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A Christmas Carol

By; Charles Dickens

 

 

 

Contents

PREFACE. 3

Stave 1:  Marley's Ghost 4

Stave 2:  The First of the Three Spirits. 18

Stave 3:  The Second of the Three Spirits. 30

Stave 4:  The Last of the Spirits. 46

Stave 5:  The End of It 58

 

 

 

PREFACE

 

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me.  May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

 

Their faithful Friend and Servant,

1. D.

December, 1843.

 

 

Stave 1:  Marley's Ghost

 

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon `Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to.

 

Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

 

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

 

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

 

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

 

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

 

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

 

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often `came down' handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

 

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, `My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?' No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, `No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!'

 

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call `nuts' to Scrooge.

 

Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside, go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already -- it had not been light all day -- and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

 

The door of Scrooge's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

 

`A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!' cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.

 

`Bah!' said Scrooge, `Humbug!'

 

He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

 

`Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Scrooge's nephew. `You don't mean that, I am sure?'

 

`I do,' said Scrooge. `Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.'

 

`Come, then,' returned the nephew gaily. `What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough.'

 

Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said `Bah!' again; and followed it up with `Humbug.'

 

`Don't be cross, uncle!' said the nephew.

 

`What else can I be,' returned the uncle, `when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in `em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly, `every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'

 

`Uncle!' pleaded the nephew.

 

`Nephew!' returned the uncle sternly, `keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.'

 

`Keep it!' repeated Scrooge's nephew. `But you don't keep it.'

 

`Let me leave it alone, then,' said Scrooge. `Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!'

 

`There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,' returned the nephew. `Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!'

 

The clerk in the Tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.

 

`Let me hear another sound from you,' said Scrooge, `and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You're quite a powerful speaker, sir,' he added, turning to his nephew. `I wonder you don't go into Parliament.'

 

`Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.'

 

Scrooge said that he would see him -- yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.

 

`But why?' cried Scrooge's nephew. `Why?'

 

`Why did you get married?' said Scrooge.

 

`Because I fell in love.'

 

`Because you fell in love!' growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. `Good afternoon!'

 

`Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?'

 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

 

`I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?'

 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

 

`I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!'

 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

 

`And A Happy New Year!'

 

`Good afternoon,' said Scrooge.

 

His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.

 

`There's another fellow,' muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: `my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. I'll retire to Bedlam.'

 

This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.

 

`Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,' said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. `Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?'

 

`Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,' Scrooge replied. `He died seven years ago, this very night.'

 

`We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,' said the gentleman, presenting  his credentials.

 

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word `liberality,' Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.

 

`At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,' said the gentleman, taking up a pen, `it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and Destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.'

 

`Are there no prisons?' asked Scrooge.

 

`Plenty of prisons,' said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. `And the Union workhouses?' demanded Scrooge. `Are they still in operation?'

 

`They are. Still,' returned the gentleman, `I wish I could say they were not.'

 

`The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?' said Scrooge.

 

`Both very busy, sir.'

 

`Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,' said Scrooge. `I'm very glad to hear it.'

 

`Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,' returned the gentleman, `a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink. and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?'

 

`Nothing!' Scrooge replied.

 

`You wish to be anonymous?'

 

`I wish to be left alone,' said Scrooge. `Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned -- they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.'

 

`Many can't go there; and many would rather die.'

 

`If they would rather die,' said Scrooge, `they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides -- excuse me -- I don't know that.'

 

`But you might know it,' observed the gentleman.

 

`It's not my business,' Scrooge returned. `It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!'

 

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge returned his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.

 

Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold became intense. In the main street at the corner of the court, some labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered: warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture. The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowing sullenly congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades became a splendid joke; a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.

 

Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas carol: but at the first sound of

 

`God bless you, merry gentleman! May nothing you dismay!'

 

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial frost.

 

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

 

`You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?' said Scrooge.

 

`If quite convenient, sir.'

 

`It's not convenient,' said Scrooge, `and it's not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound?'

 

The clerk smiled faintly.

 

`And yet,' said Scrooge, `you don't think me ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work.'

 

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

 

`A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!' said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. `But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning.'

 

The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's-buff.

 

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold.

 

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including -- which is a bold word – the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change -- not a knocker, but Marley's face.

 

Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air; and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression.

 

As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

 

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.

 

He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he said `Pooh, pooh!' and closed it with a bang.

 

The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant's cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too: trimming his candle as he went.

 

You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall and the door towards the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom. Half a dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip.

 

Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.

 

Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guards, old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.

 

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.

 

It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaohs' daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending

through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts -- and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one.

 

`Humbug!' said Scrooge; and walked across the room.

 

After several turns, he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung in the room, and communicated for some purpose now forgotten with a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

 

This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour. The bells ceased as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

 

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

 

`It's humbug still!' said Scrooge. `I won't believe it.'

 

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried `I know him; Marley's Ghost!' and fell again.

 

The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

 

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.

 

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against his senses.

 

`How now!' said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. `What do you want with me?'

 

`Much!' -- Marley's voice, no doubt about it.

 

`Who are you?'

 

`Ask me who I was.'

 

`Who were you then?' said Scrooge, raising his voice. `You're particular, for a shade.' He was going to say `to a shade,' but substituted this, as more appropriate.

 

`In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.'

 

`Can you -- can you sit down?' asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at him.

 

`I can.'

 

`Do it, then.'

 

Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

 

`You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost.

 

`I don't.' said Scrooge.

 

`What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?'

 

`I don't know,' said Scrooge.

 

`Why do you doubt your senses?'

 

`Because,' said Scrooge, `a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!'

 

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel, in his heart, by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror; for the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

 

To sit, staring at those fixed glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him. There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own. Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

 

`You see this toothpick?' said Scrooge, returning quickly to the charge, for the reason just assigned; and wishing, though it were only for a second, to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself.

 

`I do,' replied the Ghost.

 

`You are not looking at it,' said Scrooge.

 

`But I see it,' said the Ghost, `notwithstanding.'

 

`Well!' returned Scrooge, `I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of goblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you! humbug!'

 

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

 

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.

 

`Mercy!' he said. `Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?'

 

`Man of the worldly mind!' replied the Ghost, `do you believe in me or not?'

 

`I do,' said Scrooge. `I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?'

 

`It is required of every man,' the Ghost returned, `that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world -- oh, woe is me! -- and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!'

 

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

 

`You are fettered,' said Scrooge, trembling. `Tell me why?'

 

`I wear the chain I forged in life,' replied the Ghost. `I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'

 

Scrooge trembled more and more.

 

`Or would you know,' pursued the Ghost, `the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!'

 

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

 

`Jacob,' he said, imploringly. `Old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob!'

 

`I have none to give,' the Ghost replied. `It comes from other regions, Ebenezer Scrooge, and is conveyed by other ministers, to other kinds of men. Nor can I tell you what I would. A very little more, is all permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our counting-house -- mark me! -- in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me!'

 

It was a habit with Scrooge, whenever he became thoughtful, to put his hands in his breeches pockets. Pondering on what the Ghost had said, he did so now, but without lifting up his eyes, or getting off his knees.

 

`You must have been very slow about it, Jacob,' Scrooge observed, in a business-like manner, though with humility and deference.

 

`Slow!' the Ghost repeated.

 

`Seven years dead,' mused Scrooge. `And travelling all the time!'

 

`The whole time,' said the Ghost. `No rest, no peace. Incessant torture of remorse.'

 

`You travel fast?' said Scrooge.

 

`On the wings of the wind,' replied the Ghost.

 

`You might have got over a great quantity of ground in seven years,' said Scrooge.

 

The Ghost, on hearing this, set up another cry, and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.

 

`Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed,' cried the phantom, `not to know, that ages of incessant labour, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I! Oh! such was I!'

 

`But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.

 

`Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. `Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!'

 

It held up its chain at arm's length, as if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again.

 

`At this time of the rolling year,' the spectre said `I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me!'

 

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

 

`Hear me!' cried the Ghost. `My time is nearly gone.'

 

`I will,' said Scrooge. `But don't be hard upon me! Don't be flowery, Jacob! Pray!' `How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day.'

 

It was not an agreeable idea. Scrooge shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

 

`That is no light part of my penance,' pursued the Ghost. `I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.'

 

`You were always a good friend to me,' said Scrooge. `Thank `ee!'

 

`You will be haunted,' resumed the Ghost, `by Three Spirits.'

 

Scrooge's countenance fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done.

 

`Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?' he demanded, in a faltering voice.

 

`It is.'

 

`I -- I think I'd rather not,' said Scrooge.

 

`Without their visits,' said the Ghost, `you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls One.'

 

`Couldn't I take `em all at once, and have it over, Jacob?' hinted Scrooge.

 

`Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!'

 

When it had said these words, the spectre took its wrapper from the table, and bound it round its head, as before. Scrooge knew this, by the smart sound its teeth made, when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He ventured to raise his eyes again, and found his supernatural visitor confronting him in an erect attitude, with its chain wound over and about its arm.

 

The apparition walked backward from him; and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that when the spectre reached it, it was wide open. It beckoned Scrooge to approach, which he did. When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer. Scrooge stopped.

 

 

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear: for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory. The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

 

Scrooge followed to the window: desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.

 

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.

 

Whether these creatures faded into mist, or mist enshrouded them, he could not tell. But they and their spirit voices faded together; and the night became as it had been when he walked home.

 

Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say `Humbug!' but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.

 

 

 

 

Stave 2:  The First of the Three Spirits

 

When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour.

 

To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve. It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must have got into the works. Twelve.

 

He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve: and stopped.

 

`Why, it isn't possible,' said Scrooge, `that I can have slept through a whole day and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon.'

 

The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

 

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now  to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.

 

It was a strange figure -- like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white, and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm.

 

Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever.

 

`Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me.' asked Scrooge.

 

`I am.'

 

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

 

`Who, and what are you.' Scrooge demanded.

 

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'

 

`Long Past.' inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.

 

`No. Your past.'

 

Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit in his cap; and begged him to be covered.

 

`What.' exclaimed the Ghost,' would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give. Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow.'

 

Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any knowledge of having wilfully bonneted the Spirit at any period of his life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there.

 

`Your welfare.' said the Ghost.

 

Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:

 

`Your reclamation, then. Take heed.'

 

It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm.

 

`Rise. and walk with me.'

 

It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe in supplication.

 

`I am mortal,' Scrooge remonstrated, `and liable to fall.'

 

`Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart,' and you shall be upheld in more than this.'

 

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

 

`Good Heaven!' said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. `I was bred in this place. I was a boy here.'

 

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.

 

`Your lip is trembling,' said the Ghost. `And what is that upon your cheek.'

 

Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.

 

`You recollect the way.' inquired the Spirit.

 

`Remember it.' cried Scrooge with fervour; `I could walk it blindfold.'

 

`Strange to have forgotten it for so many years.' Observed the Ghost. `Let us go on.'

 

They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it.

 

`These are but shadows of the things that have been,' said the Ghost. `They have no consciousness of us.'

 

The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past. Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes. What was merry Christmas to Scrooge. Out upon merry Christmas. What good had it ever done to him.

 

`The school is not quite deserted,' said the Ghost. `A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.'

 

Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.

 

They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat.

 

They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be.

 

Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.

 

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood.

 

`Why, it's Ali Baba.' Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. `It's dear old honest Ali Baba. Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas time, when yonder solitary child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like that. Poor boy. And Valentine,' said Scrooge,' and his wild brother, Orson; there they go. And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him. And the Sultan's Groom turned upside down by the Genii; there he is upon his head. Serve him right. I'm glad of it. What business had he to be married to the Princess.'

 

To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed.

 

`There's the Parrot.' cried Scrooge. `Green body and yellow tail, with a thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is. Poor Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing round the island. `Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin Crusoe.'  The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It was the Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life to the little creek. Halloa. Hoop. Hallo.'

 

Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, `Poor boy.' and cried again.

 

`I wish,' Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: `but it's too late now.'

 

`What is the matter.' asked the Spirit.

 

`Nothing,' said Scrooge. `Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that's all.'

 

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, `Let us see another Christmas.'

 

Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

 

He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door.

 

It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her `Dear, dear brother.'

 

`I have come to bring you home, dear brother.' said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. `To bring you home, home, home.'

 

`Home, little Fan.' returned the boy.

 

`Yes.' said the child, brimful of glee. `Home, for good and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's like Heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be a man.' said the child, opening her eyes,' and are never to come back here; but first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world.'

 

`You are quite a woman, little Fan.' exclaimed the boy.

 

She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her.

 

A terrible voice in the hall cried.' Bring down Master Scrooge's box, there.' and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of something to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

 

`Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,' said the Ghost. `But she had a large heart.'

 

`So she had,' cried Scrooge. `You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid.'

 

`She died a woman,' said the Ghost,' and had, as I think, children.'

 

`One child,' Scrooge returned.

 

`True,' said the Ghost. `Your nephew.'

 

Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, `Yes.'

 

Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battle for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.

 

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it.

 

`Know it.' said Scrooge. `Was I apprenticed here.'

 

They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:

 

`Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again.'

 

Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shows to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:

 

`Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.'

 

Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-prentice.

 

`Dick Wilkins, to be sure.' said Scrooge to the Ghost. `Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear, dear.'

 

`Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters up,' cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands,' before a man can say Jack Robinson.'

 

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it. They charged into the street with the shutters -- one, two, three -- had them up in their places -- four, five, six – barred them and pinned then -- seven, eight, nine -- and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

 

`Hilli-ho!' cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. `Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here. Hilli-ho, Dick. Chirrup, Ebenezer.'

 

Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

 

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them. When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out,' Well done.' and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

 

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind. The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him.) struck up Sir Roger de Coverley.'  Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

 

But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times -- old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig cut -- cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

 

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and Mrs Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.

 

During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.

 

`A small matter,' said the Ghost,' to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.'

 

`Small.' echoed Scrooge.

 

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so, said,

 

`Why. Is it not. He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise.'

 

`It isn't that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. `It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count them up: what then. The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.'

