she rested from her work, and straightened herself in her chair, to afford a slight relief from the uneasiness she experienced. “I wonder, mother, if I shall always be obliged to sit so steady?”
“I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is, there are hundreds worse off than we. Take Annie Carr, for instance—how would you like to exchange places with her?”
“Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother. How hard it must be for one so young to be so afflicted as she is!”
“And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for five years she has never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want of proper nourishment.”
“I don't think she will suffer much longer, mother. I stopped in to see her the other day, and I was astonished at the change which had taken place in a short time. Her conversation, too, seems so heavenly, her faith in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoid coming to the conclusion that a few days more, at the most, would terminate her wearisome life.”
“It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my daughter. Still, it will be a sore trial for her mother.”
It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter finished the work upon which they were engaged.
“Now Laura, dear,” said the mother, “get back as soon as you can, for I don't like you to be out after night, and more than that, if Mrs. Carr comes, she won't want to wait.”
About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone, Mrs. Carr called. “Pray, be seated, my dear friend,” said Mrs. Perry, “my daughter has just gone to Mrs. Allison's with some work, and as soon as she returns I can pay you.”
“I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry,” answered the poor woman; “Mary begged me not to stay long.”
“Is Annie any worse, then?”
“Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will hardly last till morning.”
“Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her.”
“Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me.”
“How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?”
“Not very well; she has been at work for her just one month to-day; and although she gave her to understand that her wages would be at least a dollar and a quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settled with her, she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the same time told her that if she didn't choose to work for that she could go.”
“What do you suppose was the reason for her acting so?”
“I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does not get there quite as early as the rest of her hands; for you see I am obliged to keep her a little while in the morning to help me to move Annie while I make her bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would have been some help to us, but it had all to go for rent. My landlord would take no denial. But I must go; you think I can depend on receiving your money to-night?”
“I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for her work as soon as it is done. I will not trouble you to come again for it, Mrs. Carr. Laura shall bring it over to you.”
Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom our readers, no doubt, recognise as Laura Perry.
“Good evening, Laura,” said Mrs. Allison, as she entered the room; “not brought my work home already! I did not look for it till next week. You and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves too closely to your needles for your own good. But you have not had your tea? sit up, and take some.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy if I stay long.”
“Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with you to-night. Tell your mother Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting to-day, or she certainly should have had it. Did she say how much it was?”
“Two dollars, ma'am.”
“Very well: I will try and let her have it next week.”
The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly the disappointment she felt. “I am afraid Mrs. Perry is in want of that money,” remarked the husband after she had gone.
“Not the least doubt of it,” replied his wife. “She would not have sent home work at this hour if she had not been. Poor things! who can tell the amount of suffering and wretchedness that is caused by the rich neglecting to pay promptly.”
“You come without money, Laura,” said her mother, as she entered the house.
“How do you know that, mother?” she replied, forcing a smile.
“I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?”
“It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting—what will we do, mother?”
“The best we can, my child. We will have to do without our beef for dinner to-morrow; but then we have plenty of bread; so we shall not starve.”
“And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My old ones are too shabby to go to church in; so I shall have to stay at home.”
“I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I care more for Mrs. Carr than I do for ourselves. She has been here, and is in a great deal of trouble. The doctor don't think Annie will live till morning, and Mrs. Owrings hag refused to give Mary more than three dollars for her month's work, every cent of which old Grimes took for rent. I told her she might depend on getting what I owed her, and that I would send you over with it when you returned. You had better go at once and tell her, Laura; perhaps she may be able to get some elsewhere.”
“How much is it, mother?”
“Half a dollar.”
“It seems hard that she can't get that small sum.”
With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble abode.
“Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!” exclaimed the poor woman. “Annie has been craving some ice cream all day; it's the only thing she seems to fancy. I told her she should have it as soon as you came.”
Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her ill success. “I care not for myself,” she said “but for that poor suffering child.”
“Never mind me, mother,” replied Annie. “It was selfish in me to want it, when I know how hard you and Mary are obliged to work for every cent you get. But I feel that I shall not bother you much longer; I have a strange feeling here now.” And she placed her hand upon her left side.
“Stop!” cried Laura; “I'll try and get some ice cream for you Annie.” And off she ran to her mother's dwelling. “Mother,” said she, as she entered the house, “do you recollect that half dollar father gave me the last time he went to sea?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs. Carr. Annie is very bad, and her mother says she has been wanting some ice cream all day.”
“It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it.”
“It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I had determined to keep it in remembrance of my father. It is just twelve years to-day since he went away. But poor Annie—yes, mother, I will take it.”
So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained her treasure, but unfortunately her key was not where she had supposed it was. After a half hour's search she succeeded in finding it. Tears coursed down her cheeks like rain as she removed from the corner of the little box, where it had lain for so many years, this precious relic of a dear father, who in all probability, was buried beneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily away, she started again for Mrs. Carr's. The ice cream was procured on the way, and, just as the clock struck eight, she arrived at the door. One hour has elapsed since she left. But why does