Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
THE LESLIE STORIES.
UP THE LADDER;
OR,
STRIVING AND THRIVING.
BY
MRS. MADELINE LESLIE.
AUTHOR OF "TWO HOMES,"
"ROBIN'S NEST STORIES,"
"TIM THE SCISSORS GRINDER," ETC. ETC.
"The hand of the diligent maketh rich."
"The desire of the slothful killeth him; for his hands refuse to labor."
BOSTON:
YOUNG & BARTLETT.
26 SCHOOL STREET.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1863,
By A. R. BAKER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
ELECTROTYPED BY
W. F. DRAPER, ANDOVER, MASS.
To
MY SON WILLIAM,
WHO IS JUST ENTERING ON THE DUTIES OF ACTIVE LIFE,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HIS
Loving Mother,
IN THE HOPE THAT THE EXAMPLE OF ITS HERO MAY INSPIRE IN HIM
THE VIRTUES WHICH WILL ENSURE SUCCESS.
CONTENTS.
HARRISON AND ELLA
"Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work."
OYSTER-SALOON
"If any will not work, neither shall he eat."
THE NEW BONNET
"He that loveth pleasure shall be a poor man."
HARRISON IN TROUBLE
"The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty."
HARRISON IN AFFLICTION
"Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep."
HARRISON'S NEW HOME
"But if any provide not for his own, especially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel."
HONEST COWLES
"Work with your hands, that ye may walk honestly toward them that are without, and that ye may have lack of nothing."
HARRISON LEAVING SCHOOL
"The Lord blesseth the habitation of the just."
HARRISON BECOMING A MERCHANT
"In all thy ways acknowledge him; and he will direct thy paths."
THE SECRET PARTNER
"It is joy to the just to do judgment; but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity."
HARRISON'S STORY
"Be sure your sin will find you out."
HARRISON'S REWARD
"The hand of the diligent maketh rich."
ALFRED A SAILOR
"The expectation of the wicked shall perish."
THE PARTED SHIP
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."
FRANK'S RETURN HOME
"For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost and is found."
CONCLUSION
"Seest thou a man diligent in business; he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men."
UP THE LADDER;
OR,
STRIVING AND THRIVING.
[CHAPTER I.]
HARRISON AND ELLA.
"Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work."
ON the steps leading into the back court of one of the largest hotels in the city of — might be seen, early on a June morning, a lad apparently about ten years of age. He was a rosy, good-humored boy, and was at this moment whistling a lively tune in a subdued tone, while his hands were busily employed in shelling peas.
Before him, on the stone pavement, stood a bushel-basket of peas in the pod. From this basket he transferred them to a pan in his lap, and from thence, when shelled, to a larger one which stood within the door. He had just commenced his task, but seemed not at all discouraged by it. He went on merrily, whistling "Dan Tucker," occasionally glancing up toward a platform which was used for drying clothes. This had a light railing around it; and presently he was rewarded by the glimpse of a bright face, surrounded with golden curls, peeping shyly at him. His smile was followed by a silvery laugh from behind the railing; and soon the little face beamed on him again.
"Good morning, little boy!"
He smiled and nodded. The whistling had ceased. He thought her voice, sweeter than music. His eyes feasted upon her happy countenance; but his hands plied faithfully their task.
"Ar'n't you sorry you has got so many peas to shell?"
"No, I'm glad," was the low response.
"Don't you like to have me talk to you?"
"Oh yes!"
There was a heartiness in the tone which gave great emphasis to the words. The child, after shaking her curls and laughing gaily, asked, "Why don't you talk to me, then?"
Harrison, for that was the boy's name, paused. He did not know exactly how to put his thoughts into words; but presently he said, "I am a poor boy, and perhaps your mother wouldn't like it."
"I'll ask her, then;" and away tripped the miss, through the long hall, up stairs to her mother's room. "O mamma! there's a boy down stairs; I know him very well, because I've seen him every day. He always looks so pleasant, and whistles such pretty tunes, and I want to talk to him; but he is afraid you wouldn't like it."
"Did he say so?" inquired the lady, laughing at the idea.
"Yes, mamma."
"What is he doing?"
"Shelling peas. His face is very clean, mamma; and I do want to talk to him so much," urged the pleading voice.
"That is really a great recommendation; and as he is so modest, I don't think there can be any harm in your talking with him."
"Mamma is willing!" exclaimed the child, returning to the railing. "So now will you please tell me why you like to shell so many peas?"
"Because I can earn money by doing it. I like to do any kind of work."
A thoughtful expression passed over her bright face; she seemed disappointed at the answers. At length she asked, "What makes you like money so well? I don't."
"I don't like money," replied the boy; "but if I did not earn any I should not have bread for my breakfast and supper. I am poor, you know; but mother says I am a great deal happier for working. The Bible says, 'He that will not work, neither shall he eat.'"
