BY T. S. ARTHUR.

CHAPTER I.

Needle-work, at best, yields but a small return. Yet how many thousands have no other resource in life, no other barrier thrown up between them and starvation! The manly stay upon which a woman has leaned suddenly fails, and she finds self-support an imperative necessity; yet she has no skill, no strength, no developed resources. In all probability, she is a mother. In this case, she must not only stand alone, but sustain her helpless children. Since her earliest recollection, others have ministered to her wants and pleasures. From a father's hand, childhood and youth received their countless natural blessings; and brother or husband, in later years, has stood between her and the rough winds of a stormy world. All at once, like a bird reared from a fledgling in its cage, and then turned loose in dreary winter time, she finds herself in the world unskilled in its ways, yet required to earn her bread or perish.

What can she do? In what art or profession has she been educated? The world demands service, and proffers its money for labor. But what has she learned? What work can she perform? She can sew. And is that all? Every woman we meet can ply the needle. Ah! As a seamstress, how poor the promise for her future! The labor market is crowded with sewing women, and, as a consequence, the price of needle-work—more particularly that called plain needle-work—is depressed to mere starvation rates. In the more skilled branches, better returns are met; but, even here, few can endure prolonged application—few can bend ten, twelve, or fifteen hours daily over their tasks, without fearful inroads upon health.

In the present time, a strong interest has been awakened on this subject. The cry of the poor seamstress has been heard; and the questions, "How shall we help her?" "How shall we widen the circle of remunerative employments for women?" passes anxiously from lip to lip. To answer this question is not our present purpose. Others are earnestly seeking to work out the problem, and we must leave the solution with them. What we now design is to quicken their generous impulses. How more effectively can this be done than by a life-picture of the poor needlewoman's trials and sufferings? And this we shall now proceed to give.

It was a cold, dark, drizzly day in the fall of 18—, that a young female entered a well-arranged clothing store in Boston, and passed with hesitating steps up to where a man was standing behind one of the counters.

"Have you any work, sir?" she asked, in a low, timid voice.

The individual to whom this was addressed, a short, rough-looking man, with a pair of large black whiskers, eyed her for a moment with a bold stare, and then indicated, by half turning his head and nodding sideways towards the owner of the shop, who stood at a desk some distance back, that her application was to be made there. Turning quickly from the rude, and too familiar gaze of the attendant, the young woman went on to the desk, and stood, half frightened and trembling, beside the man from whom she had come to ask the privilege of toiling for little more than a crust of bread and a cup of cold water.

"Have you any work, sir?" was repeated in a still lower and more timid voice than that in which her request had at first been made.

"Yes, we have," was the gruff reply.

"Can I get some?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure that you'll ever bring it back again."

The applicant endeavored to make some reply to this, but the words choked her; she could not utter them.

"I've been tricked in my time out of more than a little by new-comers. But I don't know; you seem to have a simple, honest look. Are you particularly in want of work?"

"Oh yes, sir!" replied the applicant, in an earnest, half-imploring voice. "I desire work very much."

"What kind do you want?"

"Almost anything you have to give out, sir?"

"Well, we have pants, coarse and fine roundabouts, shirts, drawers, and almost any article of men's wear you can mention."

"What do you give for shirts, sir?"

"Various prices; from six cents up to twenty five, according to the quality of the article."

"Only twenty-five cents for fine shirts!" returned the young woman, in a surprised, disappointed, desponding tone.

"Only twenty-five cents? Only? Yes, only twenty-five cents! Pray, how much did you expect to get, Miss?" retorted the clothier, in a half sneering, half offended voice.

"I don't know. But twenty-five cents is very little for a hard day's work."

"Is it, indeed? I know enough who are thankful for even that. Enough who are at it early and late, and do not even earn as much. Your ideas will have to come down a little, Miss, if you expect to work for this branch of business."

"What do you give for vests and pantaloons?" asked the woman, without seeming to notice the man's rudeness.

