and silent, yet keenly overlooking the appetite of each boarder, sat Miss Scrimp, until all were through, and had gone to their rooms, or into the old dingy room, slanderously called a parlor, to chat awhile before retiring.

Then Biddy Lanigan came in with two extra cups of strong tea, one for the mistress, the other for herself—a plate of baked potatoes and a couple of nice chops.

Poor Jessie Albemarle had her supper to make from the little—the very little the hungry boarders had left.

Miss Scrimp was not long at the table. She was burning with curiosity about the letter in her pocket, and so she took a small lamp in her hand and threaded her way up the steep, narrow, uncarpeted stairs to the attic where our heroine lodged.

Knocking at the door, it was opened by Hattie quickly, who, with her wealth of jet-black hair, glossy as silk, all let down over her shoulders, looked, if possible, tenfold more beautiful than she had below, with her hair neatly bound up so as not to be in the way when she was at her work.

Hattie had been reading, for on her little stand, near the bed, was a lamp and an open book.

There were not two chairs in the room, but Hattie proffered her only one to Miss Scrimp, and waited to learn the cause of this unexpected visit, for Miss Scrimp never called on a boarder without she was behindhand in her board, and then her calls were not visits of compliment or pleasure either.

“I do declare—only one chair here, Miss Hattie? It’s a shame—I’ll rate Jess soundly for her neglect!” said Miss Scrimp, looking around as if she did not know how poorly the room was furnished.

“Do not scold her, Miss Scrimp. I do not need but one chair—I never have any company to occupy another. Sit down—I will sit on my bed as I often do.”

“Well—thankee, I will sit down, for it is tiresome coming up those long stairs. I came up to tell you I had a letter for you the letter-carrier left to-day. I didn’t want to give it to you down at table, for them giddy girls are always noticing everything, and they might have thought it was a love-letter, and tried to tease you. Here it is.”

“Thank you, Miss Scrimp, you were very considerate,” said Hattie, gently, as she received the letter, looked calmly at the superscription, and then opened it at the end of the envelope with a dainty little pearl-handled knife.

Miss Scrimp watched every shade on Hattie’s face as the girl read the letter. There was an eager look in her eyes as they scanned the first few lines, then a sudden pallor, and it was followed by a tremulous flush that suffused brow, cheeks, and even her neck.

In spite of an apparent endeavor to keep calm, Hattie was to some extent agitated. She knew that those cross-eyes were fixed upon her, and she did not intend, if she had a secret, to share it with the owner of them.

In a very short time the letter was read and restored to its envelope, and now Miss Scrimp thought it time to try the plan she had formed for finding out who had written to her favorite boarder.

“Hope you’ve good news from your brother, Miss Hattie,” she said. “I heard some one say you had a brother in Californy. Hope he is doin’ well. It’s an awful country for gettin’ rich in, I’ve heard say.”

“My letter brings me very pleasant news, Miss Scrimp. I thank you again for the trouble you took to bring it up to me. You are always kind to me.”

“I ought to be, dear. I haven’t another boarder in this house, out of forty-three all told now, who is as punctual and so little trouble as you. And you can tell your brother so when you write to him.”

“When I do write to my brother I will surely mention you, Miss Scrimp,” said Hattie, with an amused smile.

For, with quick intuition, she saw the aim of the curious woman.

“You didn’t say if he was doing well?” continued Miss Scrimp, determined to get some information.

“The letter only refers to business of mine—not to that of any one else,” said Hattie, gently but firmly.

“You’ll not answer it now, will you? I might mail it early, you know, when I go out for milk, for I’m first up in the house.”

“I shall not answer it to-night, Miss Scrimp. I am very tired, and am going right to bed. I thank you for your kind offer as much as if I accepted it.”

Beaten at every point, and so gently and graciously that she could not take offense, Miss Scrimp took up her lamp with a sigh, and said:

“Poor, dear thing, I know you must be tired. If your brother is getting rich, as he must be, there in that land of silver and gold, I should think he’d send for you to go to him.”

“Good-night, kind Miss Scrimp—good-night,” was all that Hattie answered, as she made a motion toward preparing for bed.