"I never work," answered the child, in a sad tone.
"Oh! it don't mean such little girls as you! But I dare say you do work some. Don't you help your mother make the beds and dust the chairs? I had a little sister once, and she could do that."
"No," said Ella, shaking her head in a sorrowful manner. "Bridget is the chamber-girl. I wish I could work; but I only play with my dolls all day, except when I go to ride with mamma."
The boy looked somewhat surprised at this entire exemption from care; but he said, soothingly, "I dare say you will work when you are older. Mother says the command in the Bible is for all: 'Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work.'"
Ella stood looking gravely upon the lad as he sat steadily at his employment, and then said, "Will you please tell me about your sister? What was her name?"
"Isabella. Oh, she was a dear little girl! She had eyes just like the blue sky, and such a pretty mouth, always full of, smiles. Now she's gone home to God."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ella, "that's too bad. How could you let her go away?"
For a moment the boy ceased his employment, raised his tear-dimmed eyes to the clear sky, then brushed away the glistening drops, and resumed his work. Presently, in a subdued voice, he replied, "God gave her to us, and he had a right to take her again, you know. Mother cried dreadfully; but she said, 'God knows what is best.' I miss her every night," said the boy, choking back his tears, "I loved her so dearly."
"Shall you go away when you've finished the peas?" asked Ella, anxious to turn from so painful a subject.
"Oh no! I shall do the beans next. See, I'm almost done."
"Why! won't you be tired?"
"No indeed. I have a great mind to tell you my secret."
The child filled the air with her musical laugh. "I do like to hear secrets," she said.
"Well, I'm trying to work real hard, because I want to buy mother a straw bonnet, and some pretty ribbon to put on it. It will be so nice to wear to church, you know." At this moment a voice in the hall called, "Ella! Ella!" and the child tripped away.
It seemed to Harrison as if the sun had gone behind a cloud when her laughing face disappeared from the railing; but he entered with renewed zeal into his work, saying to himself, "I wish mother could see her; she's a dear little thing!"
[CHAPTER II.]
THE OYSTER-SALOON.
"If any will not work, neither shall he eat."
IT was nearly two o'clock before Harrison went home. First he had to prepare the string-beans; then one of the boarders called him to do an errand, for which he paid him a dime, after which the cook gave him a number of chores to do; so that altogether he had made quite a profitable morning of it. Beside this, he had eaten a hearty dinner, as indeed he did almost every day, before he left the hotel, and, with the consent of the proprietor, carried home a basket of broken pieces for his mother.
Harrison was an obliging little fellow. Always civil in his conduct, prompt and faithful in whatever he was required to do, he had rendered himself a favorite with all. Much of this he owed to his mother, who was untiring in her instructions to her boy. She was very fond of giving Scripture authority for her advice, and of enforcing her commands by the word of God. In this way, though only a lad of ten years, Harrison was far better acquainted with the teachings of the Bible than many who were twice his age.
On the morning in question he was unusually happy: first, because he had two dimes to add to his secret fund for the new bonnet; and next, because he had enjoyed a pleasant talk with the little girl.
Mrs. Danforth was setting the table for dinner when he entered, and received him with a warm smile of welcome.
"See how much I have earned!" said the boy, giving her a hearty kiss, and then pouring into her open palm several small pieces of silver.
"You know, my dear," she replied, with a smile, "who it is that said, 'The hand of the diligent maketh rich;'" then taking his basket, she added, "but you have brought quite a feast. I hope you have not dined."
"Oh yes, I have! But I expect there are pretty nice things in there. I heard one of the cooks talking about it. A gentleman came in and ordered a dinner at one o'clock: pigeons, fricasseed chicken, and lots of other dishes. Waiter told the cook he just tasted them, and then sent them away. He had no appetite, he said. I told cook if he'd get up in the morning and work, as I did, he'd have appetite enough. She laughed and said, 'Well, they're paid for, and you may put them in your basket.'"
"I hope Mr. Clarkson knows how much she gives us," suggested the woman, stopping in her work of taking the rich food from the basket.
"I wouldn't take it without," replied the boy, drawing himself proudly up to his full height. Only last week he told her not to encourage the street beggars, but to give to those she knew were worthy, and who tried to help themselves. "Once in a while, too, he meets me with my basket, and he looks in and says, 'That's all right, boy.'"
Just at this moment the door opened, and Mr. Danforth entered. He was quite a gentlemanly-looking man, of about thirty-five years. A close observer might have noticed a shade of anxiety passing over the wife's countenance; but after a second glance she seemed happily disappointed, and her spirits rose accordingly.
"You are just in time," she said; "dinner is all ready."
"And I'm ready for it," was the hearty reply. "I've been walking all the morning, and I expect at last I've found just about the right thing for me to do. Ho! those birds look as if they would relish finely!"