 

He felt the Spirit's glance, and stopped.

 

`What is the matter.' asked the Ghost.

 

`Nothing in particular,' said Scrooge.

 

`Something, I think.' the Ghost insisted.

 

`No,' said Scrooge,' No. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That's all.'

 

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air.

 

`My time grows short,' observed the Spirit. `Quick.'

 

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

 

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

 

`It matters little,' she said, softly. `To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.'

 

`What Idol has displaced you.' he rejoined.

 

`A golden one.'

 

`This is the even-handed dealing of the world.' he said. `There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth.'

 

`You fear the world too much,' she answered, gently. `All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not.'

 

`What then.' he retorted. `Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then. I am not changed towards you.'

 

She shook her head.

 

`Am I.'

 

`Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made, you were another man.'

 

`I was a boy,' he said impatiently.

 

`Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,' she returned. `I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you.'

 

`Have I ever sought release.'

 

`In words. No. Never.'

 

`In what, then.'

 

`In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us,' said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him;' tell me, would you seek me out and try to win me now. Ah, no.'

 

He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle,' You think not.'

 

`I would gladly think otherwise if I could,' she answered, `Heaven knows. When I have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow, yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl -- you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain: or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and regret would surely follow. I do; and I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were.'

 

He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she resumed.

 

`You may -- the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will -- have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have chosen.'

 

She left him, and they parted.

 

`Spirit.' said Scrooge,' show me no more. Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me.'

 

`One shadow more.' exclaimed the Ghost.

 

`No more.' cried Scrooge. `No more, I don't wish to see it. Show me no more.'

 

But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to observe what happened next.

 

They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like that last that Scrooge believed it was the same, until he saw her, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter. The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more children there, than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count; and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty children conducting themselves like one, but every child was conducting itself like forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter, soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young brigands most ruthlessly. What would I not have given to one of them. Though I never could have been so rude, no, no. I wouldn't for the wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it down; and for the precious little shoe, I wouldn't have plucked it off, God bless my soul. To save my life. As to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn't have done it; I should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. And yet I should have dearly liked, I own, to have touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value.

 

But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered dress was borne towards it the centre of a flushed and boisterous group, just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by a man laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless porter. The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs in irrepressible affection. The shouts of wonder and delight with which the development of every package was received. The terrible announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter. The immense relief of finding this a false alarm. The joy, and gratitude, and ecstasy. They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlour, and by one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed, and so subsided.

 

And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and as full of promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed.

 

`Belle,' said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile,' I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.'

 

`Who was it.'

 

`Guess.'

 

`How can I. Tut, don't I know.' she added in the same breath, laughing as he laughed. `Mr Scrooge.'

 

`Mr Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone. Quite alone in the world, I do believe.'

 

`Spirit.' said Scrooge in a broken voice,' remove me from this place.'

 

`I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,' said the Ghost. `That they are what they are, do not blame me.'

 

`Remove me.' Scrooge exclaimed,' I cannot bear it.'

 

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.

 

`Leave me. Take me back. Haunt me no longer.'

 

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon its head.

 

The Spirit dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered its whole form; but though Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

 

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom.  He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.

 

 

Stave 3:  The Second of the Three Spirits

 

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of One. He felt that he was restored to consciousness in the right nick of time, for the especial purpose of holding a conference with the second messenger despatched to him through Jacob Marley's intervention. But, finding that he turned uncomfortably cold when he began to wonder which of his curtains this new spectre would draw back, he put them every one aside with his own hands, and lying down again, established a sharp look-out all round the bed. For, he wished to challenge the Spirit on the moment of its appearance, and did not wish to be taken by surprise, and made nervous.

 

Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects. Without venturing for Scrooge quite as hardily as this, I don't mind calling on you to believe that he was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and that nothing between a baby and rhinoceros would have astonished him very much.

 

Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, he began to think -- as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too -- at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door.

 

The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock, a strange voice called him by his name, and bade him enter. He obeyed.

 

It was his own room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time, or Marley's, or for many and many a winter season gone. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see:, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.

 

`Come in.' exclaimed the Ghost. `Come in. and know me better, man.'

 

 

Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

 

`I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' said the Spirit. `Look upon me.'

 

Scrooge reverently did so. It was clothed in one simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. This garment hung so loosely on the figure, that its capacious breast was bare, as if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice. Its feet, observable beneath the ample folds of the garment, were also bare; and on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

 

`You have never seen the like of me before.' Exclaimed the Spirit.

 

`Never,' Scrooge made answer to it.

 

`Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family; meaning (for I am very young) my elder brothers born in these later years.' pursued the Phantom.

 

`I don't think I have,' said Scrooge. `I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit.'

 

`More than eighteen hundred,' said the Ghost.

 

`A tremendous family to provide for.' muttered Scrooge.

 

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

 

`Spirit,' said Scrooge submissively,' conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.'

 

`Touch my robe.'

 

Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.

 

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms.

 

The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear hearts' content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.

 

For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball -- better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest -- laughing heartily if it went right and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.

 

The Grocers'. oh the Grocers'. nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses. It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

 

But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the baker' shops. The sight of these poor revelers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker's doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was. God love it, so it was.

 

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.

 

`Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch.' asked Scrooge.

 

`There is. My own.'

 

`Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day.' asked Scrooge.

 

`To any kindly given. To a poor one most.'

 

`Why to a poor one most.' asked Scrooge.

 

`Because it needs it most.'

 

`Spirit,' said Scrooge, after a moment's thought,' I wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment.'

 

`I.' cried the Spirit.

 

`You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all,' said Scrooge. `Wouldn't you.'

 

`I.' cried the Spirit.

 

`You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day.' Said Scrooge. `And it comes to the same thing.'

 

`I seek.' exclaimed the Spirit.

 

`Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family,' said Scrooge.

 

`There are some upon this earth of yours,' returned the Spirit,' who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all out kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.'

 

Scrooge promised that he would; and they went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

 

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinkling of his torch. Think of that. Bob had but fifteen bob a-week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house.

 

Then up rose Mrs Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the e the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

 

`What has ever got your precious father then.' said Mrs. Cratchit. `And your brother, Tiny Tim. And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour.'

 

 

`Here's Martha, mother.' said a girl, appearing as she

spoke.

 

`Here's Martha, mother.' cried the two young Cratchits. `Hurrah. There's such a goose, Martha.'

 

`Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are.'  said Mrs Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

 

`We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,' replied the girl,' and had to clear away this morning, mother.'

 

`Well. Never mind so long as you are come,' said Mrs. Cratchit. `Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye.'

 

`No, no. There's father coming,' cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. `Hide, Martha, hide.'

 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame.

 

`Why, where's our Martha.' cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

 

`Not coming,' said Mrs Cratchit.

 

`Not coming.' said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. `Not coming upon Christmas Day.'

 

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

 

`And how did little Tim behave. asked Mrs Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

 

`As good as gold,' said Bob,' and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.'

 

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

 

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs -- as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby -- compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

 

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course -- and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah.

 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last. Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows. But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs Cratchit left the room alone -- too nervous to bear witnesses -- to take the pudding up and bring it in.

 

Suppose it should not be done enough. Suppose it should break in turning out. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose -- a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

 

Hallo. A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs Cratchit entered -- flushed, but smiling proudly -- with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

 

Oh, a wonderful pudding. Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

 

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

 

`A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us.'

 

Which all the family re-echoed.

 

`God bless us every one.' said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

 

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

 

`Spirit,' said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, `tell me if Tiny Tim will live.'

 

`I see a vacant seat,' replied the Ghost, `in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die.'

 

`No, no,' said Scrooge. `Oh, no, kind Spirit. say he will be spared.'

 

`If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race,' returned the Ghost, `will find him here. What then. If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.'

 

Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief. `Man,' said the Ghost, `if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die. It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God. to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.'

 

Scrooge bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.

 

`Mr Scrooge.' said Bob; `I'll give you Mr Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast.'

 

`The Founder of the Feast indeed.' cried Mrs Cratchit, reddening. `I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it.'

 

`My dear,' said Bob, `the children. Christmas Day.'

 

`It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,' said she, `on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow.'

 

`My dear,' was Bob's mild answer, `Christmas Day.'

 

`I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's,' said Mrs Cratchit, `not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new year. He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt.'

 

The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.

 

After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner's, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord was much about as tall as Peter;' at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you couldn't have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

 

There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker's. But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit's torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

 

By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness. There all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter -- artful witches, well they knew it -- in a glow.

 

But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, how the Ghost exulted. How it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach. The very lamplighter, who ran on before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamplighter that he had any company but Christmas.

 

And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed, or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

 

`What place is this.' asked Scrooge.

 

`A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth,' returned the Spirit. `But they know me. See.'

 

Alight shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and their children's children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song -- it had been a very old song when he was a boy -- and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again.

 

The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and passing on above the moor, sped -- whither. Not to sea. To sea. To Scrooge's horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth.

 

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of sea-weed clung to its base, and storm-birds -- born of the wind one might suppose, as sea-weed of the water -- rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.

 

But even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire, that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Joining their horny hands over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them: the elder, too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be: struck up a sturdy song that was like a Gale in itself.

 

Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea -- on, on -- until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him.

 

It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death: it was a great surprise to Scrooge, while thus engaged, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to recognise it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability.

 

`Ha, ha.' laughed Scrooge's nephew. `Ha, ha, ha.'

 

If you should happen, by any unlikely chance, to know a man more blest in a laugh than Scrooge's nephew, all I can say is, I should like to know him too. Introduce him to me, and I'll cultivate his acquaintance.

 

It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour. When Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way: holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions: Scrooge's niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends being not a bit behindhand, roared out lustily.

 

`Ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha.'

 

`He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live.' Cried Scrooge's nephew. `He believed it too.'

 

`More shame for him, Fred.' said Scrooge's niece, indignantly. Bless those women; they never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest.

 

She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty. With a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed -- as no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots about her chin, that melted into one another when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes you ever saw in any little creature's head. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know; but satisfactory,

 

`He's a comical old fellow,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that's the truth: and not so pleasant as he might be. However, his offences carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.'

 

`I'm sure he is very rich, Fred,' hinted Scrooge's niece. `At least you always tell me so.'

 

`What of that, my dear.' said Scrooge's nephew. `His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking -- ha, ha, ha. -- that he is ever going to benefit us with it.'

 

`I have no patience with him,' observed Scrooge's niece. Scrooge's niece's sisters, and all the other ladies, expressed the same opinion.

 

`Oh, I have.' said Scrooge's nephew. `I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims. Himself, always. Here, he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence. He don't lose much of a dinner.'

 

`Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted Scrooge's niece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight.

 

`Well. I'm very glad to hear it,' said Scrooge's nephew, `because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper.'

 

Topper had clearly got his eye upon one of Scrooge's niece's sisters, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat Scrooge's niece's sister -- the plump one with the lace tucker: not the one with the roses -- blushed.

 

`Do go on, Fred,' said Scrooge's niece, clapping her hands. `He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow.'

 

Scrooge's nephew revelled in another laugh, and as it was impossible to keep the infection off; though the plump sister tried hard to do it with aromatic vinegar; his example was unanimously followed.

 

`I was only going to say,' said Scrooge's nephew,' that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office, or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it -- I defy him -- if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying Uncle Scrooge, how are you. If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something; and I think I shook him yesterday.'

 

It was their turn to laugh now at the notion of his shaking Scrooge. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment, and passed the bottle joyously.

 

After tea. they had some music. For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can assure you: especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it. Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing: you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past. When this strain of music sounded, all the things that Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindnesses of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley.

 

But they didn't devote the whole evening to music. After a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself. Stop. There was first a game at blind-man's buff. Of course there was. And I no more believe Topper was really blind than I believe he had eyes in his boots. My opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost of Christmas Present knew it. The way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature. Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he. He always knew where the plump sister was. He wouldn't catch anybody else. If you had fallen up against him (as some of them did), on purpose, he would have made a feint of endeavouring to seize you, which would have been an affront to your understanding, and would instantly have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister. She often cried out that it wasn't fair; and it really was not. But when at last, he caught her; when, in spite of all her silken rustlings, and her rapid flutterings past him, he got her into a corner whence there was no escape; then his conduct was the most execrable. For his pretending not to know her; his pretending that it was necessary to touch her head-dress, and further to assure himself of her identity by pressing a certain ring upon her finger, and a certain chain about her neck; was vile, monstrous. No doubt she told him her opinion of it, when, another blind-man being in office, they were so very confidential together, behind the curtains.

 

Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her. But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as could have told you. There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge, for, wholly forgetting the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed quite right, too; for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge; blunt as he took it in his head to be.

 

The Ghost was greatly pleased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such favour, that he begged like a boy to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this the Spirit said could not be done.

 

`Here is a new game,' said Scrooge. `One half hour, Spirit, only one.'

 

It was a Game called Yes and No, where Scrooge's nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed, elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn't made a show of, and wasn't led by anybody, and didn't live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out:

 

`I have found it out. I know what it is, Fred. I know what it is.'

 

`What is it.' cried Fred.

 

`It's your Uncle Scrooge.'

 

Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to `Is it a bear.' ought to have been `Yes;' inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.

 

`He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure,' said Fred,' and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, "Uncle Scrooge."'

 

`Well. Uncle Scrooge.' they cried.

 

`A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is.' said Scrooge's nephew. `He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge.'

 

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.

 

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery's every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.

 

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.

 

`Are spirits' lives so short.' asked Scrooge.

 

`My life upon this globe, is very brief,' replied the Ghost. `It ends to-night.'

 

`To-night.' cried Scrooge.

 

`To-night at midnight. Hark. The time is drawing near.'

 

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment.

 

`Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe,' but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw.'

 

`It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. `Look here.'

 

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

 

`Oh, Man. look here. Look, look, down here.' Exclaimed the Ghost.

 

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

 

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

 

 

`Spirit. are they yours.' Scrooge could say no more.

 

`They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. `And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it.' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. `Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.'