“Good-night, dear—good-night,” said Miss Scrimp, a little snappishly, for she had made that long, upstair journey for nothing.

The door closed, and poor Hattie was alone.

And tears came into her eyes now, and she knelt down and prayed.

“Heavenly Father, aid me and tell me what to do.”

CHAPTER III.
THE FOREMAN’S DISCOVERY.

The bindery in which Hattie Butler, with over one hundred other persons, male and female, worked, was famous for doing very fine private work, outside of that done for many publishers who had their work contracted for there. Gentlemen of wealth and taste, who had rare old works in worn-out covers, and wished them preserved in more stately dress, frequently brought them there for the purpose of outer renovation.

So it happened that on the very morning which succeeded the night when Hattie received the California letter, a fine equipage, from far up town, stopped in the narrow street which fronted the bindery, and an elderly, old-fashioned gentleman got out and toiled up the stairs to the bindery floor with a bundle of some size under one arm.

He was met, quite obsequiously, by Mr. W——, one of the proprietors, who knew, by past experience, that some nice, well-paying work was in view, and asked into the office.

“No, no, I am in a hurry,” said the old gentleman. “I want to see your foreman—I have some French and German reviews here—old and rare—which are all to pieces and somewhat mixed up. I bought them at an auction—a regular old bookworm once owned them, but he died, and his graceless heirs sold off the collection of years for a mere song, compared to their real value. I wish these properly collated, and bound nicely for my library.”

“The foreman will wait upon you, Mr. Legare, in a few moments,” said the proprietor. “Take a seat by this table.”

The man of wealth sat down, and Mr. W—— sent a boy after the foreman.

The latter came and looked over the mixed up and scattered pages with a perplexed look.

“I’m afraid you can do nothing with them,” said Mr. Legare, noticing the expression in the foreman’s face. “I am sorry, for I doubt if a second copy of either work can be found in this city, or indeed in America.”

“Try, Mr. Jones—try your very best,” said Mr. W——, anxiously.

“I think we can do it, sir,” said the foreman, brightening up. “I accidentally discovered that one of our girls, Hattie Butler, is a good linguist—reads German and French as well as she does English—one of our best and most quiet girls, too.”

“Send for her, please,” said Mr. Legare. “I do so want to preserve these works in good shape.”

And presently Hattie Butler stood before the trio—one of her employers, Mr. Legare, and the foreman—calm and lady-like, neat in her white apron and brown calico dress, her black hair wound in a queenly crown about her shapely head.

“Hattie, see what can be done with these old reviews,” said the foreman, with the familiar, bossy style peculiar to too many of his class.

The young girl took up the French work, and instantly said:

“This is very old. A French review of Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ Some pages, I see, are misplaced; but if all are here, sir, I can soon arrange them.”

Mr. W—— looked at Mr. Legare triumphantly.

“The German work—can you arrange that also, young lady?” asked Mr. Legare, looking in wonder at this beautiful girl, so young, working here, yet evidently a scholar.

Hattie took up the other review, glanced over the pages, and replied:

“Yes, sir. I see that this is a bitter attack on Martin Luther, and must date with the first ages of the Protestant Reformation.”

“Great Heaven! why, young lady, what are you doing here with such an education?”

“Working, sir, as thousands do in this great city and elsewhere, for my daily bread.”

“Sewing folios at the bench, and we have no better in the shop,” added the foreman.

“Do you understand any other languages?” asked the wondering man of wealth.

“Italian and Spanish, sir. I was taught by my mother, who was not only a fine linguist, but had traveled a great deal in the countries where these various languages are spoken. I was born in Italy.”

“Yet of American parentage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is no place for you, young lady. Your education should place you in a far higher sphere.”

“Excuse me, sir. Shall I at once go to work to arrange these pages? I will sew them myself when I have them all right, so there will be no mistake.”

“Yes—yes—thank you. I will reward you well,” said Mr. Legare, with unusual warmth, for he was a very steady, precise old gentleman, generally, in all things.

“Thank you, sir; all pay and emoluments must go to my employers. I receive my wages—no more.”

And Hattie, with a graceful bow, took up the scattered pages, and went to her work-bench.