Harrison then repeated the story of the dyspeptic gentleman, at which his father laughed and said, "It's an ill wind that blows no one good. Now I'm perfectly willing he should order dinners and pay for them; we'll find good appetites for them, wont we, Bub?"
"I suppose," remarked Mrs. Danforth, "that he is one of those who will not work, and therefore, though he has an abundance, cannot eat."
"Waiter said he looked awful sickly," added Harrison.
"I expect I've engaged myself in a first-rate situation," resumed Mr. Danforth, laying down the bones of a chicken he had been sucking.
"What is it?" eagerly inquired his wife.
"Why, it's a kind of an overseer-general in an oyster saloon."
"I had rather you would shovel coal," exclaimed Mrs. Danforth, in a tone of great disappointment.
"What in the name of nature can you have to say against an oyster-saloon? It would bring me into company and constant intercourse with some of the first gentlemen of the city."
"That is just what I feared. I am afraid of the temptation for you, my dear husband."
"What, after I've pledged myself to you to let alone all kinds of intoxicating drinks?" The man colored and looked somewhat annoyed; and his wife, noticing that Harrison was listening eagerly, added suddenly, "When you are rested, my dear, I wish you would carry home this vest to the tailor's and bring me some more work."
"I'm rested now, mother, so I'll be off;" and taking the bundle he ran down the stairs, whistling merrily at his favorite tune.
When he was gone Mrs. Danforth kindly remonstrated with her husband, urging the inexpediency of placing himself in the way of temptation, when work could surely be obtained elsewhere. He argued that here he could be treated as a gentleman, that he could have better wages, and altogether it was a fine opportunity. At any rate he had gone too far to recede.
His wife sighed heavily, but ceased to urge him further.
"The man was very much taken with my appearance," resumed Mr. Danforth, feeling that he had gained his point. "I'm to know whether he accepts my terms before night. So keep up good courage. I shall be able to support you like a lady yet—who knows?" and he turned to leave the house.
"I'm quite contented in the lot Providence has assigned me," remarked the woman, gazing into her husband's handsome but irresolute countenance. "Ah!" said she, when he had disappeared, "'beauty is vain.' I fear his good looks and his gentlemanly appearance will be the cause of his ruin."
At night Mr. Danforth came home in grand spirits, and announced that he had been engaged at a good salary, and was to commence his labors in the morning. His wife bravely repressed a sigh, tried to smile, and to feel hopeful. Presently Harrison came home in a pleasant state of excitement. He was just about to narrate his afternoon's success to his mother, when he noticed that his father was present, and, with a prudence which had been dearly bought by past experience, waited until he should find her alone.
"I think," remarked Mr. Danforth in a self complacent tone, as they sat around the neatly arranged board, "that when I am fairly established in my new situation I shall take you there, Harrison, as waiter. You would do the work charmingly, and be quite an ornament to the place."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the mother earnestly, "I can never give my consent."
"I had much rather go to school," responded the boy; "I have so little time now to learn."
"If God prospers us, I mean to have you go next fall and winter," said his mother. "Now that you," turning to her husband, "are to have such great wages, you will be able to get him a good suit of clothes."
"I don't calculate on being able to do much in that way at present," replied the father in some confusion. "It'll cost me a good deal for my own dress; and then, it's better for the boy to depend on himself. He might learn to be idle you know, and that's against your principles, wife. Besides, Bub, you can read and write now, and keep accounts nigh about as well as I can."
"You're not going out again, I hope," said Mrs. Danforth, anxiously, as he arose and took his hat.
"I told Mr. Lamson I'd be down there, and kinder get used to things to be ready for tomorrow, that's all. I'll be back again in an hour or so."
"There's wood to cut," she urged, "and it will be very lonely without you."
"Harrison will cut some till I come."
"I'll clear away the tea things, mother, and then read to you," cried the boy, in a cheerful tone, as he saw how difficult it was for her to keep from shedding tears. "And I haven't told you yet what a fine chance I had this afternoon. A gentleman at the tailor's shop asked me to go 'way up town for him to carry a note. He paid me well, too; but the best of it was, that the lady to whom I carried it gave me a book and an omnibus ticket, so I rode all the way back. But I forgot to tell you that the tailor would have some work ready this evening: perhaps I had better run and get it now."
[CHAPTER III.]
THE NEW BONNET.
"He that loveth pleasure, shall be a poor man."
"MAMMA," asked Ella Haven, after breakfast the next morning, "will you please let me work. I want to help Bridget make the beds, or do something."
"Nonsense, child! play with your baby-house, and make the beds in that if you please." Turning to her husband, she asked, with a laugh, "What idea do you suppose the child has now?"
"Do please let me, mamma! The boy down stairs told me his sister worked, and that the Bible says we all must work. So I do want to."
"That is good preaching," remarked Mr. Haven. "Who is the boy, Ella?"