 

`Have they no refuge or resource.' cried Scrooge.

 

`Are there no prisons.' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. `Are there no workhouses.' The bell struck twelve.

 

Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and saw it  not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

 

 

 

 

Stave 4:  The Last of the Spirits

 

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

 

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

 

He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

 

`I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.' said Scrooge.

 

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

 

`You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,' Scrooge pursued. `Is that so, Spirit.'

 

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

 

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.

 

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

 

`Ghost of the Future.' he exclaimed,' I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me.'

 

It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

 

`Lead on.' said Scrooge. `Lead on. The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit.'

 

The Phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along.

 

They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it; on Change, amongst the merchants; who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals; and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often.

 

The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk.

 

`No,' said a great fat man with a monstrous chin,' I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead.'

 

`When did he die.' inquired another.

 

`Last night, I believe.'

 

`Why, what was the matter with him.' asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. `I thought he'd never die.'

 

`God knows,' said the first, with a yawn.

 

`What has he done with his money.' asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock.

 

`I haven't heard,' said the man with the large chin,  yawning again. `Left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know.'

 

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

 

`It's likely to be a very cheap funeral,' said the same speaker;' for upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer.'

 

`I don't mind going if a lunch is provided,' observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. `But I must be fed, if I make one.'

 

Another laugh.

 

`Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,'  said the first speaker,' for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if anybody else will. When I come to think of it, I <m not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye, bye.'

 

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation.

 

The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here.

 

He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of aye business:  very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in a business point of view.

 

`How are you.' said one.

 

`How are you.' returned the other.

 

`Well.' said the first. `Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey.'

 

`So I am told,' returned the second. `Cold, isn't it.'

 

`Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose.'

 

`No. No. Something else to think of. Good morning.'

 

Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.

 

Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial; but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost's province was the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoever they applied they had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.

 

He looked about in that very place for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.

 

Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold.

 

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.

 

Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were bought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinise were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal stove, made of old bricks, was a grey-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.

 

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too; and she was closely followed by a man in faded black, who was no less startled by the sight of them, than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh.

 

`Let the charwoman alone to be the first.' cried she who had entered first. `Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker's man alone to be the third. Look here, old Joe, here's a chance. If we haven't all three met here without meaning it.'

 

`You couldn't have met in a better place,' said old Joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. `Come into the parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know; and the other two an't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah. How it skreeks. There an't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I'm sure there's no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha. We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come into the parlour. Come into the parlour.'

 

The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. The

old man raked the fire together with an old stair-rod, and

having trimmed his smoky lamp (for it was night), with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again.

 

While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor, and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking with a bold defiance at the other two.

 

`What odds then. What odds, Mrs Dilber.' said the woman. `Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did.'

 

`That's true, indeed.' said the laundress. `No man more so.'

 

`Why then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser. We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose.'

 

`No, indeed.' said Mrs Dilber and the man together. `We should hope not.'

 

`Very well, then.' cried the woman. `That's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these. Not a dead man, I suppose.'

 

`No, indeed,' said Mrs Dilber, laughing.

 

`If he wanted to keep them after he was dead, a wicked old screw,' pursued the woman,' why wasn't he natural in his lifetime. If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.'

 

`It's the truest word that ever was spoke,' said Mrs Dilber. `It's a judgment on him.'

 

`I wish it was a little heavier judgment,' replied the woman;' and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to see it. We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe.'

 

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each, upon the wall, and added them up into a total when he found there was nothing more to come.

 

`That's your account,' said Joe,' and I wouldn't give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next.'

 

Mrs Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.

 

`I always give too much to ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself,' said old Joe. `That's your account. If you asked me for another penny, and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal and knock off half-a-crown.'

 

`And now undo my bundle, Joe,' said the first woman.

 

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

 

`What do you call this.' said Joe. `Bed-curtains.'

 

`Ah.' returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. `Bed-curtains.'

 

`You don't mean to say you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there.' said Joe.

 

`Yes I do,' replied the woman. `Why not.'

 

`You were born to make your fortune,' said Joe,' and you'll certainly do it.'

 

`I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe,' returned the woman coolly. `Don't drop that oil upon the blankets, now.'

 

`His blankets.' asked Joe.

 

`Whose else's do you think.' replied the woman. `He isn't likely to take cold without them, I dare say.'

 

`I hope he didn't die of any thing catching. Eh.' Said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up.

 

`Don't you be afraid of that,' returned the woman. `I an't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things, if he did. Ah. you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me.'

 

`What do you call wasting of it.' asked old Joe.

 

`Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure,' replied the woman with a laugh. `Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico an't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's quite as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one.'

 

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they demons, marketing the corpse itself.

 

`Ha, ha.' laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. `This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was  alive, to profit us when he was dead. Ha, ha, ha.'

 

`Spirit.' said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. `I see, I see. The case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way, now. Merciful Heaven, what is this.'

 

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare, uncurtained bed: on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language.

 

The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy, though Scrooge glanced round it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what kind of room it was. A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.

 

Scrooge glanced towards the Phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part, would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side.

 

Oh cold, cold, rigid, dreadful Death, set up thine altar here, and dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command: for this is thy dominion. But of the loved, revered, and honoured head, thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes, or make one feature odious. It is not that the hand is heavy and will fall down when released; it is not that the heart and pulse are still; but that the hand was open, generous, and true; the heart brave, warm, and tender; and the pulse a man's. Strike, Shadow, strike. And see his good deeds springing from the wound, to sow the world with life immortal.

 

No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears, and yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed. He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts. Avarice, hard-dealing, griping cares. They have brought him to a rich end, truly.

 

He lay, in the dark empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child, to say that he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him. A cat was tearing at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearth-stone. What they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Scrooge did not dare to think.

 

`Spirit.' he said,' this is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson, trust me. Let us go.'

 

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.

 

`I understand you,' Scrooge returned,' and I would do it, if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power.'

 

Again it seemed to look upon him.

 

`If there is any person in the town, who feels emotion caused by this man's death,' said Scrooge quite agonised, `show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you.'

 

The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a mother and her children were.

 

She was expecting some one, and with anxious eagerness; for she walked up and down the room; started at every sound; looked out from the window; glanced at the clock; tried, but in vain, to work with her needle; and could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play.

 

At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress.

 

He sat down to the dinner that had been boarding for him by the fire; and when she asked him faintly what news (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer.

 

`Is it good.' she said, `or bad?' -- to help him.

 

`Bad,' he answered.

 

`We are quite ruined.'

 

`No. There is hope yet, Caroline.'

 

`If he relents,' she said, amazed, `there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.'

 

`He is past relenting,' said her husband. `He is dead.'

 

She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth; but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so, with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness the next moment, and was sorry; but the first was the emotion of her heart.

 

`What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night, said to me, when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay; and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me; turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying, then.'

 

`To whom will our debt be transferred.'

 

`I don't know. But before that time we shall be ready with the money; and even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep to-night with light hearts, Caroline.'

 

Yes. Soften it as they would, their hearts were lighter. The children's faces, hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood, were brighter; and it was a happier house for this man's death. The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure.

 

`Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said Scrooge;' or that dark chamber, Spirit, which we left just now, will be for ever present to me.'

 

The Ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found the mother and the children seated round the fire.

 

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet.

 

`And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them.'

 

Where had Scrooge heard those words. He had not dreamed them. The boy must have read them out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold. Why did he not go on.

 

The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.

 

`The colour hurts my eyes,' she said.

 

The colour. Ah, poor Tiny Tim.

 

`They're better now again,' said Cratchit's wife. `It makes them weak by candle-light; and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.'

 

`Past it rather,' Peter answered, shutting up his book. `But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.'

 

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:

 

`I have known him walk with -- I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.'

 

`And so have I,' cried Peter. `Often.'

 

`And so have I,' exclaimed another. So had all.

 

`But he was very light to carry,' she resumed, intent upon her work,' and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door.'

 

She hurried out to meet him; and little Bob in his comforter -- he had need of it, poor fellow -- came in. His tea was ready for him on the hob, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees and laid, each child a little cheek, against his face, as if they said,' Don't mind it, father. Don't be grieved.'

 

Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

 

`Sunday. You went to-day, then, Robert.' said his wife.

 

`Yes, my dear,' returned Bob. `I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child.'  cried Bob. `My little child.'

 

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were.

 

He left the room, and went up-stairs into the room above, which was lighted cheerfully, and hung with Christmas. There was a chair set close beside the child, and there were signs of some one having been there, lately. Poor Bob sat down in it, and when he had thought a little and composed himself, he kissed the little face. He was reconciled to what had happened, and went down again quite happy.

 

They drew about the fire, and talked; the girls and mother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a little -' just a little down you know,' said Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. `On which,' said Bob,' for he is the pleasantest-spoken gentleman you ever heard, I told him. `I am heartily sorry for it, Mr Cratchit,' he said,' and heartily sorry for your good wife.' By the bye, how he ever knew that, I don't know.'

 

`Knew what, my dear.'

 

`Why, that you were a good wife,' replied Bob.

 

`Everybody knows that.' said Peter.

 

`Very well observed, my boy.' cried Bob. `I hope they do. `Heartily sorry,' he said,' for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way,' he said, giving me his card,' that's where I live. Pray come to me.'  Now, it wasn't,' cried Bob,' for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, so much as for his kind way, that this was quite delightful. It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Tim, and felt with us.'

 

`I'm sure he's a good soul.' said Mrs Cratchit.

 

`You would be surer of it, my dear,' returned Bob,' if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised - mark what I say. -- if he got Peter a better situation.'

 

`Only hear that, Peter,' said Mrs Cratchit.

 

`And then,' cried one of the girls,' Peter will be keeping company with some one, and setting up for himself.'

 

`Get along with you.' retorted Peter, grinning.

 

`It's just as likely as not,' said Bob,' one of these days; though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however and when ever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim -- shall we -- or this first parting that there was among us.'

 

`Never, father.' cried they all.

 

`And I know,' said Bob,' I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.'

 

`No, never, father.' they all cried again.

 

`I am very happy,' said little Bob,' I am very happy.'

 

Mrs Cratchit kissed him, his daughters kissed him, the two young Cratchits kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God.

 

`Spectre,' said Scrooge,' something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead.'

 

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him, as before -- though at a different time, he thought: indeed, there seemed no order in these latter visions, save that they were in the Future -- into the resorts of business men, but showed him not himself. Indeed, the Spirit did not stay for anything, but went straight on, as to the end just now desired, until besought by Scrooge to tarry for a moment.

 

`This courts,' said Scrooge,' through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is, and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be, in days to come.'

 

The Spirit stopped; the hand was pointed elsewhere.

 

`The house is yonder,' Scrooge exclaimed. `Why do you point away.'

 

The inexorable finger underwent no change.

 

Scrooge hastened to the window of his office, and looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. The Phantom pointed as before.

 

He joined it once again, and wondering why and whither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering.

 

A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place.

 

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

 

`Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,' said Scrooge, `answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only.'

 

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.

 

`Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. `But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me.'

 

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

 

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, Ebenezer Scrooge.

 

 

`Am I that man who lay upon the bed.' he cried, upon his knees.

 

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

 

`No, Spirit. Oh no, no.'

 

The finger still was there.

 

`Spirit.' he cried, tight clutching at its robe,' hear me. I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope.'

 

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

 

`Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it:' Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life.'

 

The kind hand trembled.

 

`I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone.'

 

In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.

 

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate aye reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

 

 

 

Stave 5:  The End of It

 

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

 

`I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future.' Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. `The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley. Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this. I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees.'

 

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

 

`They are not torn down.' cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms,' they are not torn down, rings and all. They are here -- I am here -- the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will.'

 

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance.

 

`I don't know what to do.' cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings. `I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A merry Christmas to everybody. A happy New Year to all the world. Hallo here. Whoop. Hallo.'

 

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there: perfectly winded.

 

`There's the saucepan that the gruel was in.' cried Scrooge, starting off again, and going round the fireplace. `There's the door, by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered. There's the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present, sat. There's the window where I saw the wandering Spirits. It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha ha ha.'

 

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.

 

`I don't know what day of the month it is.' Said Scrooge. `I don't know how long I've been among the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo. Whoop. Hallo here.'

 

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clash, clang, hammer; ding, dong, bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash. Oh, glorious, glorious.

 

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious.

 

`What's to-day.' cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

 

`Eh.' returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

 

`What's to-day, my fine fellow.' said Scrooge.

 

`To-day.' replied the boy. `Why, Christmas Day.'

 

`It's Christmas Day.' said Scrooge to himself. `I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow.'

 

`Hallo.' returned the boy.

 

`Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner.' Scrooge inquired.

 

`I should hope I did,' replied the lad.

 

`An intelligent boy.' said Scrooge. `A remarkable boy. Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there -- Not the little prize Turkey: the big one.'

 

`What, the one as big as me.' returned the boy.

 

`What a delightful boy.' said Scrooge. `It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck.'

 

`It's hanging there now,' replied the boy.

 

`Is it.' said Scrooge. `Go and buy it.'

 

`Walk-er.' exclaimed the boy.

 

`No, no,' said Scrooge, `I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you half-a-crown.'

 

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

 

`I'll send it to Bon Cratchit's.' whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. `He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be.'

 

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

 

`I shall love it, as long as I live.' cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand. `I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face. It's a wonderful knocker. -- Here's the Turkey. Hallo. Whoop. How are you. Merry Christmas.'

 

It was a Turkey. He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped them short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

 

`Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town,' said Scrooge. `You must have a cab.'

 

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the Turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down breathless in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.

 

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much; and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaister over it, and been quite satisfied.

 

He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured fellows said,' Good morning, sir. A merry Christmas to you.' And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

 

He had not gone far, when coming on towards him he beheld the portly gentleman, who had walked into his counting-house the day before, and said,' Scrooge and Marley's, I believe.'  It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.

 

`My dear sir,' said Scrooge, quickening his pace, and taking the old gentleman by both his hands. `How do you do. I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir.'

