Mrs. Howe was lying on a sofa in her boudoir, in a showy robe-de-chambre of green, with cherry facings, over an elaborately embroidered white petticoat. She had on also toilet slippers, with green and cherry trimmings, and a very fanciful breakfast cap.

"Fall fashions open to-day, eh?" said she, laying a nicely printed envelope, scented with "millefleurs," with which Madame Du Pont had announced that important fact to her customers.

"Madame will have loves of things, just as she always does. I shall be so happy in looking them over. I think I must have a lilac hat; madame thinks lilac best suited to my complexion. Mr. Finels likes me in lilac; as to John, he don't appear to know one color from another. I don't think, however, a man ever knows what his wife has on. Madame Du Pont would make very little if we had only our husbands to dress for; yes, I will have a lilac hat, and I will go there before any other woman has a chance to make a selection of the best. I must go in a carriage: Madame Du Pont never pays any attention to a lady who comes on foot; a hackney-coach is terribly vulgar. I must persuade John to set up a carriage. I will contrive the livery myself. I wonder what is our family coat-of-arms? I must go to the heraldry office, I think, and buy one; a bear would be most emblematical of John—how cross he is getting! I never should get along at all without Finels." And Mrs. Howe drew out her gold watch, and then rising, surveyed herself in the long glass.

"Well, Mary, what is wanted?"

"If you please, ma'am, Mr.—— Mr.——, I forget his name, is below, and wants to speak with you a few minutes."

"You stupid creature, you should have brought up his card. How am I to know who it is? or whether it is worth while to make any change in my dress or not?"

"I guess it is, ma'am," said Polly, with a sly look. "It is—Mr.——, Mr.——Fin—Tin—"

"Finels?" asked Mrs. Howe, innocently.

"That's just the name, ma'am. I never can remember it. It is the gentleman who always says to me if Mr. Howe is busy not to call him; that Mrs. Howe will do just as well," and Polly grinned behind her apron corner.

"How tiresome to call so early!" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, with ill-concealed delight. "Well, I suppose you must tell him that I will be down directly. Is the parlor all right, Mary?"

"Yes, ma'am, and Mr. Howe has just gone out."

This last remark, of course, was not heeded by Mrs. Howe, who was playing in a very indifferent manner with her cap strings.

"You must really excuse my robe-de-chambre, Mr. Finels," said Mrs. Howe, making use of the only French phrase she knew, to draw attention to her new negligÉe which a poor dress-maker had set up all night to finish for the present occasion.

"I could not have excused you had you not worn it," said Finels, quite accustomed to the little transparent trickeries of the sex, "it is in perfect taste, as is every thing you wear; and I feel more particularly flattered by your wearing it on the present occasion, because I consider that when a lady dispenses with etiquette in this way toward a gentleman friend, she pays a silent compliment to the good sense of her visitor," and Finels made one of his Chesterfieldian bows, and placed his right hand on his velvet vest. "Beside, my dear madam, one who is so superior as yourself to all the adornments of dress, should at any rate be exempt from the tyranny of custom."

"Oh, thank you," minced Mrs. Howe, playing with her robe tassels, and trying to improvise a blush.

"Here is a volume of poems which I had the luck to stumble upon yesterday. I have brought them to you, because I like to share such a pleasure with an appreciative spirit," said the wily Finels, who always complimented a woman for some mental, or physical perfection, of which she knew herself to be entirely destitute. "It is a book I could speak of to but few persons, for I hoard such a treasure as a miser does his gold."

Mrs. Howe really—blushed with pleasure. The diplomatic Finels was not astonished, he was accustomed to such results.

"You will find some marked passages here," said Finels, turning over the leaves. "They are perfect gems; I thought of you when I read them. I risk nothing in hoping that you will admire them equally with myself," and he handed her the book. "Is Mr. Howe not yet in?" he asked in a loud tone of voice as he heard that gentleman's footsteps approaching. "Ah—how d'ye do, Howe? I was beginning to despair of seeing you."

"Thank you, thank you," muttered John, gruffly, throwing up the window in extreme disgust at the strong odor of patchouli on Finel's handkerchief, "thank you, you are too good."

"I came," said Finels, "this morning to consult you on important business matters. We literary people are sadly deficient in practical affairs, and I know of no one in whose judgment I could so safely rely as your own. Can you give me your arm down street?"

"Any time to-morrow I will be happy to oblige you," said the mollified John; "to-day I have an unpostponable business engagement with the stockholders of the —— Railroad."

"Any time—any time, my dear fellow," said Finels, who was not at all sorry for the reprieve; "I shall not think of deciding, at any rate, until I see you again," and with as faultless a bow to Mrs. Howe as Finels alone could make in a husband's presence, he backed gracefully out.

"Finels is a pretty good fellow, after all," said Mr. Howe, "rather too much of a fop. What's this?" he asked, taking up the book which that gentleman had left.