The child told all she knew of her young friend, and that he would not talk to her until she had obtained her mother's permission. "I've seen him about here, and sent him errands more than once," said the gentleman. "He is a sturdy little fellow, and will make something yet."
In the mean time, Harrison was at his place in the back-court, evidently anticipating with much pleasure another visit from his young friend. Nor was he disappointed. Just as he had comfortably arranged his baskets, a happy laugh announced her approach.
"How do you do this morning?" she asked, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. Then, without waiting for an answer, she continued, "have you bought the bonnet yet?"
"Oh, no! I haven't half money enough! though I earned a great deal yesterday. I want to get a real nice one; but I don't know how much it will cost."
Ella ran to her mother's room out of breath with excitement. "How much does a bonnet cost, mamma; a straw one, with a pretty ribbon on it? Harrison is going to buy one for his mother, and we don't know how much it costs."
"We, indeed," repeated the lady with an arch glance at her husband, who was just leaving the room, "a bonnet costs anywhere from two to twenty dollars."
The child tripped back again to carry the important information.
Harrison laughed merrily at the idea of his mother in a twenty-dollar bonnet. "When I think I have enough," he said, "I shall go into a store and ask the price of such an one as I want."
"Do you work every day?" inquired Ella. "Every day but the Sabbath. I go to church then, and to Sabbath school. Perhaps I shall go to day-school next winter. If I do, I mean to study real hard."
"Who will buy your bread then?"
"Father and mother; and I shall work too when I'm out of school. I had six houses last winter where I shovelled the snow from the steps and sidewalks. I earned a new pair of shoes and a coat. Mother says, after all, the habit of diligence is worth more to me than what I earn."
"I wish I could work," exclaimed the child; "but there is nothing for me to do. Sometimes I get papa's slippers for him. I mean to do it every day. Oh! I forgot to tell you my brother is coming home to-day! He's been away at boarding school. When you come to-morrow I'll take him down here to see you. I'm so glad he's coming home. His name is Alfred,—for papa."
Harrison did not feel the same interest in the brother as he had in the sister. Though about his own age Alfred looked much older, and, though handsome, yet had an unpleasant expression upon his countenance. To please Ella he went down to be introduced to Harrison, anticipating, as he told his mother, some capital fun.
"This is my brother," said Ella, holding his hand fondly. "I told him you wanted to see him."
Alfred drew up his form; but Harrison only glanced at him with a smile.
"He can whistle beautifully," rejoined Ella, glancing in her brother's face. "I've heard him a good many times."
"He shells peas well, I see," said Alfred; "I suppose he has a great deal of practice."
Harrison colored; not at the charge, but at the sneering tone of the youth. He wondered how such a boy could be related to Ella.
"When I get a place, I'll hire you to shell peas for me," continued Alfred, in a patronizing manner. "I shall hire a great many servants."
"I don't expect to shell peas all my life," replied Harrison, proudly.
"Ha! what do you expect to do?"
"I can't tell yet."
"Perhaps you think you shall be rich, and ride in a coach."
"It may be so. I learned a verse from the Bible last night; it was this: 'Seest thou a man diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men.'"
Alfred had sense enough to know that the lad had the best of the argument. He therefore turned on his heel and walked away, followed closely by his sister, though not until she had given Harrison a parting nod and smile.
Poor fellow! he had not been at home many days before the rich pastry and confections with which his parents pampered his appetite, laid him on a bed of sickness. During his confinement he was so fretful and hard to please that his patient little sister at length became weary of staying at his bed-side, and was glad to escape to the open, shady balcony, where she could have a glimpse of the cheerful countenance of her new friend.
With a child's quickness of discernment, however, she soon discovered that he was not as happy as when she first knew him. He no longer whistled when busy at his work, and his face at times wore a look of anxious care. Ella tried her utmost to persuade him to confide his griefs to her, but in vain; he smiled sadly, but shook his head.
It was indeed true that sorrow and anxiety had entered the abode of Mr. Danforth. Since his employment in the saloon he was often out a great part of the night; sometimes not returning home for days together. When he did so, his whole character seemed so much changed for the worse that his poor wife could take no comfort in his society. It was quite evident that he had entirely forgotten his pledge of abstinence from intoxicating drinks. His pallid countenance and sunken eyes would have betrayed him to his watchful wife, even if his unsteady gait and offensive breath had not done so.
For the sake of her son Mrs. Danforth wore in his presence a cheerful face, though it often concealed an aching heart, sore with its secret griefs.
"I wish we lived in the country, mother," exclaimed Harrison one evening.
"Why! my dear, those were just my thoughts at that moment; but perhaps sorrow would follow us even there."
"We might have a little farm. Wouldn't that be nice? I don't think there are any oyster saloons in the country, mother."