 

`Mr Scrooge.'

 

`Yes,' said Scrooge. `That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness' -- here Scrooge whispered in his ear.

 

`Lord bless me.' cried the gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. `My dear Mr Scrooge, are you serious.'

 

`If you please,' said Scrooge. `Not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favour.'

 

`My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with him. `I don't know what to say to such munificence.'

 

`Don't say anything please,' retorted Scrooge. `Come and see me. Will you come and see me.'

 

`I will.' cried the old gentleman. And it was clear he meant to do it.

 

`Thank you,' said Scrooge. `I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you.'

 

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk -- that anything -- could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew's house.

 

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it:

 

`Is your master at home, my dear.' said Scrooge to the girl. Nice girl. Very.

 

`Yes, sir.'

 

`Where is he, my love.' said Scrooge.

 

`He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you up-stairs, if you please.'

 

`Thank you. He knows me,' said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock. `I'll go in here, my dear.'

 

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see that everything is right.

 

`Fred.' said Scrooge.

 

Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage started. Scrooge had forgotten, for the moment, about her sitting in the corner with the footstool, or he wouldn't have done it, on any account.

 

`Why bless my soul.' cried Fred,' who's that.'

 

`It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred.'

 

Let him in. It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. So did Topper when he came. So did the plump sister when she came. So did every one when they came. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness.

 

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late. That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

 

And he did it; yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

 

His hat was off, before he opened the door; his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

 

`Hallo.' growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. `What do you mean by coming here at this time of day.'

 

`I am very sorry, sir,' said Bob. `I am behind my time.'

 

`You are.' repeated Scrooge. `Yes. I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please.'

 

`It's only once a year, sir,' pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. `It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.'

 

`Now, I'll tell you what, my friend,' said Scrooge,' I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,' he continued, leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the Tank again;' and therefore I am about to raise your salary.'

 

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat.

 

`A merry Christmas, Bob,' said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. `A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob. Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another I, Bob Cratchit!'

 

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

 

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

 

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Written by: Administrator

Category: Books

Published: 09 April 2022

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Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp

 

There once lived a poor tailor, who had a son called Aladdin, a careless, idle boy who would do nothing but play all day long in the streets with little idle boys like himself.  This so grieved the father that he died; yet, in spite of his mother's tears and prayers, Aladdin did not mend his ways.  One day, when he was playing in the streets as usual, a stranger asked him his age, and if he was not the son of Mustapha the tailor.  "I am, sir," replied Aladdin; "but he died a long while ago."  On this the stranger, who was a famous African magician, fell on his neck and kissed him saying: "I am your uncle, and knew you from your likeness to my brother. Go to your mother and tell her I am coming."  Aladdin ran home and told his mother of his newly found uncle.  "Indeed, child," she said, "your father had a brother, but I always thought he was dead." However, she prepared supper, and bade Aladdin seek his uncle, who came laden with wine and fruit.  He fell down and kissed the place where Mustapha used to sit, bidding Aladdin's mother not to be surprised at not having seen him before, as he had been forty years out of the country.  He then turned to Aladdin, and asked him his trade, at which the boy hung his head, while his mother burst into tears.  On learning that Aladdin was idle and would learn no trade, he offered to take a shop for him and stock it with merchandise.  Next day he bought Aladdin a fine suit of clothes and took him all over the city, showing him the sights, and brought him home at nightfall to his mother, who was overjoyed to see her son so fine.

 

Next day the magician led Aladdin into some beautiful gardens a long way outside the city gates.  They sat down by a fountain and the magician pulled a cake from his girdle, which he divided between them.  Then they journeyed onwards till they almost reached the mountains.  Aladdin was so tired that he begged to go back, but the magician beguiled him with pleasant stories and lead him on in spite of himself.  At last they came to two mountains divided by a narrow valley.  "We will go no farther," said his uncle.  "I will show you something wonderful; only do you gather up sticks while I kindle a fire."  When it was lit the magician threw on it a powder he had about him, at the same time saying some magical words.  The earth trembled a little in front of them, disclosing a square flat stone with a brass ring in the middle to raise it by.  Aladdin tried to run away, but the magician caught him and gave him a blow that knocked him down. "What have I done, uncle?" he said piteously; whereupon the magician said more kindly:  "Fear nothing, but obey me.  Beneath this stone lies a treasure which is to be yours, and no one else may touch it, so you must to exactly as I tell you."  At the word treasure Aladdin forgot his fears, and grasped the ring as he was told, saying the names of his father and grandfather.  The stone came up quite easily, and some steps appeared.  "Go down," said the magician; "at the foot of those steps you will find an open door leading into three large halls.  Tuck up your gown and go through them without touching anything, or you will die instantly. These halls lead into a garden of fine fruit trees.  Walk on till you come to niche in a terrace where stands a lighted lamp.  Pour out the oil it contains, and bring it me."  He drew a ring from his finger and gave it to Aladdin, bidding him prosper.

 

Aladdin found everything as the magician had said, gathered some fruit off the trees, and, having got the lamp, arrived at the mouth of the cave.  The magician cried out in a great hurry: "Make haste and give me the lamp."  This Aladdin refused to do until he was out of the cave.  The magician flew into a terrible passion, and throwing some more powder on to the fire, he said something, and the stone rolled back into its place.

 

The man left the country, which plainly showed that he was no uncle of Aladdin's but a cunning magician, who had read in his magic books of a wonderful lamp, which would make him the most powerful man in the world.  Though he alone knew where to find it, he could only receive it from the hand of another.  He had picked out the foolish Aladdin for this purpose, intending to get the lamp and kill him afterwards.

 

For two days Aladdin remained in the dark, crying and lamenting. At last he clasped his hands in prayer, and in so doing rubbed the ring, which the magician had forgotten to take from him. Immediately an enormous and frightful genie rose out of the earth, saying:  "What wouldst thou with me?  I am the Slave of the Ring, and will obey thee in all things."  Aladdin fearlessly replied, "Deliver me from this place!" whereupon the earth opened, and he found himself outside.  As soon as his eyes could bear the light he went home, but fainted on the threshold.  When he came to himself he told his mother what had passed, and showed her the lamp and the fruits he had gathered in the garden, which were in reality precious stones.  He then asked for some food.  "Alas! child," she said, "I have nothing in the house, but I have spun a little cotton and will go sell it."  Aladdin bade her keep her cotton, for he would sell the lamp instead.  As it was very dirty, she began to rub it, that it might fetch a higher price. Instantly a hideous genie appeared, and asked what she would have. She fainted away, but Aladdin, snatching the lamp, said boldly: "Fetch me something to eat!"  The genie returned with a silver bowl, twelve silver plates containing rich meats, two silver cups, and two bottles of wine.  Aladdin's mother, when she came to herself, said:  "Whence comes this splendid feast?"  "Ask not, but eat," replied Aladdin.  So they sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and Aladdin told his mother about the lamp.  She begged him to sell it, and have nothing to do with devils.  "No," said Aladdin, "since chance hath made us aware of its virtues, we will use it, and the ring likewise, which I shall always wear on my finger."  When they had eaten all the genie had brought, Aladdin sold one of the silver plates, and so on until none were left.  He then had recourse to the genie, who gave him another set of plates, and thus they lived many years.

 

One day Aladdin heard an order from the Sultan proclaimed that everyone was to stay at home and close his shutters while the Princess his daughter went to and from the bath.  Aladdin was seized by a desire to see her face, which was very difficult, as she always went veiled.  He hid himself behind the door of the bath, and peeped through a chink.  The Princess lifted her veil as she went in, and looked so beautiful that Aladdin fell in love with her at first sight.  He went home so changed that his mother was frightened.  He told her he loved the Princess so deeply he could not live without her, and meant to ask her in marriage of her father.  His mother, on hearing this, burst out laughing, but Aladdin at last prevailed upon her to go before the Sultan and carry his request.  She fetched a napkin and laid in it the magic fruits from the enchanted garden, which sparkled and shone like the most beautiful jewels.  She took these with her to please the Sultan, and set out, trusting in the lamp.  The Grand Vizier and the lords of council had just gone in as she entered the hall and placed herself in front of the Sultan.  He, however, took no notice of her.  She went every day for a week, and stood in the same place.  When the council broke up on the sixth day the Sultan said to his Vizier:  "I see a certain woman in the audience-chamber every day carrying something in a napkin.  Call her next time, that I may find out what she wants."  Next day, at a sign from the vizier, she went up to the foot of the throne and remained kneeling until the Sultan said to her:  "Rise, good woman, and tell me what you want."  She hesitated, so the Sultan sent away all but the Vizier, and bade her speak freely, promising to forgive her beforehand for anything she might say.  She then told him of her son's violent love for the Princess.  "I prayed him to forget her," she said, "but in vain; he threatened to do some desperate deed if I refused to go and ask your Majesty for the hand of the Princess.  Now I pray you to forgive not me alone, but my son Aladdin."  The Sultan asked her kindly what she had in the napkin, whereupon she unfolded the jewels and presented them. He was thunderstruck, and turning to the vizier, said:  "What sayest thou?  Ought I not to bestow the Princess on one who values her at such a price?"  The Vizier, who wanted her for his own son, begged the Sultan to withhold her for three months, in the course of which he hoped his son could contrive to make him a richer present.  The Sultan granted this, and told Aladdin's mother that, though he consented to the marriage, she must not appear before him again for three months.

 

Aladdin waited patiently for nearly three months, but after two had elapsed, his mother, going into the city to buy oil, found everyone rejoicing, and asked what was going on.  "Do you not know," was the answer, "that the son of the Grand Vizier is to marry the Sultan's daughter tonight?"  Breathless she ran and told Aladdin, who was overwhelmed at first, but presently bethought him of the lamp.  He rubbed it and the genie appeared, saying: "What is thy will?"  Aladdin replied:  "The Sultan, as thou knowest, has broken his promise to me, and the vizier's son is to have the Princess.  My command is that to-night you bring hither the bride and bridegroom."  "Master, I obey," said the genie. Aladdin then went to his chamber, where, sure enough, at midnight the genie transported the bed containing the vizier's son and the Princess.  "Take this new-married man," he said, "and put him outside in the cold, and return at daybreak."  Whereupon the genie took the vizier's son out of bed, leaving Aladdin with the Princess.  "Fear nothing," Aladdin said to her; "you are my wife, promised to me by your unjust father, and no harm will come to you."  The Princess was too frightened to speak, and passed the most miserable night of her life, while Aladdin lay down beside her and slept soundly.  At the appointed hour the genie fetched in the shivering bridegroom, laid him in his place, and transported the bed back to the palace.

 

Presently the Sultan came to wish his daughter good-morning. The unhappy Vizier's son jumped up and hid himself, while the Princess would not say a word and was very sorrowful.  The Sultan sent her mother to her, who said:  "How comes it, child, that you will not speak to your father?  What has happened?"  The Princess sighed deeply, and at last told her mother how, during the night, the bed had been carried into some strange house, and what had passed there. Her mother did not believe her in the least, but bade her rise and consider it an idle dream.

 

The following night exactly the same thing happened, and next morning, on the Princess's refusing to speak, the Sultan threatened to cut off her head.  She then confessed all, bidding him ask the Vizier's son if it were not so.  The Sultan told the Vizier to ask his son, who owned the truth, adding that, dearly as he loved the Princess, he had rather die than go through another such fearful night, and wished to be separated from her. His wish was granted, and there was an end of feasting and rejoicing.

 

When the three months were over, Aladdin sent his mother to remind the Sultan of his promise.  She stood in the same place as before, and the Sultan, who had forgotten Aladdin, at once remembered him, and sent for her.  On seeing her poverty the Sultan felt less inclined than ever to keep his word, and asked his Vizier's advice, who counselled him to set so high a value on the Princess that no man living would come up to it.  The Sultan than turned to Aladdin's mother, saying:  "Good woman, a sultan must remember his promises, and I will remember mine, but your son must first send me forty basins of gold brimful of jewels, carried by forty black slaves, led by as many white ones, splendidly dressed.  Tell him that I await his answer."  The mother of Aladdin bowed low and went home, thinking all was lost. She gave Aladdin the message adding, "He may wait long enough for your answer!"  "Not so long, mother, as you think," her son replied. "I would do a great deal more than that for the Princess." He summoned the genie, and in a few moments the eighty slaves arrived, and filled up the small house and garden.  Aladdin made them to set out to the palace, two by two, followed by his mother.  They were so richly dressed, with such splendid jewels, that everyone crowded to see them and the basins of gold they carried on their heads. They entered the palace, and, after kneeling before the Sultan, stood in a half-circle round the throne with their arms crossed, while Aladdin's mother presented them to the Sultan.  He hesitated no longer, but said:  "Good woman, return and tell your son that I

wait for him with open arms."  She lost no time in telling Aladdin, bidding him make haste.  But Aladdin first called the genie. "I want a scented bath," he said, "a richly embroidered habit, a horse surpassing the Sultan's, and twenty slaves to attend me. Besides this, six slaves, beautifully dressed, to wait on my mother; and lastly, ten thousand pieces of gold in ten purses."  No sooner said then done.  Aladdin mounted his horse and passed through the streets, the slaves strewing gold as they went.  Those who had played with him in his childhood knew him not, he had grown so handsome. When the sultan saw him he came down from his throne, embraced him, and led him into a hall where a feast was spread, intending to marry him to the Princess that very day.  But Aladdin refused, saying, "I must build a palace fit for her," and took his leave. Once home, he said to the genie:  "Build me a palace of the finest marble, set with jasper, agate, and other precious stones.  In the middle you shall build me a large hall with a dome, its four walls of massy gold and silver, each side having six windows, whose lattices, all except one which is to be left unfinished, must be set with diamonds and rubies.  There must be stables and horses and grooms and slaves; go and see about it!"