"Good gracious, Mr. Howe! see the paint on your new coat," said his wife, remembering the marked passages and marginal notes, in the poems, intended for her eye alone; "good gracious, Mr. Howe! do come up into my dressing-room, and let me take it off while it is fresh."

A little sponge wet with spirits of turpentine, if it did not obliterate the paint that never was there, at least obliterated all recollection of the book from John's innocent mind; and Mrs. Howe, seeing her lord safely out of the house with his spotless coat, prepared for her call at Du Pont's.

"Please, ma'am," said Patty, "there is an old woman below, as wants to see you bad."

"Didn't I tell you to send away all beggars, Patty?"

"She is not a beggar, and yet she is not a lady exactly, and yet she is," said the puzzled Patty. "She is very respectable, ma'am; she said her name was—was—I declare ma'am, I am shocking at names."

"Well—send her off, any way," said Mrs. Howe; "tell her I am out."

"But I have told her you was in, ma'am, not knowing as you might want to see her."

"You never should do that, Patty, you should always say that you will see if I am in; that gives me a chance, you see. Go tell her then, that I am engaged."

"Please ma'am," said Patty, returning after a few minutes, "she says her name is 'Mrs. Bond,' and wants to know if she can see the young woman, and the sick baby; shall I show her up there?"

"Yes—yes—don't bother—I never shall get off to Madame Du Pont's."

One—two—three—four—five pair of back stairs, dark as only city back stairs can be. Poor old Mrs. Bond stumbled and panted, panted and stumbled breathlessly up toward the attic.

Patty threw open the door of the cook's room which Mrs. Howe, out of her abundance, had benevolently appropriated to the use of the sick child. The floor was uncarpeted, the window was without a blind, and the fat cook's ample petticoat had been pinned up by Mrs. Howe, not out of kindness to the sick child, but to keep out the eyes of prying neighbors.

Rose sat on the only seat in the room, a low cricket, swaying to and fro with Charley in her lap, vainly trying to hush his moanings; her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her face was even whiter than Charley's, for through the long weary hours, she had paced the floor with him, or sat on the cricket, lulling him as best she could, watching every change of expression in his little wan face.

At sight of Mrs. Bond, her pent up heart found vent, and laying her head upon her shoulder she sobbed aloud.

"Don't, darling, don't," said Mrs. Bond, with difficulty restraining her own emotions at Rose's distress, and the comfortless look of every thing about her. "Dear heart, don't cry;" and taking Charley in her matronly arms, she pushed Rose gently toward the bed, and sat down beside her.

"I see—I see"—she whispered, looking round the room, "you needn't say a word, dear, it is hard to bear; but turn over, and try to catch a nap while I hold the baby;" and cuddling him up into her comfortably fat neck, the good hearted old lady commenced her weary walk up and down the attic floor. Her gentle lulling and gentler touch, for babies know well how to appreciate an experienced and skillful hand, soon soothed the little sufferer. Rose, too, relieved from the pressure of responsibility which had weighed so heavily on her inexperience, yielded to the exhaustion which overpowered her, and sank into a fitful slumber.

Mrs. Bond laid Charley down on the foot of the bed, enveloped in her own warm shawl, and with velvet tread and noiseless touch, rinsed the glasses and spoons which stood on the window-seat near her, rearranged the cook's petticoat over the window, and sat down to watch her charge.

How even those few hours' sickness had blanched Charley's cheek, and paled Rose's lip!—"How could Mrs. Howe?"—but no, she would not think about it, if she could help it; and yet it was cruel; no, no, she would not think of it, and leaning her head forward upon the bed, she prayed God to make the stony heart a heart of flesh.

Rose started up—she was not dreaming, for there sat good Mrs. Bond, with her snowy cap and heart-warming smile.

"Dear heart! what a nice little nap you have had," she says, kissing Rose's forehead; "try and sleep again, dear."

"No," replied Rose, rising slowly; "lie down yourself—how very tired you must be, and how kind you are! I don't know how to bear such wretched hours as I have had here; oh, mother—mother!" and Rose sobbed again.

"There—there!" said Mrs. Bond, wiping Rose's eyes with her handkerchief; "don't now, there's a dear. I don't know why this is, but I know God loves us all, though we may not sometimes think so. Bear it, and trust Him, dear; we shall know all by and by. There, don't cry, now;" and Mrs. Bond wiped away her own tears.

A little stifled moan from the shawl announced Charley's waking. Rose took him up, and sat down with him upon her lap; how hot was his little head and hand, and how heavy his eye!

"Give him a sup of cold water, dear; see how parched his lips are."

"There is none up here," said Rose. "Mrs. Howe said I must not call upon the servants, and I could not leave Charley alone to get it; now that you are here, I will go down for some, if you will take Charley."

Mrs. Bond shook her head, and motioning Rose to sit still, took a mug in her hand, and slowly felt her way down the dark back stairway.