"Perhaps not, dear; but those who are disposed to run into temptation, will find danger lurking everywhere."
It was now some weeks since Harrison had begun to save money for the new bonnet. The next afternoon following this conversation he was sent upon an errand, and unexpectedly received three shillings for the promptness and fidelity with which he performed it. This, added to his stock on hand, would make just four dollars. He determined to appropriate the whole of it, and instantly hurried home to ask his mother to accompany him to a milliner's. On his way he saw a pretty straw bonnet, ready trimmed, hanging in a show-case, and could not resist the temptation of asking the price. What was his delight to find it less than the sum he had earned. So great were his excitement and joy that he burst into his mother's room, startling her not a little by his abrupt entrance.
"Come!" he exclaimed, "come quick, mother! I want to show you something. Oh, I'm so happy! Please put on your bonnet, and come with me to the next street."
"What is it, dear?" she asked, in some surprise, "I had rather know before I go out."
"Well, then, please wait a minute and I'll tell you." He ran into his small room, put his hand under the ticking, and drew out a small purse. Happiness swelled his young heart almost to bursting. This was his first gift. It was to his dearest earthly friend, purchased with his own earnings. Suddenly his heart almost ceases to beat. He misses the familiar sound of the silver pieces, so fondly treasured, so often counted. He holds the purse up to the light; he presses his fingers convulsively upon it. Yes, he realizes that his hard earned money is gone,—all gone,—and with one loud cry throws himself across his narrow bed.
Mrs. Danforth ran quickly to his aid, but he could not speak; his disappointment was too great. At length he began:
"It's too bad! It's too mean to steal money from a little boy like me, and from an own son too. He shall give it back! It's mine, and I'll have it again," were his expressions, uttered in a loud angry tone, so different from his usual tender voice that his mother started from him in amazement.
A passionate burst of tears at length relieved the poor boy, and, sitting at his mother's feet, he unfolded to her the secret so carefully cherished, and the bitter disappointment which had overwhelmed him.
Mrs. Danforth's tears fell thick and fast; not at the loss of the bonnet, not even at the grief of the boy, sad as it was, but at the downfall of all her hopes. She pressed her hands upon her heart and sobbed aloud, "O God! that I should have lived to see this day! Give me strength to bear thy chastening rod."
[CHAPTER IV.]
HARRISON IN TROUBLE.
"The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty."
WHEN Harrison awoke the next morning it was with the remembrance of some great sorrow, like that after his little sister's death. He pressed his hands to his forehead, and presently the events of the previous evening rushed into his mind. It was not merely the loss, but the manner of the loss, which so distressed the poor child. The thought that his father, who, since entering the oyster-saloon, had never paid one farthing toward the support of his family, should be guilty of such insufferable meanness as to steal the earnings of his little son, was what crushed his young heart. For the first time since he had been old enough to work, his mother found it difficult to start him forth to his daily toil. He appeared wholly discouraged; and not until she appealed to him by his love for her and his sympathy in her afflictions, could she excite him to any ambition, or even hope for the future. Poor woman! It was indeed a great self-sacrifice for her to send him away from home. She actually yearned for his society and sympathy now that her heart-strings seemed one by one breaking, as her hopes for her husband died away within her breast. But she knew by past experience that he would be far happier to be engaged in his regular employment than if he sat down to brood over his griefs.
When he reached the hotel, a carriage was just driving away, and Harrison had only time to catch a glimpse of the beautiful face of Ella and the pale one of her brother before they turned the corner of the street and disappeared from view. Tears of disappointment filled the swollen eyes of the poor boy, though a moment before he had hoped that he should not see Ella that morning. How could he account to her for his altered appearance. He could never expose the shame of his father.
Through the day Mrs. Danforth waited and watched for the coming of her husband. She hoped he would return during the absence of Harrison. But she waited and watched in vain. Many times during the morning her heart beat fast, and then almost ceased to beat, as she fancied she recognized his footstep upon the stairs; but when it passed she was obliged to lay down her work, so faint and languid was she from the intense excitement. At noon Harrison had only time to run home and tell her that he had been sent of an errand up town, and should not return until night.
How she passed the long hours until sundown she never could tell; but at length she experienced such a dreadful pressure upon her spirits that she could endure it no longer. She hastily prepared for a walk, and bent her steps toward the fatal spot which had proved the grave of all her hopes for her husband's reformation. Arrived at the scene, she cast wistful glances through the long windows, but could not see him. It was a place where women were not often found, and she shuddered as she turned the handle of the door and stood within the room. A coarse-looking man stopped suddenly in his passage across the floor with a waiter of oysters, and she asked, in a hesitating manner; "Is Mr. Danforth here?"
"Danforth? No; he has not been here today. Mr. Lamson has scolded well, and threatened to give him walking orders; so if you see him you'd better send him along quick step."