 

The palace was finished the next day, and the genie carried him there and showed him all his orders faithfully carried out, even to the laying of a velvet carpet from Aladdin's palace to the Sultan's. Aladdin's mother then dressed herself carefully, and walked to the palace with her slaves, while he followed her on horseback. The Sultan sent musicians with trumpets and cymbals to meet them, so that the air resounded with music and cheers. She was taken to the Princess, who saluted her and treated her with great honour.  At night the princess said good-bye to her father, and set out on the carpet for Aladdin's palace, with his mother at her side, and followed by the hundred slaves.  She was charmed at the sight of Aladdin, who ran to receive her.  "Princess," he said, "blame your beauty for my boldness if I have displeased you." She told him that, having seen him, she willingly obeyed her father in this matter.  After the wedding had taken place, Aladdin led her into the hall, where a feast was spread, and she supped with him, after which they danced till midnight.

 

Next day Aladdin invited the Sultan to see the palace.  On entering the hall with the four-and-twenty windows with their rubies, diamonds and emeralds, he cried, "It is a world's wonder! There is only one thing that surprises me.  Was it by accident that one window was left unfinished?"  "No, sir, by design," returned Aladdin.  "I wished your Majesty to have the glory of finishing this palace."  The Sultan was pleased, and sent for the best jewelers in the city.  He showed them the unfinished window, and bade them fit it up like the others.  "Sir," replied their spokesman, "we cannot find jewels enough."  The Sultan had his own fetched, which they soon used, but to no purpose, for in a month's time the work was not half done.  Aladdin knowing that their task was vain, bade them undo their work and carry the jewels back, and the genie finished the window at his command.  The Sultan was surprised to receive his jewels again, and visited Aladdin, who showed him the window finished.  The Sultan embraced him, the envious vizier meanwhile hinting that it was the work of enchantment.

 

Aladdin had won the hearts of the people by his gentle bearing. He was made captain of the Sultan's armies, and won several battles for him, but remained as courteous as before, and lived thus in peace and content for several years.

 

But far away in Africa the magician remembered Aladdin, and by his magic arts discovered that Aladdin, instead of perishing miserably in the cave, had escaped, and had married a princess, with whom he was living in great honour and wealth.  He knew that the poor tailor's son could only have accomplished this by means of the lamp, and travelled night and day till he reached the capital of China, bent on Aladdin's ruin.  As he passed through the town he heard people talking everywhere about a marvelous palace.  "Forgive my ignorance," he asked, "what is the palace you speak of?"  Have you not heard of Prince Aladdin's palace," was the reply, "the greatest wonder in the world?  I will direct you if you have a mind to see it."  The magician thanked him who spoke, and having seen the palace knew that it had been raised by the Genie of the Lamp, and became half mad with rage.  He determined to get hold of the lamp, and again plunge Aladdin into the deepest poverty.

 

Unluckily, Aladdin had gone a-hunting for eight days, which gave the magician plenty of time.  He bought a dozen lamps, put them into a basket, and went to the palace, crying:  "New lamps for old!" followed by a jeering crowd.  The Princess, sitting in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, sent a slave to find out what the noise was about, who came back laughing, so that the Princess scolded her. "Madam," replied the slave, "who can help laughing to see an old fool offering to exchange fine new lamps for old ones?"  Another slave, hearing this, said, "There is an old one on the cornice there which he can have."  Now this was the magic lamp, which Aladdin had left there, as he could not take it out hunting with him.  The Princess, not knowing its value, laughingly bade the slave take it and make the exchange. She went and said to the magician:  "Give me a new lamp for this." He snatched it and bade the slave take her choice, amid the jeers of the crowd.  Little he cared, but left off crying his lamps, and went out of the city gates to a lonely place, where he remained till nightfall, when he pulled out the lamp and rubbed it.  The genie appeared, and at the magician's command carried him, together with the palace and the Princess in it, to a lonely place in Africa.

 

Next morning the Sultan looked out of the window towards Aladdin's palace and rubbed his eyes, for it was gone.  He sent for the Vizier and asked what had become of the palace.  The Vizier looked out too, and was lost in astonishment.  He again put it down to enchantment, and this time the Sultan believed him, and sent thirty men on horseback to fetch Aladdin back in chains.  They met him riding home, bound him, and forced him to go with them on foot. The people, however, who loved him, followed, armed, to see that he came to no harm.  He was carried before the Sultan, who ordered the executioner to cut off his head.  The executioner made Aladdin kneel down, bandaged his eyes, and raised his scimitar to strike.  At that instant the Vizier, who saw that the crowd had forced their way into the courtyard and were scaling the walls to rescue Aladdin, called to the executioner to stay his hand. The people, indeed, looked so threatening that the Sultan gave way and ordered Aladdin to be unbound, and pardoned him in the sight of the crowd.  Aladdin now begged to know what he had done. "False wretch!" said the Sultan, "come hither," and showed him from the window the place where his palace had stood.  Aladdin was so amazed he could not say a word.  "Where is your palace and my daughter?" demanded the Sultan.  "For the first I am not so deeply concerned, but my daughter I must have, and you must find her or lose your head."  Aladdin begged for forty days in which to find her, promising if he failed to return at suffer death at the Sultan's pleasure.  His prayer was granted, and he went forth sadly from the Sultan's presence.

 

For three days he wandered about like a madman, asking everyone what had become of his palace, but they only laughed and pitied him. He came to the banks of a river, and knelt down to say his prayers before throwing himself in.  In doing so he rubbed the ring he still wore.  The genie he had seen in the cave appeared, and asked his will.  "Save my life, genie," said Aladdin, "and bring my palace back."  That is not in my power," said the genie; "I am only the Slave of the Ring; you must ask him of the lamp." "Even so," said Aladdin, "but thou canst take me to the palace, and set me down under my dear wife's window."  He at once found himself in Africa, under the window of the Princess, and fell asleep out of sheer weariness.

 

He was awakened by the singing of the birds, and his heart was lighter. He saw plainly that all his misfortunes were owning to the loss of the lamp, and vainly wondered who had robbed him of it.

 

That morning the Princess rose earlier than she had done since she had been carried into Africa by the magician, whose company she was forced to endure once a day.  She, however, treated him so harshly that he dared not live there altogether.  As she was dressing, one of her women looked out and saw Aladdin. The Princess ran and opened the window, and at the noise she made, Aladdin looked up.  She called to him to come to her, and great was the joy of these lovers at seeing each other again.  After he had kissed her Aladdin said:  "I beg of you, Princess, in God's name, before we speak of anything else, for your own sake and mine, tell me what has become of an old lamp I left on the cornice in the hall of four-and-twenty windows when I went a-hunting." "Alas," she said, "I am the innocent cause of our sorrows," and told him of the exchange of the lamp.  "Now I know," cried Aladdin, "that we have to thank the African magician for this! Where is the lamp?"  "He carries it about with him," said the Princess.  "I know, for he pulled it out of his breast to show me. He wishes me to break my faith with you and marry him, saying that you were beheaded by my father's command.  He is forever speaking ill of you, but I only reply by my tears.  If I persist, I doubt not but he will use violence."  Aladdin comforted her, and left her for a while.  He changed clothes with the first person he met in the town, and having bought a certain powder returned to the Princess, who let him in by a little side door.  "Put on your most beautiful dress," he said to her, "and receive the magician with smiles, leading him to believe that you have forgotten me. Invite him to sup with you, and say you wish to taste the wine of his country.  He will go for some, and while he is gone I will tell you what to do."  She listened carefully to Aladdin and when he left her, arrayed herself gaily for the first time since she left China.  She put on a girdle and head-dress of diamonds and seeing in a glass that she was more beautiful than ever, received the magician, saying, to his great amazement:  "I have made up my mind that Aladdin is dead, and that all my tears will not bring him back to me, so I am resolved to mourn no more, and have therefore invited you to sup with me; but I am tired of the wines of China, and would fain taste those of Africa."  The magician flew to his cellar, and the Princess put the powder Aladdin had given her in her cup.  When he returned she asked him to drink her health in the wine of Africa, handing him her cup in exchange for his, as a sign she was reconciled to him.  Before drinking the magician made her a speech in praise of her beauty, but the Princess cut him short, saying:  "Let us drink first, and you shall say what you will afterwards."  She set her cup to her lips and kept it there, while the magician drained his to the dregs and fell back lifeless. The Princess then opened the door to Aladdin, and flung her arms around his neck; but Aladdin went to the dead magician, took the lamp out of his vest, and bade the genie carry the palace and all in it back to China.  This was done, and the Princess in her chamber felt only two little shocks, and little thought she was home again.

 

The Sultan, who was sitting in his closet, mourning for his lost daughter, happened too look up, and rubbed his eyes, for there stood the palace as before!  He hastened thither, and Aladdin received him in the hall of the four-and-twenty windows, with the Princess at his side.  Aladdin told him what had happened, and showed him the dead body of the magician, that he might believe. A ten days' feast was proclaimed, and it seemed as if Aladdin might now live the rest of his life in peace; but it was not meant to be.

 

The African magician had a younger brother, who was, if possible, more wicked and more cunning than himself.  He travelled to China to avenge his brother's death, and went to visit a pious woman called Fatima, thinking she might be of use to him.  He entered her cell and clapped a dagger to her breast, telling her to rise and do his bidding on pain of death.  He changed clothes with her, coloured his face like hers, put on her veil, and murdered her, that she might tell no tales.  Then he went towards the palace of Aladdin, and all the people, thinking he was the holy woman, gathered round him, kissing his hands and begging his blessing. When he got to the palace there was such a noise going on round him that the Princess bade her slave look out the window and ask what was the matter.  The slave said it was the holy woman, curing people by her touch of their ailments, whereupon the Princess, who had long desired to see Fatima, sent for her.  On coming to the Princess the magician offered up a prayer for her health and prosperity.  When he had done the Princess made him sit by her, and begged him to stay with her always.  The false Fatima, who wished for nothing better, consented, but kept his veil down for fear of discovery.  The princess showed him the hall, and asked him what he thought of it.  "It is truly beautiful," said the false Fatima.  "In my mind it wants but one thing."  And what is that?" said the Princess.  "If only a roc's egg," replied he, "were hung up from the middle of this dome, it would be the wonder of the world."

 

After this the Princess could think of nothing but the roc's egg, and when Aladdin returned from hunting he found her in a very ill humour.  He begged to know what was amiss, and she told him that all her pleasure in the hall was spoilt or want of a roc's egg hanging from the dome.  "If that is all," replied Aladdin, "you shall soon be happy."  He left her and rubbed the lamp, and when the genie appeared commanded him to bring a roc's egg.  The genie gave such a loud and terrible shriek that the hall shook.

 

"Wretch!" he cried, "is it not enough that I have done everything for you, but you must command me to bring my master and hang him up in the midst of this dome?  You and your wife and your palace deserve to be burnt to ashes, but that this request does not come from you, but from the brother of the African magician, whom you destroyed.  He is now in your palace disguised as the holy woman, whom he murdered.  He it was who put that wish into your wife's head. Take care of yourself, for he means to kill you."  So saying, the genie disappeared.

 

Aladdin went back to the Princess, saying his head ached, and requesting that the holy Fatima should be fetched to lay her hands on it.  But when the magician came near, Aladdin, seizing his dagger, pierced him to the heart. "What have you done?" cried the Princess.  "You have killed the holy woman!"  "Not so," replied Aladdin, "but a wicked magician," and told her of how she had been deceived.

 

After this Aladdin and his wife lived in peace. He succeeded the Sultan when he died, and reigned for many years, leaving behind him a long line of kings.

 

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Written by: Administrator

Category: Books

Published: 05 April 2022

Hits: 364

TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD:

A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE.

by Horatio Alger

1866.

CONTENTS :.

I. INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS
II. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING
III. THE LANDLORD'S VISIT
IV. THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT
V. A LUCKY RESCUE
VI. WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED
VII. EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS
VIII. A STRANGE VISITOR
IX. A JOURNEY
X. UNEXPECTED QUARTERS
XI. SUSPENSE
XII. HOW IDA FARED
XIII. BAD COIN
XIV. DOUBTS AND FEARS
XV. AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS
XVI. THE FLOWER-GIRL
XVII. JACK (sic) OBTAIN'S INFORMATION
XVIII. FINESSE
XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT
XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES
XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE
XXIII. THE LAW STEPS IN
XXIV. "THE FLOWER-GIRL"
XXV. IDA IS FOUND
XXVI. "NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND"
XXVII. CONCLUSION

---

TIMOTHY CRUMP'S WARD.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES THE CRUMPS.


IT was drawing towards the close of the last day of the year. A few hours more, and 1836 would be no more.

It was a cold day. There was no snow on the ground, but it was frozen into stiff ridges, making it uncomfortable to walk upon. The sun had been out all day, but there was little heat or comfort in its bright, but frosty beams.

The winter is a hard season for the poor. It multiplies their necessities, while, in general, it limits their means and opportunities of earning. The winter of 1836-37 was far from being an exception to this rule. It was worse than usual, on account of the general stagnation of business.

In an humble tenement, located on what was then the outskirts of New York, though to-day a granite warehouse stands on the spot, lived Timothy Crump, an industrious cooper. His family consisted of a wife and one child, a boy of twelve, whose baptismal name was John, though invariably addressed, by his companions, as Jack.

There was another member of the household who would be highly offended if she were not introduced, in due form, to the reader. This was Miss Rachel Crump, maiden sister of Uncle Tim, as he was usually designated.

Miss Rachel was not much like her brother, for while the latter was a good-hearted, cheerful easy man, who was inclined to view the world in its sunniest aspect, Rachel was cynical, and given to misanthropy. Poor Rachel, let us not be too hard upon thy infirmities. Could we lift the veil that hides the secrets of that virgin heart, it might be, perchance, that we should find a hidden cause, far back in the days when thy cheeks were rounder and thine eyes brighter, and thine aspect not quite so frosty. Ah, faithless Harry Fletcher! thou hadst some hand in that peevishness and repining which make Rachel Crump, and all about her, uncomfortable. Lured away by a prettier face, you left her to pass through life, unblessed by that love which every female heart craves, and for which no kindred love will compensate. It was your faithlessness that left her to walk, with repining spirit, the flinty path of the old maid.