“W——, who on earth is this prodigy? The mistress of five languages—for she speaks English perfectly, and as pretty and lady-like as any woman that I ever met.”

The proprietor almost blushed when he said:

“My dear Mr. Legare, she has worked here, I believe, for nearly two years, at the same bench, and until to-day I never knew her acquirements. I have often noticed her beauty and extreme modesty, for she has avoided all intimacies in the shop, but nothing beyond this has attracted my notice. I never make myself familiar with my hands—seldom speak to them, except through the foreman. I am as much surprised as you at this discovery, and shall promote the girl at once, and increase her wages. Our work has increased so much—private work, like yours, that as a collator, translator, and arranger, she will have enough to do nearly all the time. Mr. Jones, you can so inform her, and prepare a table in some quiet part of the shop, where there is little noise, and she will not be disturbed.”

The foreman turned away with a bow of acquiescence, but was recalled to receive directions as to the style of binding required by Mr. Legare for the new works.

“This young lady—Miss Butler, I believe, is her name—will tell you what titles to put on the backs, and be sure to have the original dates of the issue of works there also. I am very particular about that.”

“I know it, sir, and we will be very careful,” said the foreman.

And when the man of wealth and influence turned to leave, Mr. W—— went down the stairs with him, and saw him into his carriage, and stood bare-headed on the sidewalk until he had driven away.

And this is Republican, Democratic America!

No kings, nor dukes, nor lords here—but to the sovereignty of wealth the reddest or blackest republican, or the noisiest democrat, bends his servile knee and cowering head more abjectly than any serf in Russia bows before the imperial form.

Independence! Bah! ’Tis but a name!

CHAPTER IV.
TEA-TABLE TALK.

There was a regular flutter in the boarding-house of Miss Scrimp when the bindery girls got in that Friday evening; for they brought the news that Hattie Butler had been promoted in the bindery, a new position given her, and her wages raised to ten dollars a week. Some of the girls were really glad, for Hattie had ever been so gentle, so quiet, so kind when any of them were sick, that she had few enemies. But others were envious of her good fortune, as they ever had been of her beauty, so there were a few to sneer and hint that Mr. Jones, the foreman, or Mr. W——, one of the proprietors, had only promoted her because she was handsome, and they wanted her off by herself where they could talk to her and say things the other girls couldn’t hear.

The object of the flutter, the laudation, and the envy, seemed all this time to care the least for her promotion of any that knew it. She did not speak of it, even to Miss Scrimp, at whose right hand her chair at table was always placed; but the latter had heard of it before Hattie got home, and was ready with her congratulations the instant Hattie sat down.

“I’m awful glad to hear you’ve been set up in the bindery, and get so much better wages, dear,” she said.

And she screwed her sallow cheeks and thin lips into a picture of a smile which Nast would glory to copy, if he could only have seen it.

“Thank you, Miss Scrimp; but I do not know as it will be much better for me. My former work was very easy. It only exercised my fingers. This will tax both fingers and brain. My head aches over it already.”

“Dear, dear! Well, I’ll have Biddy Lanigan make you a real strong cup of tea and some toast.”

“No, thank you, Miss Scrimp, I do not wish it. The food which is good enough for the rest always satisfies me.”

“I know it, dear. You never find fault, and that makes me so much the more ready to better your fare when I can. And that reminds me—Miss Dolhear has got sick and gone home to the country; she that came here, poor thing, to learn dress-making; and her room, on the second floor, front, is empty now, and you shall have it for only one dollar more than you pay now, though I charged her two. Her folks were well off: they used to write and send her money, and I guess she got sick a-eatin’ too much cake and candy. Her room is all stuck up with it. But I’ll have Little Jess clean it out for you, if you’ll take it.”

“Thank you, Miss Scrimp, I do not wish to change. I feel very much at home in my little chamber, and the higher one gets in the city the purer is the air they breathe.”

“Dear, dear! I thought you’d like to change. But you know what you like best. Do let me call Biddy and have some toast made for you.”

“No, thank you, Miss Scrimp. There is plenty before me, I am sure.”

“Dear! dear! That’s just your own nice way always. I never heard a complaint from your lips, and there’s some that are never satisfied.”