"O! my poor misguided husband!" groaned Mrs. Danforth, as she feebly turned from the door. "Why will you wander from the only friend you have on earth! Why will you throw away the love of the one heart that clings to you in the midst of sorrow and disgrace!"
When Harrison ran hastily home after his long walk, he found the key turned in the door and his mother absent. This was so unusual a circumstance that he wondered much what could have called her out at such an hour. The busy scenes of the day had served to divert his mind from himself, and the natural buoyancy of youth had already turned the channel of his thoughts, so that hope once more whispered of bright visions in the future. But now, as he wandered listlessly about the rooms, looking so dismal at this hour without her whose smile had always seemed to give light and warmth to the place, he wondered that he could call any event sorrowful while she was left to him.
At last he heard a weary footstep ascending the stairs, and darted across the room to welcome his mother. The deepening twilight prevented him from seeing the expression of woe upon her features; but he knew she was tired, and exclaimed, cheerfully, "I'll put on the tea, mother! that always rests you." The table was already spread, and the mother and son seated themselves.
"I do wonder where father is?" cried Harrison, for the first time since his loss mentioning his father's name. "I guess he's ashamed to come home."
"Hush, dear! don't speak so! I'm afraid something has happened to him. I went to the saloon, but he has not been there all day." The poor woman covered her face, and the sobs that would not be longer suppressed burst forth.
Harrison's sympathy was excited at once. "I wish I knew where to go and inquire for him, mother," he said; "but he has often been gone longer than this. Perhaps he will be home before we go to bed."
Mrs. Danforth listened to his cheering words, and tried to hope that they would prove true; but the long weary weeks of anxiety since her husband had been in the oyster-saloon had worn upon her frame, and she was conscious of being really unfit for exertion. Then her head ached terribly, so that she was easily persuaded to go to bed, where the remainder of the evening Was passed in listening to her son as he read passage after passage from her favorite Psalms.
The next morning Harrison awoke early, and, having dressed himself in haste, ran softly down the stairs, before the other inmates of the house were astir, and sped quickly away to the street where his father worked. But to his disappointment, when he arrived at the saloon, the door was barred, and, after knocking several times, was just on the point of leaving, when a colored man drew back the bolt.
From this person, who was cleaning the rooms, the boy learned that his father had of late been so unsteady in his attendance upon his business that his employer had threatened to turn him away. This was all the information that he could gain, and with it he ran home to comfort his mother.
She had risen, and was wondering where he had gone.
"Good news, mother!" he called out, "I have been to father's place. He is not there yet, but the man told me he had often been absent before. Now, when he did not come home, we always thought he was there; so I guess he'll come back again just as he has always done."
"Thank you, my son; I really hope it may be so; and now if you will cut a few sticks of kindling we will have some breakfast."
Harrison cut the wood, kindled the fire, and swept the room, and then said, "If you can get along now, mother, I'll go to the hotel. I promised cook I'd be there right early. They have orders for a grand dinner to-day. She'll be sure to give me some breakfast, and I'll be home as soon as I can."
Fortunately for Harrison, his habits of neatness and industry rendered him of great service to his employers. He went from one thing to another as he was bid, and, amidst all the confusion and scolding of the kitchen, was always civil and obliging, ready to give a helping hand to any one who needed his assistance. Mr. Clarkson visited the kitchen to give orders about the extra work, saying that he would hire in more help if it was necessary. Cook told him she had rather have Harrison than half a dozen strangers, for he would do just what she told him. The gentleman patted him on the head, called him a smart boy, and then, taking out his porte-monaie, presented him with a silver half-dollar.
There was so much to be done that the lad feared he should miss seeing his little friend but at last one of the waiters asked him to scour a tray of knives, and he gladly took refuge with his brick and board out of the heated kitchen into the cool, shady court.
"Why, Harrison! how do you do? I have looked for you this long time," soon called out the familiar voice. "I went into the country yesterday, and we're all going out there for the summer. I wish you could go too."
"I wish I could," said the boy seriously.
"Have you bought the bonnet yet?"
"No; I never can buy one. My money was all stolen away. I had four dollars, enough to buy a real beauty: but it's all gone now."
Harrison's lips quivered, and the tears gushed to his eyes.
"Oh, that is too bad! I'm very sorry; don't cry." Ella, whose own eye-lashes were heavy with unshed tears, ran quickly to impart to her mother the sorrowful tale.
She was absent more than fifteen minutes, and the lad had nearly completed his task when she reappeared, jumping up and down for very gladness.
"Harrison!" she called out, "when you've done your work you must be sure and come to our room, number five in the long hall. Mother has something to give you. Oh, won't you be glad! Don't you forget, now."
The boy did not think it very likely he should forget; but, faithful to his employers, he gathered up his well-scoured knives and re-entered the kitchen, saying as he did so, "I'm so busy to-day, I don't know when I shall be ready to go home."