Yes; it must be said--Rachel Crump was an old maid; not from choice, but hard necessity. And so, one by one, she closed up the avenues of her heart, and clothed herself with complaining, as with a garment. Being unblessed with earthly means, she had accepted the hearty invitation of her brother, and become an inmate of his family, where she paid her board by little services about the house, and obtained sufficient needle-work to replenish her wardrobe as often as there was occasion. Forty-five years had now rolled over her head, leaving clearer traces of their presence, doubtless, than if her spirit had been more cheerful; so that Rachel, whose strongly marked features never could have been handsome, was now undeniably homely.

Mrs. Crump, fortunately for her husband's peace, did not in the least resemble her sister-in-law. Her disposition was cheerful, and she had frequent occasion to remonstrate with her upon the dark view she took of life. Had her temper been different, it is very easy to see that she would have been continually quarrelling with Rachel; but, happily, she was one of those women with whom it is impossible to quarrel. With her broad mantle of charity, she was always seeking to cover up and extenuate the defects of her sister-in-law, though she could not help acknowledging their existence.

It had been a hard winter for the cooper. For a month he had been unable to obtain work of any kind, and for the two months previous he had worked scarcely more than half the time. Unfortunately for him, his expenses for a few years back had kept such even pace with his income, that he had no reserved fund to fall back upon in such a time as this. That was no fault of his. Both he and his wife had been economical enough, but there are a great many things included in family expenses--rent, fuel, provisions, food, clothing, and a long list of sundries, besides; and all these had cost money, of which desirable article Uncle Tim's trade furnished not a very large supply.

So it happened that, as tradesmen were slow to trust, they had been obliged to part with a sofa to defray the expenses of the month of December. This article was selected because it was best convertible into cash,--being wanted by a neighbor,--besides being about the only article of luxury, if it could be called such, in possession of the family. As such it had been hardly used, being reserved for state occasions; yet hardly had it left (sic) the the house, when Aunt Rachel began to show signs of extreme lowness of spirits, and bewailed its loss as a privation of a personal comfort.

"Life's full of disappointments," she groaned. "Our paths is continually beset by 'em. There's that sofa! It's so pleasant to have one in the house when a body's sick. But there, it's gone, and if I happen to get down, as most likely I shall, for I've got a bad feeling in my stummick this very minute, I shall have to go up-stairs, and most likely catch my death of cold, and that will be the end of me."

"Not so bad as that, I hope," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "You know, when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa--you said it didn't lay comfortable. Besides, I hope, before you are sick again we may be able to buy it back again."

Aunt Rachel shook her head despondingly.

"There ain't any use in hoping that," said she. "Timothy's got so much behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; I know he won't."

"But if he manages to get steady work soon, he will."

"No, he won't. I'm sure he won't. There won't be any work before spring, and most likely not then."

"You are too desponding, Aunt Rachel."

"Enough to make me so. If you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't have come to this."

"I don't know what advice you refer to, Rachel."

"No, I don't expect you do. You didn't pay no attention to it. That's the reason."

"But if you'll repeat it, perhaps we can profit by it yet," said Mrs. Crump, with imperturbable good humor.

"I told you you ought to be layin' up something ag'in a rainy day. But that's always the way. Folks think when times is good it's always a goin' to be so, but I knew better."

"I don't see how we could have been more economical," said Mrs. Crump, mildly.

"There's a hundred ways. Poor folks like us ought not to expect to have meat so often. It's frightful to think what the butcher's bill must have been the last six months."

Inconsistent Rachel! Only the day before she had made herself very uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she couldn't live without it. Mrs. Crump might have reminded her of this, but the good woman was too kind to make the retort. She contented herself with saying that they must try to do better in future.

"That's always the way," muttered Rachel. "Shut the stable door when the horse is stolen. Folks never learn from experience till it's too late to be of any use. I don't see what the world was made for, for my part. Everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except the right way. I sometimes think 'taint much use livin'."

"Oh, you'll feel better by and by, Rachel. Hark, there's Jack, isn't it?"

"Anybody might know by the noise who it is," pursued Rachel, in the same general tone that had marked her conversation hitherto. "He always comes _stomping_ along as if he was paid for makin' a noise. Anybody ought to have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere in his hearing."

Her cheerful remarks were here broken in upon by the sudden entrance of Jack, who, in his eagerness, slammed the door behind him, unheeding his mother's quiet admonition not to make a noise.

"Look there!" said he, displaying a quarter of a dollar.

"How did you get it?" asked his mother.

"Holding horses," answered Jack.

"Here, take it, mother. I warrant you'll find a use for it."

"It comes in good time," said Mrs. Crump. "We're out of flour, and I had no money to buy any. Before you take off your boots, Jack, why can't you run over to the store, and get half a dozen pounds?"

"You see the Lord hasn't quite forgotten us," remarked his mother, as Jack started on his errand.

"What's a quarter of a dollar?" said Rachel, gloomily. "Will it carry us through the winter?"

"It will carry us through to-night, and perhaps Timothy will have work to-morrow. Hark, that's his step."

CHAPTER II.

THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.


AT this moment the outer door opened, and Timothy Crump entered, not
with the quick elastic step of one who brings good tidings, but
slowly and deliberately, with a quiet gravity of demeanor, in which
his wife could read only too well that he had failed in his efforts
to procure work.

His wife, reading all these things in his manner, had the delicacy
to forbear intruding upon him questions to which she saw that he
could give no satisfactory answers.

Not so Aunt Rachel.

"I needn't ask," she began, "whether you got work, Timothy. I knew
beforehand you wouldn't. There ain't no use in tryin'. The times is
awful dull, and, mark my words, they'll be wuss before they're
better. We mayn't live to see 'em. I don't expect we shall. Folks
can't live without money, and when that's gone we shall have to
starve."

"Not so bad as that, Rachel," said the cooper, trying to look
cheerful; "don't talk about starving till the time comes. Anyhow,"
glancing at the table on which was spread a good plain meal, "we
needn't talk about starving till to-morrow, with that before us.
Where's Jack?"

"Gone after some flour," replied his wife.

"On credit?" asked the cooper.

"No, he's got the money to pay for a few pounds," said Mrs. Crump,
smiling, with an air of mystery.

"Where did it come from?" asked Timothy, who was puzzled, as his
wife anticipated. "I didn't know you had any money in the house."

"No more we had, but he earned it himself, holding horses, this
afternoon."

"Come, that's good," said the cooper, cheerfully, "We ain't so bad
off as we might be, you see, Rachel."

The latter shook her head with the air of a martyr.

At this moment Jack returned, and the family sat down to supper.

"You haven't told us," said Mrs. Crump, seeing her husband's
cheerfulness in a measure restored, "what Mr. Blodgett said about
the chances for employment."

"Not much that was encouraging," answered Timothy. "He isn't at all
sure how soon it will be best to commence work; perhaps not before
spring."

"Didn't I tell you so?" commented Rachel, with sepulchral sadness.

Even Mr. Crump could not help looking sober.

"I suppose, Timothy, you haven't formed any plans," she said.

"No, I haven't had time. I must try to get something else to do."

"What, for instance?"

"Anything by which I can earn a little, I don't care if it's only
sawing wood. We shall have to get along as economically as we can;
cut our coat according to our cloth."

"Oh, you'll be able to earn something, and we can live _very_
plain," said Mrs. Crump, affecting a cheerfulness greater than she
felt.

"Pity you hadn't done it sooner," was the comforting suggestion of
Rachel.

"Mustn't cry over spilt milk," said the cooper, good-humoredly.
"Perhaps we might have lived a _leetle_ more economically, but I
don't think we've been extravagant."

"Besides, I can earn something, father," said Jack, hopefully. "You
know I did this afternoon."

"So you can," said Mrs. Crump, brightly.

"There ain't horses to hold every day," said Rachel, apparently
fearing that the family might become too cheerful, when, like
herself, it was their duty to become profoundly gloomy.

"You're always trying' to discourage people," said Jack,
discontentedly.

Rachel took instant umbrage at these words.

"I'm sure," said she; mournfully, "I don't want to make you unhappy.
If you can find anything to be cheerful about when you're on the
verge of starvation, I hope you'll enjoy yourselves, and not mind
me. I'm a poor dependent creetur, and I feel to know I'm a burden."

"Now, Rachel, that's all foolishness," said Uncle Tim. "You don't
feel anything of the kind."

"Perhaps others can tell how I feel, better than I can myself,"
answered his sister, knitting rapidly. "If it hadn't been for me, I
know you'd have been able to lay up money, and have something to
carry you through the winter. It's hard to be a burden upon your
relations, and bring a brother's family to poverty."

"Don't talk of being a burden, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump. "You've
been a great help to me in many ways. That pair of stockings now
you're knitting for Jack--that's a help, for I couldn't have got
time for them myself."

"I don't expect," said Aunt Rachel, in the same sunny manner, "that
I shall be able to do it long. From the pains I have in my hands
sometimes, I expect I'm going to lose the use of 'em soon, and be as
useless as old Mrs. Sprague, who for the last ten years of her life
had to sit with her hands folded in her lap. But I wouldn't stay to
be a burden. I'd go to the poor-house first, but perhaps," with the
look of a martyr, "they wouldn't want me there, because I should be
discouragin' 'em too much."

Poor Jack, who had so unwittingly raised this storm, winced under
the words, which he knew were directed at him.

"Then why," said he, half in extenuation, "why don't you try to look
pleasant and cheerful? Why won't you be jolly, as Tom Piper's aunt
is?"

"I dare say I ain't pleasant," said Aunt Rachel, "as my own nephew
tells me so. There is some folks that can be cheerful when their
house is a burnin' down before their eyes, and I've heard of one
young man that laughed at his aunt's funeral," directing a severe
glance at Jack; "but I'm not one of that kind. I think, with the
Scriptures, that there's a time to weep."

"Doesn't it say there's a time to laugh, also?" asked Mrs. Crump.

"When I see anything to laugh about, I'm ready to laugh," said Aunt
Rachel; "but human nature ain't to be forced. I can't see anything
to laugh at now, and perhaps you won't by and by."

It was evidently of no use to attempt a confutation of this, and the
subject dropped.

The tea-things were cleared away by Mrs. Crump, who afterwards sat
down to her sewing. Aunt Rachel continued to knit in grim silence,
while Jack seated himself on a three-legged stool near his aunt, and
began to whittle out a boat after a model lent him by Tom Piper, a
young gentleman whose aunt has already been referred to.

The cooper took out his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his
handkerchief, and as carefully adjusted them to his nose. He then
took down from the mantel-piece one of the few books belonging to
his library,--"Captain Cook's Travels,"--and began to read, for the
tenth time it might be, the record of the gallant sailor's
circumnavigations.

The plain little room presented a picture of peaceful tranquillity,
but it proved to be only the calm which precedes a storm.

The storm in question, I regret to say, was brought about by the
luckless Jack. As has been said, he was engaged in constructing a
boat, the particular operation he was now intent upon being the
excavation or hollowing out. Now three-legged stools are not the
most secure seats in the world. That, I think, no one can doubt who
has any practical acquaintance with them. Jack was working quite
vigorously, the block from which the boat was to be fashioned being
held firmly between his knees. His knife having got wedged in the
wood, he made an unusual effort to draw it out, in which he lost his
balance, and disturbed the equilibrium of his stool, which, with his
load, tumbled over backwards. Now it very unfortunately happened
that Aunt Rachel sat close behind, and the treacherous stool came
down with considerable force upon her foot.

A piercing shriek was heard, and Aunt Rachel, lifting her foot,
clung to it convulsively, while an expression of pain distorted her
features.

At the sound, the cooper hastily removed his spectacles, and letting
"Captain Cook" fall to the floor, started up in great dismay--Mrs.
Crump likewise dropped her sewing, and jumped to her feet in alarm.

It did not take long to see how matters stood.

"Hurt ye much, Rachel?" inquired Timothy.

"It's about killed me," groaned the afflicted maiden. "Oh, I shall
have to have my foot cut off, or be a cripple anyway." Then turning
upon Jack, fiercely, "you careless, wicked, ungrateful boy, that
I've been wearin' myself out knittin' for. I'm almost sure you did
it a purpose. You won't be satisfied till you've got me out of the
world, and then--then, perhaps----" here Rachel began to whimper,
"perhaps you'll get Tom Piper's aunt to knit your stockings."

"I didn't mean to, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, penitently, eyeing his
aunt, who was rocking to and fro in her chair. "Besides, I hurt
myself like thunder," rubbing vigorously the lower part of the
dorsal-region.

"Served you right," said his aunt, still clasping her foot.

"Sha'n't I get something for you to put on it?" asked Mrs. Crump of
(sic) her-sister-in-law.

This Rachel steadily refused, and after a few more postures, (sic)
indicatiing a great amount of anguish, limped out of the room, and
ascended the stairs to her own apartment.




CHAPTER III.

THE LANDLORD'S VISIT.



SOON after Rachel's departure Jack, also, was seized with a sleepy
fit, and postponing the construction of his boat to a more favorable
opportunity, took a candle and followed his aunt's example.

The cooper and his wife were now left alone.

"Now that Rachel and Jack have gone to bed, Mary," he commenced,
hesitatingly, "I don't mind saying that I am a little troubled in
mind about one thing."

"What's that?" asked Mrs. Crump, anxiously.

"It's just this, I don't anticipate being stinted for food. I know
we shall get along some way; but there's another expense which I am
afraid of."

"Is it the rent?" inquired his wife, apprehensively.

"That's it. The quarter's rent, twenty dollars, comes due to-morrow,
and I've got less than a dollar to meet it."

"Won't Mr. Colman wait?"

"I'm afraid not. You know what sort of a man he is, Mary. There
ain't much feeling about him. He cares more for money than anything
else."

"Perhaps you are doing him injustice."

"I am afraid not. Did you never hear how he treated the Underhills?"