And here Miss Scrimp sent a scornful, cross eyed glance down the table. But no one could tell exactly at whom she was looking, so the look didn’t hurt anybody.

As Hattie made no further remark, the usual clatter of knives and forks on slenderly-filled plates was alone heard for a time.

But when Hattie, as usual, arose earliest of all, and went to her room, quite an unusual rush of conversation, and all about her, commenced.

“Such luck! From four dollars a week to ten, and all because she can talk Dutch!” said one—a very plain and a very ignorant girl.

“Ten dollars? How she’ll shine out in silk on Sundays, I’ll bet, and look for a beau as fast as the best of us,” said another. “She couldn’t do it in ten-cent calico. Oh, no, the proud thing!”

“She is not a girl of that kind,” cried another, warmly. “She is the prettiest girl in this house to-night, and you all know it.”

“Yes, stick up for her, Sally Perkins. We know why. When you had the measles so bad she lost three days work sitting up with you and waiting on you.”

“Thank Heaven she did,” cried Sally, earnestly. “I might have died before one of you would have done as much for me. She is a living angel if ever there was one. So there now. I’ll never speak to a girl that breathes a word against her so long as I live.”

“Good for Sally Perkins,” cried a dozen in a breath, for more than one in that crowd of girls had received kindness from Hattie Butler when kindness was so much needed.

And the battle of tongues grew less and less, and soon tea was over, and the girls scattered as usual. Some to their rooms, weary enough to go right to rest—others to linger a little while in the old parlor and get others to fix up their scanty wardrobe so as to be ready for their only day of rest or pleasure—the blessed Sunday so near at hand—but one day of toil to intervene.

Our heroine—where was she? In her little chamber thanking her Heavenly Father that at last the stern strife for daily bread was made easier to her, and that a glimmer of light could be seen through the dark clouds of poverty.

Pure-hearted and innocent, she did not dream that any one could so envy her good fortune as to hate her for it. If she had she would have prayed God to forgive them.

CHAPTER V.
DOES HE LOVE HER?

Mr. W——, one of the proprietors of the bindery where our heroine worked—a junior partner, but the chief manager of the concern, was a single man, not yet forty, in the very prime of life. He was, as a man, not as a fop, very good-looking. His stalwart frame, well-developed, showed his American birth; but his full, round, rosy face spoke also of his English paternity. He had thus far in life been too busy to think of matrimony, and, living with his parents, who were in easy circumstances, he had never known the want of a home, or the need of a wife to make home bright. His sisters, of whom he had two, considerably younger than himself, had ever seen to his linen—his tailor looked to his wardrobe—he had little to trouble himself about. He belonged to a coterie or club of bachelors, and was never at a loss about a place to spend his evenings in.

But that day, when the wealthy and influential Mr. Legare had told Hattie Butler that she deserved to be in a higher sphere, had opened Mr. W——’s eyes—opened them to the wonderful beauty as well as the surprising talent of the girl who had worked at low wages without a murmur for over two years in his shop.

He had noticed her quiet modesty in contrast with the boldness of other girls often before, but that very shrinking modesty had also kept her beauty in the background.

And that very afternoon he had taken occasion in person to look at her work, as her slim, tapering fingers gathered up missing pages and placed them where they belonged; and he asked her many questions, in a kinder tone than he was accustomed to use to his employees; for there was to him a very sweet music in the voice that answered his queries.

And when he went home that evening he was strangely absent-minded. When his Sister Flotie asked him if he would not get opera tickets and take her and Anna to hear “Lucia” on the Monday night following, he said:

“Yes, Miss Hattie—yes; with pleasure.”

“Hattie? Who is Hattie, brother, that you should use that name instead of Flotie, when you answer me?”

“Did I? I didn’t mean to; but I am full of Hattie some way. I went to write a letter to our paper manufacturer, and had got a dozen lines written, when I saw I had headed it, ‘Dear Hattie.’ There is a girl in the bindery of that name—a most remarkable girl. I will tell you all I know about her. She looks and acts like a princess in disguise.”

And then Mr. W—— gave a very highly colored description of our heroine and her acquirements.