"For common trowsers with pockets, twelve cents; and for finer ones, fifteen and twenty cents. Vests about the same rates."

"Have you any shirts ready?"

"Yes, a plenty. Will you have 'em coarse or fine?"

"Fine, if you please."

"How many will you take?"

"Let me have three to begin with."

"Here, Michael," cried the man to the attendant who had been first addressed by the stranger, "give this girl three fine shirts to make." Then turning to her, he said, "They are cotton shirts, with linen collars, bosoms, and wristbands. There must be two rows of stitching down the bosoms, and one row upon the wristband. Collars plain. And remember, they must be made very nice."

"Yes, sir," was the reply, made in a sad voice, as the young creature turned from her employer and went up to the shop-attendant to receive the three shirts.

"You've never worked for the clothing stores, I should think?" remarked this individual, looking her in the face with a steady gaze.

"Never," replied the applicant, in a low tone, half shrinking away, with an instinctive aversion for the man.

"Well, it's pretty good when one can't do any better. An industrious sewer can get along pretty well upon a pinch."

No reply was made to this. The shirts were now ready; but, before they were handed to her, the man bent over the counter, and, putting his face close to hers, said—

"What might your name be, Miss?"

A quick flush suffused the neck and face of the girl, as she stepped back a pace or two, and answered—

"That is of no consequence, sir."

"Yes, Miss, but it is of consequence. We never give out work to people who don't tell their names. We would be a set of unconscionable fools to do that, I should think."

The young woman stood thoughtful for a little while, and then said, while her cheek still burned—

"Lizzy Glenn."

"Very well. And now, Miss Lizzy, be kind enough to inform me where you live."

"That is altogether unnecessary. I will bring the work home as soon as I have finished it."

"But suppose you should happen to forget our street and number? What then?"

"Oh no, I shall not do that. I know the place very well," was the innocent reply.

"No, but that won't do, Lizzy. We must have the name and place of residence of every man, woman, and child who work for us. It is our rule, and we never depart from it."

There was another brief period of irresolution, and then the place of abode was given. This was first entered, with her name, in a book, and then the three shirts were handed over. The seamstress turned away on receiving them, and walked quickly from the shop.

The appearance of this young applicant for work would have appealed instantly to the sympathies of any one but a regular slop-shop man, who looked only to his own profits, and cared not a fig whose heart-drops cemented the stones of his building. She was tall and slender, with light brown hair, clear soft complexion, and eyes of a mild hazel. But her cheeks were sunken, though slightly flushed, and her eyes lay far back in their sockets. Her forehead was high and very white. The tones of her voice, which was low, were soft and musical, and her words were spoken, few though they were, with a taste and appropriateness that showed her to be one who had moved in a circle of refinement and intelligence. As to her garments, they were old, and far too thin for the season. A light, faded shawl, of costly material, was drawn closely around her shoulders, but had not the power to keep from her attenuated frame the chill air, or to turn off the fine penetrating rain that came with the wind, searchingly, from the bleak north-east. Her dress, of summer calico, much worn, clung closely to her body. Above all was a close bonnet, and a thick veil, which she drew around her face as she stepped into the street and glided hurriedly away.

"She's a touch above the vulgar, Michael," broke in Berlaps, the owner of the shop, coming forward as he spoke.

"Yes, indeed! That craft has been taut rigged in her time."

"Who can she be, Michael? None of your common ones, of course."

"Oh no, of course not; she's 'seen better days,' as the slang phrase is."

"No doubt of that. What name did she give?"

"Lizzy Glenn. But that may or may not be correct. People like her are sometimes apt to forget even their own names."

"Where does she live?"

"In the lower part of the town somewhere. I have it in the book here."

"You think she'll bring them shirts back?"

"Oh yes. Folks that have come down in the world as she has rarely play grab game after that fashion."

"She seemed all struck aback at the price."

"I suppose so. Ha! ha!"

"But she's the right kind," resumed Berlaps. "I only wish we had a dozen like her."

"I wish we had. Her work will never rip."