On the third landing she had a little more light on more than one subject, as Mrs. Howe's "boudoir" door was then open for the purpose of cleaning it. What soft, downy sofas and cushions!—what a mossy carpet!—what luxurious curtains and chairs! The old lady shook her head mournfully; and, supporting herself by the balustrade, descended another pair. There was light there, too, for the drawing-room door was open; no niggard hand had furnished its gilded mirrors and pictures, its lounges, tÊte-À-tÊtes, and candelabras; there was no parsimony in that ample China closet, with its groaning shelves of porcelain, silver, gold, and cut glass. Down still another pair to the kitchen, whose savory odors already greeted her nostrils; no parsimony there, with its turkeys and chickens roasting, its pies and puddings making, its custards and jellies quivering in costly cut glasses—no parsimony there.

"Will you have the goodness to show me to the pump in the yard?" asked the unsophisticated Mrs. Bond.

"Pump in the yard! won't this pump do as well?" asked the "professed cook," with a grin at one of her underlings.

"Yes, thank you," said the dignified old lady, discovering her mistake, and moving toward the pump.

"Civil," whispered the cook to her assistant, "I am sorry I laughed at her. Let me pump it for you," she said, taking the pitcher from the old lady's hand.

"I will be obliged to you if you will," she said, "I don't understand the handle of the pump. Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, with one of her disarming smiles, as she held out her hand for the pitcher.

"Let me carry it up for you," said the cook, "it is such a way up."

"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Bond, quickly, remembering what Rose had told about Mrs. Howe's order not to call on the servants.

But the cook was already out the door with the pitcher, and Mrs. Bond followed her.

"What has come over you, now, I'd like to know," said Patty, as the breathless cook returned to her turkeys, "it is the first time I ever saw you put yourself out to oblige any body."

"Well, it won't be the last time, if that old lady stays here; there's good enough in me, if people only knew how to draw it out; she does, that's the amount of it. I wish my tongue had been torn out before I made fun of her; I felt worse when she said 'thank you,' so civil, than as if she had struck me with that rolling-pin; she's one of the Bible sort; there ain't many of 'em; she'll go to heaven, she will."

"Well, let her go, I'm willing," said Patty, "now sing us the rest of 'Rosy-cheeked Molly.'"

"Oh, I can't," said the cook, breaking down at the end of the first verse, "I wish you would just stir that custard while I run up with this rocking-chair to that old lady; there's nothing on earth but a cricket in that room for her to sit on."

"You'd better not," said Patty, "Mrs. Howe said we weren't one of us to do nothing for them folks up stairs, no how."

"For all that, I shall," said the cook, shouldering the chair; "I am not afraid of Mrs. Howe; I know my value. She wouldn't part with me for her eyes, first because she likes my cooking, and second, because Mrs. Flynn, whom she hates, wants to get me away from her; so now;" and up stairs she trudged, with the rocking-chair.

"P-h-e-w! there's some difference between that garret and this kitchen," said Nancy, when she returned, "both as to distance, and as to accommodations in 'em," said she, looking round upon the plentiful supply of viands. "I begin to think that young girl up there, and her baby, are awful misused; I don't believe Mrs. Howe's story about her; she don't look as if she wasn't clever."

"Well, you'd better not say so," said Patty; "it is always my rule never to burn my fingers pulling other folks' pies out of the oven."

"I should think so," said Nancy, "just smell that pastry burning now; that rule won't work in this kitchen, any how; if Mrs. Howe comes home, she'll be sure to scent it on the front door step, she has such a nose."

"So you think the little boy will get along?" asked Mrs. Bond, following the doctor out into the entry.

"Oh, yes, madam, with time, and careful nursing; though he would stand a better chance if he had a larger apartment; these attics are bad for sick people. His mother appears to be quite worn out."

"She's young yet," said the old lady, desirous of attributing Rose's distress mainly to her anxiety for Charley; "she has had little experience."

The doctor would have liked to know more about his patients, but he had too much delicacy to ask questions; and placing a new recipe in Mrs. Bond's hand, he withdrew, musing, as he went down the stairs, on the many painful phases of life to which his profession introduced him, and which his skill was powerless to remedy.

Mrs. Bond kissed Rose and Charley, tenderly, as she bade them good-by, for she could not leave her own household over night; and with a promise to come again, and an entreaty to the tearful Rose to bear up, she took a reluctant leave.

She would like to have seen Mrs. Howe before leaving the house, but Patty told her she had not yet returned. As she went through the front entry, she met Mr. Howe returning to dinner.

"Good-day, sir; I am glad to see you before I go; I have only a word; you will take it from an old lady who means well: The baby and its mother, sir—'As ye would that others should do unto you, do ye even so to them;'" and with a gentle pressure of his hand, she smiled, bowed, and went out.

"'As—ye—would—do—unto—them!' What does she mean?" said Mr. Howe. "I supposed they were comfortable enough. Mrs. Howe told me so. She said they had a room and every thing they needed. Mrs. Howe likes to manage things her own way, and I let her," said the easy man, hanging his coat on the peg; "but if they are not comfortable, that's another thing. That old lady meant something. I must look into it—after dinner; I am too hungry now."