“And you have let this prodigy of beauty and learning, of modesty and goodness, work for you for two years at little better than starvation wages? Coward! I’m ashamed of you, if you are my brother,” cried Flotie, warmly.

“Sis, don’t break out that way. We pay the usual rates. Were we to pay higher, we could not compete with other binderies and keep up.”

“But four dollars a week to pay board and washing, and dress with! Why, it wouldn’t keep me in gloves.”

“Yet thousands of poor girls work for and live on less, my peerless sister. You, who know no want that is not supplied almost as soon as expressed, know little how poor girls and women have to struggle to keep their heads above the tide. But my heroine is better off now. I have given her other work, and raised her salary to ten dollars a week.”

“Good! good! You have some heart after all, Ned.”

“I begin to think I have,” said Mr. W——, with a sigh.

“Here! here! No nonsense, brother mine. Don’t make a fool of yourself by falling in love with your pretty employee. She may be very pretty, very modest, and good, but I don’t want a bindery girl for a sister-in-law. Remember that.”

Mr. W——’s answer was another sigh. He seemed lost in thought, and, as he had promised the opera tickets, Flotie left him to his thoughts, and went to tell Anna about her brother’s new discovery, as well as to announce that they were to hear “Lucia” on the coming Monday night.

“Do you think Brother Edward is really in love with this shop-girl?” asked Anna, in a serious tone, when Flotie had told her story.

“I think he is a little smitten, but seriously in love—no. Not a bit of it. Edward is too much engrossed in business to fall in love in good earnest. He hasn’t leisure for that. Besides, he has too much sense to ever think of marrying for beauty, and out of his own sphere, too. There are rich girls who would snap at him for the asking.”

“Flotie, love—real love—laughs at riches.”

“May be so, Anna; but love—real love, as you call it—never—scorns a diamond engagement-ring, nor refuses to wear satin and Valenciennes lace for a wedding suit. Where would the bindery girl on four, or even ten dollars a week, find them?”

“Ned would find them for her fast enough, if he loved her. But say, Flotie, what will we wear on Monday night? That is the question for the hour. You know the creme de la creme of society will be there, and we must uphold the family credit.”

“Yes, even if papa heaves a heavy sigh over our demands. Let me think. We’ll go up stairs and look over our wardrobe, see what we have, and then we’ll know what we must have. Come, pet.”

And away went the two loving sisters—girls yet, though both were past their teens.

CHAPTER VI.
JOY TO TOIL-WORN HEARTS.

Mr. Legare, after leaving the bindery, drove, or was taken in his carriage, to a prominent bank, in which he was heavily interested, both as a stockholder and depositor, transacted some business there, then took a turn down Wall street to look into some stocks there, and returned home just in time for lunch.

He was met at the table by his two children—Frank, a son of five-and-twenty years, and Lizzie, a daughter just five years younger. His wife, their mother, had passed away two years before, leaving sweet memories only to cheer their saddened hearts, for as wife and mother she had been a treasure on earth.

“Well, children, how have you spent your morning?” asked the fond and ever indulgent father.

“I have been over in Forty-Fifth street, father, calling on your old friend, Mr. ——,” said Frank. “I love to visit the dear old fellow, and to hear him talk of his travels in Europe. He is droll, yet there is a vein of true philosophy in all he says. And his sketches of scenes he visited are so full of life and interest. An invalid, yet so cheerful—it would cure a misanthrope to visit him once in a while.”

“He is a good man, Frank, and I am glad you like to visit him. He has seen much of the world, and you can learn a great deal in conversing with him. And now, daughter, dear, how have you spent your afternoon?”

“I started out to go a-shopping, papa. You know you handed me a roll of money last night for that purpose. I went on foot, for I like exercise on a sunny morning like this. Only a little way from here, in front of the drug store on the next avenue, I saw a young girl, a mere child of ten or eleven years, crying bitterly. I asked her what was the matter, and learned, through her many sobs, that she had come with only seven cents, the last money she or her mother had in the world, to get medicine for that mother, who was sick. The medicine named in the prescription cost twenty cents, and the druggist would not let her have it without the money. I took the poor thing by the hand and went in and got the medicine for her, and in the meantime found out where she lived, in an alley only four blocks, dear father, from this rich home, in the basement of one of the old tumble-down houses, which are a disgrace to the city. I don’t know but I did wrong, papa, but I couldn’t help it. I went home with that little girl and saw her poor mother, sick, with four children, actually starving, in an unfurnished cellar—no food, no fire—nothing but want and wretchedness to meet my view. Father, there is a fire there now, and plenty to eat. The sick woman is on a good bed, our doctor has taken her case in hand, and the children, in decent clothes, will go to school next week. But I have not been shopping. I found better use for my money.”