Further conversation was prevented by the entrance of a customer. Before he had been fully served, a middle-aged woman came in with a large bundle, and went back to Berlaps's desk, where he stood engaged over his account-books.

"Good-day, Mrs. Gaston," said he, looking up, while not a feature relaxed on his cold, rigid countenance.

"I've brought you in six pairs of pants," said the woman, untying the bundle she had laid upon the counter.

"You had seven pair, ma'am."

"I know that, Mr. Berlaps. But only six are finished; and, as I want some money, I have brought them in."

"It is more than a week since we gave them out. You ought to have had the whole seven pair done. We want them all now. They should have been in day before yesterday."

"They would have been finished, Mr. Berlaps," said the woman, in a deprecating tone; "but one of my children has been sick, and I have had to be up with her so often every night, and have had to attend to her so much through the day, that I have not been able to do more than half work."

"Confound the children!" muttered the tailor to himself, as he began inspecting the woman's work. "They're always getting sick, or something else."

After carefully examining three or four pairs of the coarse trowsers which had been brought in, he pushed the whole from him with a quick impatient gesture and an angry scowl, saying, as he did so—

"Botched to death! I can't give you work unless it's done better, Mrs. Gaston. You grow worse and worse!"

"I know, sir," replied the woman, in a troubled voice, "that they are not made quite so well as they might be. But consider how much I have had against me. A sick child—and worn out by attendance on her night and day."

"It's always a sick child, or some other excuse with the whole of you. But that don't answer me. I want my work done well, and I mean to have it so. If you don't choose to turn out good work, I can find a plenty who will."

"You sha'n't complain of me hereafter, Mr. Berlaps," replied the woman, submissively.

"So you have said before. But we shall see."

Berlaps then turned moodily to his desk, and resumed the employment he had broken off when the seamstress came in, while she stood with her hands folded across each other, awaiting his pleasure in regard to the payment of the meagre sum she had earned by a full week of hard labor, prolonged often to a late hour in the night. She had stood thus, meekly, for nearly five minutes, when Berlaps raised his head, and looking at her sternly over the top of his desk, said—

"What are you waiting for, Mrs. Gaston?"

"I should like to have the money for the pants I have brought in. I am out of every"—

"I never pay until the whole job is done. Bring in the other pair, and you can have your money."

"Yes; but Mr. Berlaps"——

"You needn't talk anything about it, madam. You have my say," was the tailor's angry response.

Slowly turning away, the woman moved, with hesitating steps, to the door, paused there a moment, and then went out. She lingered along, evidently undecided how to act, for several minutes, and then moved on at a quicker pace, as if doubt and irresolution had given way to some encouraging thought. Threading her way along the narrow winding streets in the lower part of the city, she soon emerged into the open space used as a hay-market, and, crossing over this, took her way in the direction of one of the bridges. Before reaching this, she turned down towards the right and entered a small grocery. A woman was the only attendant upon this.

"Won't you trust me for a little more, Mrs. Grubb?" she asked, in a supplicating voice, while she looked anxiously into her face.

"No, ma'am! not one cent till that dollar's paid up!" was the sharp retort. "And, to tell you the truth, I think you've got a heap of impudence to come in here, bold-faced, and ask for more trust, after having promised me over and over again for a month to pay that dollar. No! pay the dollar first!"

"I did intend to pay you a part of it this very day," replied Mrs. Gaston. "But"——

"Oh yes. It's but this, and but that. But, buts ain't my dollar. I'm an honest woman, and want to make an honest living; and must have my money."

"But I only want a little, Mrs. Grubb. A few potatoes and some salt fish; and just a gill of milk and a cup of flour. The children have had nothing to eat since yesterday. I took home six pairs of trowsers to-day, which came to ninety cents, at fifteen cents a pair. But I had seven pairs, and Mr. Berlaps won't pay me until I bring the whole number. It will take me till twelve o'clock to-night to finish them, and so I can't get any money before to-morrow. Just let me have two pounds of salt fish, which will be only seven cents, and three cents' worth of potatoes; and a little milk and flour to make something for Ella. It won't be much, Mrs. Grubb, and it will keep the little ones from being hungry all day and till late to-morrow."

