“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 follow. 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 any thing 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, 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 a 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 toward 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 toward 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.