The dinner was a triumph. Every body said so. Mr. Clarkson and all concerned were in high spirits, and Harrison came in for his full share of praise. It was half-past five when he took his well-filled basket from the cook, and setting it in a safe place, washed his face and hands till they shone then, having smoothed his hair out in the court with his pocket-comb, he ascended the stairs in search of number five.
Mr. Haven had come in, and was seated in a large lounging-chair giving his wife an account of a sad scene he had just witnessed. A man had been found in the dock, having apparently been in the water two or three days. Some papers in his pockets informed the police who he was, and in coming from the wharf he had passed them, bearing the body to a wagon to convey it home.
"Had he a family?" inquired Mrs. Haven, with deep feeling.
"I did not learn," was the reply.
In the mean time Bridget had answered Harrison's low knock, and he had advanced halfway across the room before his presence was noticed, so absorbed were they in the sad tale.
"O mamma! here is Harrison!" called out Ella.
"Don't scream so, Ella!" exclaimed Alfred in a fretful tone. "Your voice goes right through my head."
"Come here, my boy," said Mr. Haven, kindly. "Ella says you're in trouble."
The lad blushed, but answered modestly, "I lost all my money, sir. I suppose she told you what I was saving it for."
"Yes, and it was a very worthy object. Have you any suspicion of the thief?"
Poor boy, his head fell upon his breast and his lips trembled as he replied softly, "Yes, sir, but I had rather not tell who it was."
"I dare say he stole it himself," cried Alfred, spitefully.
"Leave the room, Alfred," said his father, sternly.
"O brother!" remonstrated Ella, "how wicked to talk so."
Harrison held up his head, and gave one lightning glance of indignation into the face of the ill-natured boy. There was truth, honesty, and wounded feeling in the expressive countenance; and both Mr. and Mrs. Haven grew every moment more interested in the young lad.
"You have a good mother, I know," added the gentleman, in whose mind arose a suspicion of the truth. "Ella has told us about her, and so Mrs. Haven has prepared a present for her."
The little girl brought carefully on her outstretched hand, from the next room, a neat bonnet, tastefully trimmed.
"Thank you, oh, thank you, ma'am!" exclaimed the boy, with a look of unmistakable gratitude. "How pleased mother will be. Shall I take it now, ma'am?"
"Yes! Are you going directly home? Bring me the box, Ella."
After again expressing his pleasure in a low voice to the child, Harrison took the bandbox, and, passing through the kitchen, obtained his basket, and ran all the way home.
[CHAPTER V.]
HARRISON IN AFFLICTION.
"Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep."
IT was nothing unusual for Harrison to see a company of men standing idly at the door of the block in which his father hired three rooms; but as he ran joyfully up the steps he thought their manner strangely subdued, as they stood solemnly aside to let him pass. On the first floor a woman who had always been kind to him suddenly came out of her apartment and pulled him in.
"Poor child!" said she, "trouble has come to your mother. I couldn't bear to let you go by and not speak a word to comfort your dear heart."
"What is it? where is mother?" he asked, wildly rushing up the stairs.
Oh, what a sad sight presented itself to his view! Stretched on the cherry table, at which he had so often eaten, lay the insensible body of his father, bloated and disfigured so as scarcely to be recognized, except by those who loved him so well.
With one dreadful shriek of agony Harrison sprang past the lifeless form, and sank down at his mother's feet.
Who shall dare to describe the anguish of that torn and bleeding heart? She sat there alone with her dead, her form rigid, her eyes strained and fixed upon that poor remnant of humanity. She caught her breath at long intervals, and with great effort; while her hands were still clutching the papers which had been the means of informing the authorities of the name and residence of the deceased.
The entrance of her son slightly roused her. She turned her eyes upon him with, oh! so sorrowful a glance, and taking his head between her hands as he sat on the floor before her, moaned piteously. "O God! forgive me that I scarce know how to pray for myself, when prayer for him can no longer avail. Be present with me in this dreadful hour. Support me, Lord, or I shall sink under my heavy load of grief." She then burst out, "Oh that I could have seen him once more! Oh that I could have entreated him to prepare to meet his God!"
Here her sobs convulsed her whole body and Harrison becoming frightened at the violence of her grief, started to his feet, crying, "Mother, dear mother, don't cry so!" Just then the door opened, and the clergyman of whose church she was a member entered.
The good man afterwards described the hour which followed as one of the most trying of his life. But I must not linger upon this afflicting scene. By the liberality of the church to which she belonged, all the arrangements were made for a decent funeral of the deceased; and the poor widow buried her dead out of her sight, forever.
The same charitable hands also provided a suit of plain mourning for Mrs. Danforth and for her son, and promised to be responsible for her rent until she could decide upon her future course of life and make arrangements for their support.