Her voice failed her as she uttered the last sentence. But she restrained herself after the first sob that heaved her overladen bosom, and stood calmly awaiting the answer to her urgent petition.

Mrs. Grubb was a woman, and a mother into the bargain. She had, too, the remains of a woman's heart, where lingered a few maternal sympathies. These were quick to prompt her to duty. Turning away without a reply, she weighed out two pounds of fish, measured a peck of potatoes, poured out some milk in a cup, and filled a small paper with flour. These she handed to Mrs. Gaston without uttering a word.

"To-morrow you shall be paid for these, and something on the old account," said the recipient, as she took them and hurried from the shop.

"Why not give up at once, instead of trying to keep soul and body together by working for the slop-shops?" muttered Mrs. Grubb, as her customer withdrew. "She'd a great sight better go with her children to the poor-house than keep them half starving under people's noses at this rate, and compelling us, who have a little feeling left, to keep them from dying outright with hunger! It's too bad! There's that Berlaps, who grinds the poor seamstresses, who work for him to death, and makes them one-half of their time beggars at our stores for something for their children to eat. He is building two houses in Roxbury at this very moment; and out of what? Out of the money of which he has robbed these poor women. Fifteen cents for a pair of trowsers with pockets in them! Ten cents for shirts and drawers; and everything at that rate! Is it any wonder they are starving, and he growing rich? Curse him, and all like him! I could see them hung!"

And the woman set her teeth and clenched her hand in momentary, but impotent rage.

In the mean time, Mrs. Gaston hurried home with the food she had obtained. She occupied the upper room of a narrow frame house near the river, for which she paid a rent of three dollars a month. It was small and comfortless; but the best her slender means could provide. Two children were playing on the floor when she entered, the one about four, and the other a boy who looked as if he might be nearly ten years of age. On the bed lay Ella, the sick child to whom the mother had alluded both to the tailor and the shop-keeper. She turned wishfully upon her mother her young bright eyes as she entered, but did not move or utter a word. The children, who had been amusing themselves upon the floor, sprang to their feet, and, catching hold of the basket she brought in with her, ascertained in a moment its contents.

"Fish and taters! fish and taters!" cried the youngest, a little girl, clapping her hands and dancing about the floor.

"Won't we have some dinner now?" said Henry, the oldest boy, looking up into his mother's face with eager delight, as he laid his hands upon her arm.

"Yes, my children, you shall have a good dinner, and that right quickly," returned the mother, in a voice half choked with emotion, as she threw off her bonnet and proceeded to cook the coarse provisions she had obtained at the sacrifice of so much feeling. It did not take long to boil the fish and potatoes, which were eaten with a keen relish by two of the children, Emma and Harry. The gruel prepared for Ella, from the flour obtained at Mrs. Grubb's, did not much tempt the sickly appetite of the child. She sipped a few spoonfuls, and then turned from the bowl which her mother held for her at the bedside.

"Eat more of it, dear," said Mrs. Gaston. "It will make you feel better."

"I'm not very hungry now, mother," answered Ella.

"Don't it taste good to you?"

"Not very good."

The child sighed as she turned her wan face towards the wall, and the unhappy mother sighed responsive.

"I wish you would try to take a little more. It's so long since you have eaten anything; and you'll grow worse if you don't take nourishment. Just two or three spoonfuls. Come, dear."

Ella, thus urged, raised herself in bed, and made an effort to eat more of the gruel. At the third spoonful, her stomach heaved as the tasteless fluid touched her lips.

"Indeed, mother, I can't swallow another mouthful," she said, again sinking back on her pillow.

Slowly did Mrs. Gaston turn from the bed. She had not yet eaten of the food which her two well children were devouring with the eagerness of hungry animals. Only a small portion did she now take for herself, and that was eaten hurriedly, as if the time occupied in attending to her own wants were so much wasted.