"How was it?"

"Underhill was laid up with a rheumatic fever for three months. The
consequence was, that, when quarter-day came round, he was in about
the same situation with ourselves,--a little worse even, for his
wife was sick, also. But though Colman was aware of the
circumstances, he had no pity; but turned them out without
ceremony."

"Is it possible?" asked Mrs. Crump, uneasily.

"And there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. I can't
but feel anxious about to-morrow, Mary."

At this moment, verifying an old adage which will perhaps occur to
the reader, who should knock but Mr. Colman himself?

Both the cooper and his wife had an instinctive foreboding as to the
meaning of his visit.

He came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. No
one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that
lay veiled under his velvety softness of manner.

"Good evening, Mr. Crump," said he, affably, "I trust you and your
worthy wife are in good health."

"That blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper,
gravely.

"And how comfortable you're looking too, eh! It makes an old
bachelor, like me, feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary
room with such a scene of comfort as this. You've got a comfortable
home, and dog-cheap, too. All my other tenants are grumbling to
think you don't have to pay any more for such superior
accommodations. I've about made up my mind that I must ask you
twenty-five dollars a quarter, hereafter."

All this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less
bitter.

"It seems to me, Mr. Colman," remarked the cooper soberly, "you have
chosen rather a singular time for raising the rent."

"Why singular, my good sir?" inquired the landlord, urbanely.

"You know of course, that this is a time of general business
depression; my own trade in particular has suffered greatly. For a
month past, I have not been able to find any work."

Colman's face lost something of its graciousness.

"And I fear I sha'n't be able to pay my quarter's rent to-morrow."

"Indeed!" said the landlord coldly. "Perhaps you can make it up
within two or three dollars?"

"I can't pay a dollar towards it," said the cooper. "It's the first
time, in five years that I've lived here, that this thing has
happened to me. I've always been prompt before."

"You should have economized as you found times growing harder," said
Colman, harshly. "It is hardly honest to live in a house when you
know you can't pay the rent."

"You sha'n't lose it Mr. Colman," said the cooper, earnestly. "No
one ever yet lost anything by me. Only give me time, and I will pay
you all."

The landlord shook his head.

"You ought to cut your coat according to your cloth," he responded.
"Much as it will go against my feelings, under the circumstances I
am compelled by a prudent regard to my own interests to warn you
that, in case your rent is not ready to-morrow, I shall be obliged
to trouble you to find another tenement; and furthermore, the rent
of this will be raised five dollars a quarter."

"I can't pay it, Mr. Colman," said the cooper; "I may as well say
that now; and it's no use my agreeing to pay more rent. I pay all I
can afford now."

"Very well, you know the alternative. But it is a disagreeable
subject. We won't talk of it now; I shall be round to-morrow
morning. How's your excellent sister; as cheerful as ever?"

"Quite as much so as usual," answered the cooper, dryly.

"But there's one favor I should like to ask, if you will allow us to
remain here a few days till I can look about me a little."

"I would with the greatest pleasure in the world," was the reply,
"but there's another family very anxious to take the house, and they
wish to come in immediately. Therefore I shall be obliged to ask you
to move out to-morrow. In fact that is the very thing I came here
this evening to speak about, as I thought you might not wish to pay
the increased rent."

"We are much obliged to you," said the cooper, with a tinge of
bitterness unusual to him. "If we are to be turned out of doors, it
is pleasant to have a few hours' notice of it."

"Turned out of doors, my good friend! What disagreeable expressions
you employ! It is merely a matter of business. I have an article to
dispose of. There are two bidders; yourself and another person. The
latter is willing to pay a larger sum. Of course I give him the
preference. Don't you see how it is?"

"I believe I do," replied the cooper. "Of course, it's a regular
proceeding; but you must excuse me if I think of it in another
light, when I reflect that to-morrow at this time my family and
myself may be without a shelter."

"My dear sir, positively you are looking on the dark side of things.
It is actually sinful to distrust Providence as you seem to do.
You're a little disappointed, that's all. Just take to-night to
sleep on it, and I've no doubt you'll think better of it and of me.
But positively I have stayed longer than I intended. Good night, my
friends. I'll look in upon you in the morning. And by the by, as it
is so near the time, allow me to wish you a Happy New Year."

The door closed upon the landlord, leaving behind two anxious
hearts.

"It looks well in him to wish that," said the cooper, gloomily. "A
great deal he is doing to make it so. I don't know how it seems to
others, but for my part I never say them words to any one unless I
really wish 'em well, and am willing to do something to make 'em so.
I should feel as if I was a hypocrite if I acted anyways different."

Mary did not respond to this. In her own gentle heart she could not
help feeling a silent repugnance, mingled, it may be, with a shade
of contempt, for the man who had just left them. It was an
uncomfortable feeling, and she strove to get rid of it."

"Is there any tenement vacant in this neighborhood?" she asked.

"Yes, there's the one at the corner, belonging to Mr. Harrison."

"It is a better one than this."

"Yes, but Harrison only asks the same that we have been paying. He
is not so exorbitant as Colman."

"Couldn't we get that?"

"I am afraid, if he knew that we had failed to pay our rent here, he
would object."

"But he knows you are honest, and that nothing but the hard times
would have brought you to such a pass."

"It may be, Mary. At any rate you have lightened my heart a little.
I feel as if there was some hope left."

"We ought always to feel so, Timothy. There was one thing that Mr.
Colman said that didn't sound so well, coming from his lips; but
it's true, for all that."

"What do you mean, Mary?"

"I mean that about not distrusting Providence. Many a time have I
been comforted by reading the verse, "Never have I seen the
righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread. "As long as we try to
do what is right, Timothy, God will not suffer us to want."

"You are right, Mary. He is our ever-present help in time of need.
Let us put away all anxious cares, fully confiding in his gracious
promises."

They retired to rest thoughtfully, but not sadly.

The fire upon the hearth flickered, and died out at length. The last
sands of the old year were running out, and the new morning ushered
in its successor.



CHAPTER IV.

THE NEW YEAR'S PRESENT.



"HAPPY New Year!" was Jack's salutation to Aunt Rachel, as, with an
unhappy expression of countenance, she entered the sitting-room.

"Happy, indeed!" she repeated, dismally. "There's great chance of
its being so, I should think. We don't any of us know what the year
may bring forth. We may all be dead before the next New Year."

"If that's the case, said Jack, "we'll be jolly as long as it
lasts."

"I don't know what you mean by such a vulgar word," said Aunt
Rachel, disdainfully. "I've heard of drunkards and such kind of
people being jolly; but, thank Providence, I haven't got to that
yet."

"If that was the only way to be jolly," said Jack, stoutly, "then
I'd be a drunkard; I wouldn't carry round such a long face as you
do, Aunt Rachel, for any money."

"It's enough to make all of us have long faces, when you are brazen
enough to own that you mean to be a drunkard."

"I didn't say any such thing," said Jack, indignantly.

"Perhaps I have ears," remarked Aunt Rachel, sententiously, "and
perhaps I have not. It's a new thing for a nephew to tell his aunt
that she lies. They didn't use to allow such things when I was
young.--But the world's going to rack and ruin, and I shouldn't much
wonder if the people are right that says it's comin' to an end."

Here Mrs. Crump happily interposed, by asking Jack to go round to
the grocery, in the next street, and buy a pint of milk.

Jack took his cap and started, with alacrity, glad to leave the
dismal presence of Aunt Rachel.

He had scarcely opened the door when he started back in surprise,
exclaiming, "By hokey, if there isn't a basket on the steps!"

"A basket!" repeated Mrs. Crump, in surprise. "Can it be a New
Year's present? Bring it in, Jack."

It was brought in immediately, and the cover being lifted there
appeared a female child, of apparently a year old. All uttered
exclamations of surprise, each in itself characteristic.

"What a dear, innocent little thing!" said Mrs. Crump, with true
maternal instinct.

"Ain't it a pretty 'un?" said Jack, admiringly.

"Poor thing!" said the cooper, compassionately.

"It's a world of iniquity!" remarked Rachel, lifting up her eyes,
dismally. "There isn't any one you can trust. I didn't think a
brother of mine would have such a sin brought to his door."

"Good heavens, Rachel!" said the honest cooper, in amazement, "what
can you mean?"

"It isn't for me to explain," said Rachel, shaking her head; "only
it's strange that it should have been brought to _this_ house,
that's all I say."

"Perhaps it was meant for you, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, with
thoughtless fun.

"Me!" exclaimed Rachel, rising to her feet, while her face betrayed
the utmost horror at the suggestion. She fell back in her seat, and
made a violent effort to faint.

"What have I said?" asked Jack, a little frightened at the effect of
his words. "Aunt Rachel takes one up so."

"He didn't mean anything," said Mrs. Crump. "How could you suspect
such a thing? But here's a letter. It looks as if there was
something in it. Here, Timothy, it is directed to you."

Mr. Cooper opened the letter, and read as follows:--

"For reasons which it is unnecessary to state, the guardians of this
child find it expedient to (sic) intrust it to others to be brought
up. The good opinion which they have formed of you, has led them to
select you for that charge. No further explanation is necessary,
except that it is by no means their object to make this a service of
charity. They therefore (sic) inclose a certificate of deposits on
the Broadway Bank, of three hundred dollars, the same having been
made in your name. Each year, while the child remains in your
charge, the same sum will in like manner be placed to your credit at
the same bank It may be as well to state, farther, that all attempts
to fathom whatever of mystery may attach to this affair, will prove
useless."

This letter was read in silent amazement.

The certificate of deposits, which had fallen to the floor, was
handed to Timothy by his wife.

Amazement was followed by a feeling of gratitude and relief.

"What could be more fortunate?" exclaimed Mrs. Crump. "Surely,
Timothy, our faith has been rewarded."

"God has listened to our cry," said the cooper, devoutly; "and, in
the hour of our need, He has remembered us."

"Isn't it prime?" said Jack, gleefully; "three hundred dollars!
Ain't we rich, Aunt Rachel?"

"Like as not," observed Rachel, "the certificate isn't genuine. It
doesn't look natural it should be. I've heard of counterfeits
before. I shouldn't be surprised at all if Timothy got taken up for
presenting it."

"I'll risk that," said Mr. Crump, who did not look very much
depressed by this suggestion.

"Now you'll be able to pay the rent, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump,
cheerfully.

"Yes; and it's the last quarter I shall pay to Mr. Colman, if I can
help it."

"Why, where are you going?" inquired Jack.

"To the corner house belonging to Mr. Harrison, that is, if it is
not already engaged. I think I will go and see about it at once. If
Mr. Colman should come in while I am gone, tell him I will be back
directly; I don't wish you to tell him of the change in our
circumstances."

The cooper found Mr. Harrison at home.

"I called to inquire," commenced the cooper, "whether you had let
that house of yours on the corner of the street."

"Not as yet," was the reply.

"What rent do you ask?"

"Twenty dollars a quarter," said Mr. Harrison; "that I consider
reasonable."

"It is satisfactory to me," was the cooper's reply, "and, if you
have no objections to me as a tenant, I will engage it at once."

"Far from having any objections, Mr. Crump," was the courteous
reply, "I shall be glad to secure so good a tenant. Will you go over
and look at the house?"

"Not now, sir; I am somewhat in haste. When can we move in?"

"To-day, if you like."

His errand satisfactorily accomplished, the cooper returned home.
Meanwhile the landlord had called.

He was a little surprised to find that Mrs. Crump, instead of
looking depressed, looked cheerful, rather than otherwise.

"I was not aware you had a child so young," he remarked, looking at
the baby.

"It isn't mine," said Mrs. Crump, briefly.

"The child of a neighbor, I suppose," thought Colman.

Meanwhile he scrutinized closely, without appearing to do so, the
furniture in the room.

At this point Mr. Crump opened the outer door.

"Good-morning," said Colman, affably. "A fine morning."

"Quite so," answered his tenant, shortly.

"I have called, Mr. Crump, to know if you are ready with your
quarter's rent."

"I think I told you, last night, how I was situated. Of course I am
sorry----"

"So am I," said the landlord, "for I may be obliged to have recourse
to unpleasant measures."

"You mean that we must leave the house!"

"Of course, you cannot expect to remain in it if you are unable to
pay the rent. Of course," added Colman, making an inventory with his
eyes, of the furniture, "you will leave behind a sufficient amount
of furniture to cover your bill----"

"Surely, you would not deprive us of our furniture!"

"Is there any hardship in requiring payment of honest debts?"

"There are cases of that description. However, I will not put you to
that trouble. I am ready to pay you your dues."

"You have the money?" said Colman, hastily.

"I have, and something over; as you will see by this document. Can
you give me the two hundred and eighty dollars over?"

It would be difficult to picture the amazement of Colman. "Surely,
you told me a different story last night," he said.

"Last night and this morning are different times. Then I could not
pay you; now, luckily, I am able. If you cannot change this amount,
and will accompany me to the bank, I will place the money in your
hands."

"My dear sir, I am not at all in haste," said the landlord, with a
return of his former affability. "Any time within a week will do. I
hope, by the way, you will continue to occupy this house."

"As I have already engaged Mr. Harrison's house, at the corner of
the street, I shall be unable to remain. Besides, I do not want to
interfere with the family who are so desirous of moving in."

Mr. Colman was silenced. He regretted, too late, the hasty course
which had lost him a good tenant. The family referred to had no
existence; and, it may be remarked, the house remained vacant for
several months, when he was glad to rent it at the old price.



CHAPTER V.

A LUCKY RESCUE.



THE opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of
comparative prosperity in the home of Timothy Crump. To persons
accustomed to live in their frugal way, three hundred dollars seemed
a fortune. Nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this
unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to extravagances.

"Let us save something against a rainy day," said Mrs. Crump.

"We can, if I get work soon," answered her husband. "This little one
will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we
should not save up at least half of it."

"There's no knowing when you will get work, Timothy," said Rachel,
in her usual cheerful way; "it isn't well to crow before you're out
of the woods."