“God bless my girl—my noble girl,” said Mr. Legare, and tears came in his eyes as he spoke. “Frank, my boy, Lizzie has outstripped us both in good works, though we both may have done some good; you in visiting and cheering up my invalid friend, and I—well, I, too, have had an adventure, and perhaps have been the indirect cause of bettering the condition of a poor, hard-working girl—the loveliest creature, by the way, that I ever saw, at home or abroad. And talented, too, the mistress of five languages; and, Lizzie, not so old, I should judge, as you, by a year or two.”

“Where did you meet this prodigy of beauty and learning, father?” asked the son.

“At W——’s book-bindery, where I took some valuable old reviews for binding. She has worked there over two years, earning and supporting herself on four dollars a week. And until some one was needed to collate and arrange my old German and French reviews, her knowledge of languages had remained undiscovered. She bears an excellent character—is modest, pure, and unassuming. I was glad to hear Mr. W—— order his foreman to assign her to new and more pleasant duties, at ten dollars a week.”

“So, dear papa, you, too, brought joy to a toil-worn heart.”

“I hope so, child, I hope so. She told me she owed her education to a gifted mother. I saw her lips tremble and her eyes moisten when she spoke, and, thinking of our own loss, my children, I forbore to question her then. But I shall, by and by, for I feel strangely interested in her. So very, very beautiful; so talented, and yet in such humble circumstances. In looks, in manners, in conversation a lady who would grace any society, yet, after all, only a poor book-bindery girl.”

Lunch, which had been going on all this time, was over, and Mr. Legare, mentioning that he had some letters to write, went to his library, while the brother and sister went off, arm in arm, to a favorite alcove in the adjoining drawing-room.

“Frank, what do you think of this new discovery which our dear father has been telling us of? I never knew him to speak with such enthusiastic admiration of any one before.”

“Neither did I, Lizzie,” said Frank, gravely. “Seriously, sister, I must go and see this peerless girl—see her, too, before father goes there again, if I can. I do not want a step-mother younger than you are, dear.”

“Oh, Frank! Papa would never think of that!”

“I don’t know, Lizzie. He is young for his years. He has led a careful, temperate life, and is not beyond his prime either mentally or physically. Stranger things have happened. I repeat, I must go and see this girl for myself. W—— is a warm friend of mine, and will help me if there’s any danger.”

“I don’t know but you are right, Frank. Go, if you think best.”

CHAPTER VII.
WHO CAN SHE BE?

Mr. W—— was rather surprised to receive quite an early call at his bindery from the son of his wealthy patron—the younger Legare. He had met Frank at his club, and on “the road,” for both drove fast horses; but the young man had never before visited the bindery, though his father often did.

Mr. W——, however, received his visitor with great cordiality, and asked what he could do for him.

“I would like to see you in your private office a moment,” said young Legare, who had, when he entered the large room, cast a keen and searching glance at all the hands—men, boys, and girls—whom his eye could reach.

“Certainly. Step this way,” said Mr. W——, leading the way to a room partitioned off at the upper end of the main bindery. “Take a seat, Mr. Legare,” he said, pointing to a luxurious arm-chair, cushioned and backed with morocco.

“Thank you. I will detain you but a moment,” said Frank. “My father was here yesterday?”

“Yes; he left some work, which will be finished by to-morrow. He is one of my best patrons,” replied W——.

“He discovered a prodigy here yesterday,” said young Legare.

“A prodigy?”

“Yes, sir; at least he seems to think so, for he talked like a crazy man about her—a girl beautiful as a houri, and as learned as she is beautiful, the mistress, he said, of no less than five languages.”