The meal over, Mrs. Gaston took the unfinished pair of trowsers, and, though feeling weary and disheartened, bent earnestly to the task before her. At this she toiled, unremittingly, until the falling twilight admonished her to stop. The children's supper was then prepared. She would have applied to Mrs. Grubb for a loaf of bread, but was so certain of meeting a refusal that she refrained from doing so. For supper, therefore, they had only the salt fish and potatoes.

It was one o'clock that night before exhausted nature refused another draft upon its energies. The garment was not quite finished. But the nerveless hand and the weary head of the poor seamstress obeyed the requirements of her will no longer. The needle had to be laid aside, for the finger had no more strength to grasp, nor skill to direct its motions.

CHAPTER II.

It was about ten o'clock on the next morning, when Mrs. Gaston appeared at the shop of Berlaps, the tailor.

"Here is the other pair," she said, as she came up to the counter, behind which stood Michael, the salesman.

That person took the pair of trowsers, glanced at them a moment, and then, tossing them aside, asked Mrs. Gaston if she could make some cloth roundabouts.

"At what price?" was inquired.

"The usual price—thirty cents."

"Thirty cents for cloth jackets! Indeed, Michael, that is too little. You used to give thirty-seven and a half."

"Can't afford to do it now, then. Thirty cents is enough. There are plenty of women glad to get them even at that price."

"But it will take me a full day and a half to make a cloth jacket, Michael."

"You work slow, that's the reason; a good sewer can easily make one in a day; and that's doing pretty well, these times."

"I don't know what you mean by pretty well, Michael," answered the seamstress. "How do you think you could manage to support yourself and three children on less than thirty cents a day?"

"Haven't you put that oldest boy of yours out yet?" asked Michael, instead of replying to the question of Mrs. Gaston.

"No, I have not."

"Well, you do very wrong, let me tell you, to slave yourself and pinch your other children for him, when he might be earning his living just as well as not. He's plenty old enough to be put out."

"You may think so, but I don't. He is still but a child."

"A pretty big child, I should say. But, if you would like to get him a good master, I know a man over in Cambridge who would take him off of your hands."

"Who is he?"

"He keeps a store, and wants just such a boy to do odd trifles about, and run of errands. It would be the very dandy for your little fellow. He'll be in here to-day, and, if you say so, I will speak to him about your son."

"I would rather try and keep him with me this winter. He is too young to go so far away. I could not know whether he were well or ill used."

"Oh, as to that, ma'am, the man I spoke of is a particular friend of mine, and I know him to be as kind-hearted as a woman. His wife's amiability and good temper are proverbial. Do let me speak a good word for your son; I'm sure you will never repent it."

"I'll think about it, Michael; but don't believe I shall feel satisfied to let Henry go anywhere out of Boston, even if I should be forced to get him a place away from home this winter."

"Well, you can do as you please, Mrs. Gaston," said Michael, in a half offended tone. "I shall not charge anything for my advice. But say! do you intend trying some of these jackets?"

"Can't you give me some more pantaloons? I can do better on them, I think."

"We sha'n't have any more coarse trowsers ready for two or three days. The jackets are your only chance."

"If I must, I suppose I must, then," replied Mrs. Gaston to this, in a desponding tone. "So let me have a couple of them."

The salesman took from a shelf two dark, heavy cloth jackets, cut out and tied up in separate bundles with a strip of the fabric from which they had been taken. As he handed them to the woman, he said—

"Remember, now, these are to be made extra nice."

"You shall have no cause of complaint—depend upon that, Michael. But isn't Mr. Berlaps in this morning?"

"No. He's gone out to Roxbury to see about some houses he is putting up there."

"You can pay me for them pantys, I suppose?"

"No. I never settle any bills in his absence."

"But it's a very small matter, Michael. Only a dollar and five cents," said Mrs. Gaston, earnestly, her heart sinking in her bosom.