As it was now some time since her husband had aided in the support of the family, Mrs. Danforth thought it no risk to retain the rooms she at present hired, and, with the aid of her son, to endeavor to meet her expenses by vest-making.
The affliction with which she had been visited had brought her into connection with some of the church, hitherto unknown, and their ready sympathy was a cordial to her sorrowing heart.
Harrison returned to his work at the hotel, but found that Mr. Haven had gone, with his family, to the country.
Month after month glided away, until it was nearly time for the fall term of the city schools to commence. Our little hero intended to present himself among the earliest pupils. He longed for the time when he should again be busy with his books and slate. During the summer Mrs. Danforth found it difficult to obtain work, so many persons were out of the city, and at length consented to the wishes of one of her new friends that she should go into a family as nurse. Her only objection to this was that it would deprive her son of a home, which she considered of the first importance to him at his tender age. But, as she was able to obtain permission for him to pass his evenings in the family of one of the neighbors in whom she had confidence, the difficulty was relieved. He had, for some time, been considered a regular boarder at the hotel, where, since his father's death, he had been more than ever a favorite.
At this period Mrs. Danforth had been in three families, had given entire satisfaction, and now her services were eagerly sought.
She still retained one room in the tenement she formerly occupied, and had returned to it only the previous day, when Harrison came home in the middle of the afternoon to inform her that Mr. Haven had returned from the country, and that Ella was dangerously ill. The poor boy was very much excited by the sad news, and had prevailed upon one of the chamber-girls to go and recommend his mother as nurse, hearing they had difficulty in obtaining one. Harrison was accordingly summoned to the chamber, and on being questioned gave references to the places where she had nursed, and now he expected they would come for her.
Mrs. Danforth told him she had no immediate engagement, but thought it doubtful whether she should be summoned. Indeed, she hoped not. She dreaded exceedingly the publicity of a hotel.
When Mr. Haven called, however, she could not resist his pleading for her to go and take care of his darling child, nor the silent entreaty of Harrison's glistening eyes; and in another hour she was an inmate of the large public house.
Poor little Ella had been seriously ill only three days, but her flesh was all wasted away, and her large, earnest eyes were so protruded that they formed the prominent features of her face. Her fever ran very high, and rendered her delirious when she first awoke. At other times she was conscious of all that occurred around her.
Mrs. Haven took advantage of a moment when she was free from pain, and introduced the new nurse, knowing it would give the child so much pleasure.
Ella smiled a faint, wan smile, and presently whispered, "Is your boy sorry I'm sick?"
"Yes, indeed," answered nurse. "He could not rest until I came to take care of you."
"He came to the door, my darling," added the lady, "and begged us to send for his mother."
The child smiled again, and seemed satisfied, and soon sunk into a quiet sleep.
Two days more and there seemed scarcely a hope that the dear little girl could recover. Her parents, worn out with their previous watching and with the corroding care which filled their breasts grew more and more desponding every time the physician called. Nurse alone maintained her belief that the disease had abated, and that only nourishment and tender care were needed, to restore her to health. She pointed out the favorable symptoms to the physician, who allowed her to try the effect of a spoonful of chicken tea. She went to the kitchen, being unwilling to trust any one but herself to make it. The experiment was attended with perfect success; and the grateful parents could not sufficiently express their thanks. From this time the emaciated form began to resume some faint resemblance to its former self. In three weeks from Mrs. Danforth's entrance to the sick-chamber, the doctor said they had no more need of him; adding, as he gave his hand, at parting, to the faithful nurse, "Under God, the child owes her life to your watchful care. If there were more nurses like you, fewer doctors would be required."
"It is pleasant to cooperate with a true man," was her smiling reply.
After this, whenever Dr.— was asked to recommend a nurse, he had but one reply: "Get Mrs. Danforth, if you can."
All this time poor Harrison had embraced every opportunity to steal softly up stairs and wait at the door of number five until some one came out from whom he could learn about the patient. Now he often caught a glimpse of his mother as she passed through the kitchen, and one day she told him if he would come up to the door of the sick-room, she would invite him in to see his young favorite.
Ella was seated in a large chair, pillows being placed around her to keep her upright, when he entered. His mother had told him she was very much better, almost well; but when he saw her pale, thin face, resting upon her little hand, in which every vein was clearly visible, he stood motionless with surprise and disappointment.
The little girl gazed earnestly in his face, and then, after waiting a moment for him to speak, Ella said, "Why, Harrison I thought you'd be glad to see me; but you seem real sorry."
"I didn't know you'd been so very sick," faltered the boy. "I'm afraid you never will be well enough to go out on the shed."
Ella laughed right merrily. It was a happy sound for her mother to hear. She had not laughed audibly before since she was ill.
"I'm going to school next week," rejoined Harrison.
"Alfred has gone to school again," she said.
"Has he? Well, I must bid you goodbye."
"Will you come again?"