"Can't help it. It's just as I tell you."

"When will Mr. Berlaps be home?"

"Some time this afternoon, I suppose."

"Not till this afternoon," murmured the mother, sadly, as she thought of her children, and how meagerly she had been able to provide for them during the past few days. Turning away from the counter, she left the store and hurried homeward. Henry met her at the door as she entered, and, seeing that she brought nothing with her but the small bundles of work, looked disappointed. This touched her feeling a good deal. But she felt much worse when Ella, the sick one, half raised herself from her pillow and said—

"Did you get me that orange as you promised, mother?"

"No, dear; I couldn't get any money this morning," the mother replied, bending over her sick child and kissing her cheek, that was flushed and hot with fever. "But as soon as Mr. Berlaps pays me you shall have an orange."

"I wish he would pay you soon, then, mother; for I want one so bad. I dreamed last night that I had one, and, just as I was going to eat it, I waked up. And, since you have been gone, I've been asleep, and dreamed again that I had a large juicy orange. But don't cry, mother. I know you couldn't get it for me. I'll be very patient."

"I know you will, my dear child," said the mother, putting an arm about the little sufferer, and drawing her to her bosom; "you have been good and patient, and mother is only sorry that she has not been able to get you the orange you want so badly."

"But I don't believe I want it so very, very bad, mother, as I seem to. I think about it so much—that's the reason I want it, I'm sure. I'll try and not think about it any more."

"Try, that's a dear, good girl," murmured Mrs. Gaston, as she kissed her child again, and then turned away to resume once more her wearying task. Unrolling one of the coarse jackets she had brought home, she found that it was of heavy beaver cloth, and had to be sewed with strong thread. For a moment or two, after she spread it out upon the table, she looked at the many pieces to be wrought up into a well-finished whole, and thought of the hours of hard labor it would require to accomplish the task. A feeling of discouragement stole into her heart, and she leaned her head listlessly upon the table. But only a moment or two elapsed before a thought of her children aroused her flagging energies.

It was after eleven o'clock before she was fairly at work. The first thing to be done, after laying aside the different portions of the garment in order, was to put in the pockets. This was not accomplished before one o'clock, when she had to leave her work to prepare a meal for herself and little ones. There remained from their supper and breakfast a small portion of the fish and potatoes. Both of these had been boiled, and hashed up together, and, of what remained, all that was required was to make it into balls and fry it. This was not a matter to occasion much delay. In fifteen minutes from the time she laid aside her needle and thimble, the table had been set, with its one dish upon it, and Harry and little Emma were eating with keen appetites their simple meal. But, to Mrs. Gaston, the food was unpalatable; and Ella turned from it with loathing. There was, however, nothing more in the house; and both Ella and her mother had to practice self-denial and patience.

After the table was cleared away, Mrs. Gaston again resumed her labor; but Emma was unusually fretful, and hung about her mother nearly the whole afternoon, worrying her mind, and keeping her back a good deal, so that, when the brief afternoon had worn away, and the deepening twilight compelled her to suspend her labors, she had made but little perceptible progress in her work.

"Be good children now until I come back," she said, as she rose from her chair, put on her bonnet, and drew an old Rob Roy shawl around her shoulders. Descending then into the street, she took her way with a quick step towards that part of the city in which her employer kept his store. Her heart beat anxiously as she drew near, and trembled lest she should not find him in. If not?—but the fear made her feel sick. She had no food in the house, no friends to whom she could apply, and there was no one of whom she could venture to ask to be trusted for even a single loaf of bread. At length she reached the well-lighted store, in which were several customers, upon whom both Berlaps and his clerk were attending with business assiduity. The sight of the tailor relieved the feelings of poor Mrs. Gaston very much. Passing on to the back part of the store, she stood patiently awaiting his leisure. But his customers were hard to please. And, moreover, one was scarcely suited before another came in. Thus it continued for nearly half an hour, when the poor woman became so anxious about the little ones she had left at home, and especially about Ella, who had appeared to have a good deal of fever when she came away, that she walked slowly down the store, and paused opposite to where Berlaps stood waiting upon a customer, in order to attract his attention. But he took not the slightest notice of her. She remained thus for nearly ten minutes longer. Then she came up to the side of the counter, and, leaning over towards him, said, in a half whisper—

"Can I speak a word with you, Mr. Berlaps?"

"I've no time to attend to you now, woman," he answered, gruffly, and the half frightened creature shrunk away quickly, and again stood far back in the store.

It was full half an hour after this before the shop was cleared, and then the tailor, instead of coming back to where Mrs. Gaston stood, commenced folding up and replacing his goods upon the shelves. Fearful lest other customers would enter, the seamstress came slowly forward, and again stood near Berlaps.

"What do you want here to-night, woman?" asked the tailor, without lifting his eyes from the employment in which he was engaged.

"I brought home the other pair of trowsers this morning, but you were not in," Mrs. Gaston replied.

"Well?"

"Michael couldn't pay me, and so I've run up this evening."

"You're a very troublesome kind of a person," said Berlaps, looking her rebukingly in the face. Then taking a dollar and five cents from the drawer, he pushed them towards her on the counter, adding, as he did so, "There, take your money. One would think you were actually starving."

Mrs. Gaston picked up the coin eagerly, and hurried away. It was more than an hour since she had left home. Her children were alone, and the night had closed in some time before. The thought of this made her quicken her pace to a run. As she passed on, the sight of an orange in a window reminded her of her promise to Ella. She stopped and bought a small one, and then hurried again on her way.

"Here's half a dollar of what I owe you, Mrs. Grubb," said she, as she stepped into the shop of that personage, and threw the coin she named upon the counter. "And now give me a loaf of bread, quickly; some molasses in this cup, and a pint of milk in this," drawing two little mugs from under her shawl as she spoke.

The articles she mentioned were soon ready for her. She had paid for them, and was about stepping from the door, when she paused, and, turning about, said—

"Oh, I had like to have forgotten! I want two cent candles. I shall have to work late to-night."

The candles were cut from a large bunch hanging above the narrow counter, wrapped in a very small bit of paper, and given to Mrs. Gaston, who took them and went quickly away.

All was dark and still in the room that contained her children, as she gained the house that sheltered them. She lit one of her candles below, and went up stairs. As she entered, Ella's bright eyes glistened upon her from the bed; but little Emma had fallen asleep with her head in the lap of Henry, who was seated upon the floor with his back against the wall, himself likewise locked in the arms of forgetfulness. The fire had nearly gone out, and the room was quite cold.

"Oh, mother, why did you stay so long?" Ella asked, looking her earnestly in the face.

"I couldn't get back any sooner, my dear. But see! I've brought the orange you have wished for so long. You can eat it all by yourself, for Emma is fast asleep on the floor, and can't cry for it."

But Emma roused up at the moment, and began to fret and cry for something to eat.

"Don't cry, dear. You shall have your supper in a little while. I have brought you home some nice bread and molasses," said the mother, in tones meant to soothe and quiet her hungry and impatient little one. But Emma continued to fret and cry on.

"It's so cold, mamma!" she said. "It's so cold, and I'm hungry!"

"Don't cry, dear," again urged the mother. "I'll make the fire up nice and warm in a little while, and then you shall have something good to eat."

But—"It's so cold, mamma! it's so cold! and I'm hungry!" was the continued and incessant complaint of the poor child.

All this time, Ella had been busily engaged in peeling her orange and dividing it into four quarters.

"See here, Emma! Look what I've got!" she said, in a lively, cheerful tone, as soon as her orange had been properly divided. "Come, cover up in bed here with me, until the fire's made, and you shall have this nice bit of orange."

Emma's complaints ceased in a moment, and she turned towards her sister, and clambered upon the bed.

"And here's a piece for you, Henry, and a piece for mother, too," continued Ella, reaching out two other portions.

"No, dear, keep it for yourself. I don't want it," said the mother.

"And Emma shall have my piece," responded Henry; "she wants it worse than I do."

"That is right. Be good children, and love one another," said Mrs. Gaston, encouragingly. "But Emma don't want brother Henry's piece, does she?"

"No, Emma don't want brother Henry's piece," repeated the child; and she took up a portion of the orange as she spoke, and handed it to her brother.

Henry received it, and, getting upon the bed with his sisters, shared with them not only the orange, but kind fraternal feelings. The taste of the fruit revived Ella a good deal, and she, with the assistance of Henry, succeeded in amusing Emma until their mother had made the fire and boiled some water. Into a portion of the water she poured about half of the milk she had brought home, and, filling a couple of tin cups with this, set it with bread and molasses upon a little table, and called Henry and Emma to supper. The children, at this announcement, scrambled from the bed, and, pushing chairs up to the table, commenced eating the supper provided for them with keen appetites. Into what remained of the pint of milk, Mrs. Gaston poured a small portion of hot water, and then crumbled some bread, and put a few grains of salt into it, and took this to the bed for Ella. The child ate two or three spoonfuls; but her stomach soon turned against the food.

"I don't feel hungry, mother," said she, as she laid herself back upon the pillow.

"But you've eaten scarcely anything to-day. Try and take a little more, dear. It will do you good."

"I can't, indeed, mother." And a slight expression of loathing passed over the child's face.

"Can't you think of something you could eat?" urged the mother.

"I don't want anything. The orange tasted good, and that is enough for to-night," Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.

Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate a small portion of bread and molasses. But this food touched not her palate with any pleasurable sensation. She ate only because she knew that, unless she took food, she would not have strength to perform her duties to her children. For a long series of years, her system had been accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the evening meal. A cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to her. It braced her system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after the unremitting toils of the day. But, for some time past, she had felt called upon, for the sake of her children, to deny herself this luxury—no, comfort—no, this, to her, one of the necessaries of life. The consequence was that her appetite lost its tone. No food tasted pleasantly to her; and the labors of the evening were performed under depression of spirits and nervous relaxation of body.

This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water in which a little milk had been poured. As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon the face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her eldest born—the first pledge of pure affection, and the promise of a happy wedded life. Sadly, indeed, had time changed since then. A young mother, smiling over her first born—how full of joy was the sunlight of each succeeding day! Now, widowed and alone, struggling with failing and unequal strength against the tide that was slowly bearing her down the stream, each morning broke to her more and more drearily, and each evening, as it closed darkly in, brought another shadow to rest in despondency upon her spirit. Faithfully had she struggled on, hoping still to be able to keep her little ones around her. The proposition of Michael to put out Henry startled into activity the conscious fear that had for some months been stifled in her bosom; and now she had to look the matter full in the face, and, in spite of all her feelings of reluctance, confess to herself that the effort to keep her children around her must prove unavailing. But how could she part with her boy? How could she see him put out among strangers? How could she bear to let him go away from her side, and be henceforth treated as a servant, and be compelled to perform labor above his years? The very thought made her sick.

Her frugal meal was soon finished, and then the children were put to bed. After laying away their clothes, and setting back the table from which their supper had been eaten, Mrs. Gaston seated herself by the already nearly half burned penny candle, whose dim light scarcely enabled her failing eyesight to discern the edges of the dark cloth upon which she was working, and composed herself to her task. Hour after hour she toiled on, weary and aching in every limb. But she remitted not her labors until long after midnight, and then not until her last candle had burned away to the socket in which it rested. Then she put aside her work with a sigh, as she reflected upon the slow progress she had made, and, disrobing herself, laid her over-wearied body beside that of her sick child. Ella was asleep; but her breathing was hard, and her mother perceived, upon laying her hand upon her face, that her fever had greatly increased. But she knew no means of alleviation, and therefore did not attempt any. In a little while, nature claimed for her a respite. Sleep locked her senses in forgetfulness.

(To be continued.)