"Very true, Rachel. It isn't your failing to look too much at the
sunny side of the picture."

"I'm ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere," said his
sister, in the same enlivening way.

"Don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with
this child?" asked Timothy.

"I've no doubt it seems bright enough, now," said Rachel, gloomily,
"but a young child's a great deal of trouble."

"Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel?" inquired Jack,
demurely.

"Yes;" said his aunt, slowly; "if all babies were as cross as you
were when you were an infant, three hundred dollars wouldn't begin
to pay for the trouble of having one round."

Mr. Crump and his wife laughed at this sally at Jack's expense, but
the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer, "I've
always heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is the
pleasanter he will grow up. What a very pleasant baby you must have
been!"

"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked
upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly, "He's got you
there, Rachel."

The latter, however, took it as a serious matter, and observed that,
when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their
elders. "But, I don't know as I can blame 'em much," she continued,
wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own
parents encourage 'em in it."

Timothy was warned, by experience, that silence was his best (sic)
defence. Since anything he might say would only be likely to make
matters worse.

Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say
another word till dinner time. She sat down to the table with a
profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for.
Notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite.
Indeed, Rachel seemed to thrive on her gloomy views of life and
human nature. She was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent
in all her conduct, as far as this peculiarity was concerned.
Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the
space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of
accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly
exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.

Mr. Crump continued to look out for work, but it was with a more
cheerful spirit. He did not now feel as if the comfort of his family
depended absolutely upon his immediate success. Used economically,
the money he had by him would last nine months, and during that time
it was impossible that he should not find something to do. It was
this sense of security--of possessing something upon which he could
fall back--that enabled him to keep up good heart. It is too
generally the case that people are content to live as if they were
sure of constantly retaining their health and never losing their
employment. When a reverse does come they are at once plunged into
discouragement, and feel that something must be done immediately.
There is only one way to fend off such an embarrassment, and that is
to resolve, whatever may be the amount of the income, to lay aside
some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. A little
economy--though it involves privation--will be well repaid by the
feeling of security thus engendered.

Mr. Crump was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared.
Not that his line of business revived,--that still remained
depressed,--but another path was opened to him for a time.

Returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from
a doorway, and assault a gentleman whose dress and general
appearance indicated probable wealth. Seizing him by the throat, the
villain effectually prevented him from calling the police, and was
engaged in rifling his pockets when the cooper arrived at the scene.
A sudden blow on the side of the head admonished the robber that he
had more than one to deal with.

"Leave this man instantly," said the cooper, sternly, "or I will
deliver you into the hands of the police."

The villain hesitated, but fear prevailed, and springing to his
feet, he hastily made off under cover of the darkness.

"I hope you have received no injury," said Timothy, respectfully,
turning towards the stranger he had rescued.

"No, my worthy friend, thanks to your timely assistance. The rascal
nearly succeeded, however."

"I hope you have lost nothing, sir."

"Nothing, fortunately. You can form an idea of the value of your
interference, when I say that I have fifteen hundred dollars with
me, all of which I should undoubtedly have lost."

"I am glad," said the cooper, "that I was able to do you such
essential service. It was by the merest chance that I came this
way."

"Will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty
club of yours? I have some little distance yet to go, and the amount
of money I have with me makes me feel desirous of taking every
possible precaution."

"Willingly," said the cooper.

"But I am forgetting," said the gentleman, "that you yourself will
be obliged to return alone."

"I do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack," said Mr.
Crump, laughing. "Money brings care I have always heard, and now I
realize it."

"Yet most people are willing to take their chance of that," said the
merchant.

"You are right, sir, nor can I call myself an exception. Still I
should be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment."

"I hope you have that, at least."

"I have had until recently."

"Then, at present, you are unemployed?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is your business?"

"That of a cooper."

"I must see what I can do for you. Can you call at my office
to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?"

"I shall be glad to do so, sir."

"I believe I have a card with me. Yes, here is one. And this is my
house. Thank you for your company, my good friend. I shall see you
to-morrow."

They stood before a handsome dwelling-house, from whose windows,
draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. The cooper
could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their
father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he
could not but be grateful to Providence that he had been the means
of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed him,
and perhaps done him farther injury.

He determined to say nothing to his wife of the night's adventure
until after his meeting appointed for the next day. Then if any
advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole at once.

When he reached home, Mrs. Crump was sewing beside the fire. Aunt
Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of
martyr-like resignation to the woes of life.

"I've brought you home a paper, Aunt Rachel," said the cooper,
cheerfully. "You may find something interesting in it."

"I sha'n't be able to read it this evening," said Rachel,
mournfully. "My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more
than probable that I am growing blind. But I trust I shall not live
to be a burden to you. Your prospects are dark enough without that."

"Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel," said
the cooper, cheerily. "I think I know what will enable you to use
your eyes as well as ever."

"What?" asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.

"A pair of spectacles," said her brother, incautiously.

"Spectacles!" retorted Rachel, indignantly. "It will be a good many
years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to
be insulted by my own brother. But it's one of my trials."

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel," said the cooper,
perplexed.

"Good night," said Rachel, rising and taking a small lamp from the
table.

"Come, Rachel, don't go yet. It is early."

"After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not
permit me to stay."

Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary
melancholy.

"I wish Rachel war'n't quite so contrary," said the cooper. "She
turns upon a body so sudden, it's hard to know how to take her.
How's the little girl, Mary?"

"She's been asleep ever since six o'clock."

"I hope you don't find her very much trouble. That all comes upon
you, while we have the benefit of the money."

"I don't think of that, Timothy. She is a sweet child, and I love
her almost as much as if she were my own. As for Jack, he perfectly
idolizes her."

"And how does Aunt Rachel look upon her?"

"I am afraid she will never be a favorite with Rachel."

"Rachel never took to children much. It isn't her way. Now, Mary,
while you are sewing, I will read you the news."



CHAPTER VI.

WHAT THE ENVELOPE CONTAINED.



THE card which had been handed to Timothy Crump contained the name
of Thomas Merriam,----Wall Street. Punctually at twelve, the cooper
reported himself at the counting-room, and received a cordial
welcome from the merchant.

"I am glad to see you," he said. "I will come to business at once,
as I am particularly engaged this morning. Is there any way in which
I can serve you?"

"Not unless you can procure me a situation, sir."

"I think you told me you were a cooper."

"Yes sir."

"Does this yield you a good support?"

"In good times it pays me two dollars a day. Lately it has been
depressed, and for a time paid me but a dollar and a half."

"When do you anticipate its revival?"

"That is uncertain. It may be some months first."

"And, in the mean time, you are willing to undertake some other
employment?"

"Yes, sir. I have no objection to any honest employment."

Mr. Merriam reflected a moment.

"Just at present," he said, "I have nothing to offer except the post
of porter. If that will suit you, you can enter upon the duties
to-morrow."

"I shall be very glad to take it, sir. Anything is better than
idleness."

"Your compensation shall be the same that you have been accustomed
to earn by your trade,--two dollars a day."

"I only received that in the best times," said Timothy,
conscientiously.

"Your services will be worth it. I will expect you, then, to-morrow
morning at eight. You are married, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. I am blessed with a good wife."

"I am glad of that. Stay a moment."

The merchant went to his desk, and presently returned with a scaled
envelope.

"Give that to your wife," he said.

The interview terminated, and the cooper went home, quite elated by
his success. His present engagement would enable him to bridge over
the dull time, and save him from incurring debt, of which he had a
just horror.

"Just in time," said Mrs. Crump. "We've got an apple-pudding
to-day."

"You haven't forgotten what I like, Mary."

"There's no knowing how long you will be able to afford puddings,"
said Aunt Rachel. "To my mind it's extravagant to have meat and
pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poor-house."

"Then," said Jack, "I wouldn't eat any."

"Oh, if you grudge me the little I eat," said his aunt, in severe
sorrow, "I will go without."

"Tut, Rachel, nobody grudges you anything here," said her brother,
"and as to the poor-house, I've got some good news to tell you that
will put that thought out of your heads."

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Crump, looking up brightly.

"I have found employment."

"Not at your trade?"

"No, but at something else, which will pay equally well, till trade
revives."

Here he told the story of the chance by which he was enabled to
serve Mr. Merriam, and of the engagement to which it had led.

"You are, indeed, fortunate," said Mrs. Crump. "Two dollars a day,
and we've got nearly the whole of the money that came with this dear
child. How rich we shall be!"

"Well, Rachel, where are your congratulations?" asked the cooper of
his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating her second slice of
pudding.

"I don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a
porter," said Rachel, lugubriously. "I heard of a porter, once, who
had a great box fall upon him and crush him; and another, who
committed suicide."

The cooper laughed.

"So, Rachel, you conclude that one or the other is the inevitable
lot of all who are engaged in this business."

"It is always well to be prepared for the worst," said Rachel,
oracularly.

"But not to be always looking for it," said her brother.

"It'll come, whether you look for it or not," returned her sister,
sententiously.

"Then, suppose we spend no thoughts upon it, since, according to
your admission, it's sure to come either way."

Rachel pursued her knitting, in severe melancholy.

"Won't you have another piece of pudding, Timothy?" asked Mrs.
Crump.

"I don't care if I do, Mary, it's so good," said the cooper, passing
his plate. "Seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made."

"You've got a good appetite, that is all," said Mrs. Crump,
modestly.

"By the way, Mary," said the cooper, with a sudden thought, "I quite
forgot that I have something for you."

"For me?"

"Yes, from Mr. Merriam."

"But he don't know me," said Mrs. Crump, in surprise.

"At any rate, he asked me if I were married, and then handed me this
envelope for you. I am not quite sure whether I ought to allow
gentlemen to write letters to my wife."

Mrs. Crump opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and
uttered an exclamation of surprise, as a bank-note fluttered to the
carpet.

"By gracious, mother," said Jack, springing to get it, "you're in
luck. It's a hundred dollar bill."

"So it is, I declare," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully. "But, Timothy, it
isn't mine. It belongs to you."

"No, Mary, it shall be yours. I'll put it in the Savings Bank for
you."

"Merriam's a trump, and no mistake," said Jack. "By the way, father,
when you see him again, won't you just insinuate that you have a
son? Ain't we in luck, Aunt Rachel?"

"'Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a
fall,'" said Rachel.

"I never knew Aunt Rachel to be jolly but once," said Jack, under
his breath; "and that was at a funeral."




CHAPTER VI.

EIGHT YEARS. IDA'S PROGRESS.



EIGHT years slipped by, unmarked by any important event. The Crumps
were still prosperous in an humble way. The cooper had been able to
obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance
for little Ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort,
but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. They might
even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to
do, but there was one point upon which none of them would consent to
be economical. The little Ida must have everything she wanted.
Timothy brought home daily some little delicacy for her, which none
of the rest thought of sharing. While Mrs. Crump, far enough from
vanity, always dressed with exceeding plainness, Ida's attire was
always rich and tasteful. She would sometimes ask, "Mother, why
don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?"

Mrs. Crump would answer, smiling, "Oh, I'm an old woman, Ida. Plain
things are best for me."

"No, I'm sure you're not old, mother. You don't wear a cap."

But Mrs. Crump would always playfully evade the child's questions.

Had Ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an
injurious effect upon her mind. But, fortunately she had that rare
simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers to
which many might have been subjected. Instead of being made vain,
she only felt grateful for the many kindnesses bestowed upon her by
her father and mother and brother Jack, as she was wont to call
them. Indeed, it had not been thought best to let her know that such
was not the relation in which they really stood to her.

There was one point, more important than dress, in which Ida
profited by the indulgence of her friends.

"Wife," the cooper was wont to say, "Ida is a sacred charge in our
hands. If we allow her to grow up ignorant, or afford her only
ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfil our duty. We have the
means, through Providence, to give her some of those advantages
which she would enjoy if she remained in that sphere to which her
parents, doubtless, belong. Let no unwise parsimony, on our part,
withhold them from her."

"You are right, Timothy," said Mrs. Crump; "right, as you always
are. Follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that I
shall disapprove."

Accordingly Ida was, from the first, sent to a carefully-selected
private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and
where her progress was astonishingly rapid.

She early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. As soon as this
was discovered, her foster parents took care that she should have
abundant opportunity for cultivating it. A private master was
secured, who gave her daily lessons, and boasted everywhere of his
charming little pupil, whose progress, as he assured her friends,
exceeded anything he had ever before known.

Nothing could exceed the cooper's gratification when, on his
birthday, Ida presented him with a beautifully-drawn sketch of his
wife's placid and benevolent face.

"When did you do it, Ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of
admiration.

"I did it in odd minutes," she said; "in the evening."

"But how could you do it without any one of us knowing what you were
about?"

"I had a picture before me, and you thought I was copying it, but
whenever I could do it without being noticed, I looked up at mother
as she sat at her sewing, and so, after awhile, I made this
picture."

"And a fine one it is," said Timothy, admiringly.

Mrs. Crump insisted that Ida had flattered her, but this the child
would not admit. "I couldn't make it look as good as you, mother,"
she said. "I tried to, but somehow I couldn't succeed as well as I
wanted to."

"You wouldn't have that difficulty with Aunt Rachel," said Jack,
roguishly.

Ida, with difficulty, suppressed a laugh.

"I see," said Aunt Rachel, with severe resignation, "that you've
taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. But it's what I expect. I
don't never expect any consideration in this house. I was born to be
a martyr, and I expect I shall fulfil my destiny. If my own
relations laugh at me, of course I can't expect anything better from
other folks. But I sha'n't be long in the way. I've had a cough for
some time past, and I expect I'm in a consumption."

"You make too much of a little thing, Rachel," said the cooper. "I
don't think Jack meant anything."

"I'm sure, what I said was complimentary," said Jack.

Rachel shook her head incredulously.

"Yes it was. Ask Ida. Why won't you draw Aunt Rachel, Ida? I think
she'd make a capital picture."

"So I will," said Ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me."

"Now, Aunt Rachel, there's a chance for you," said Jack. "I advise
you to improve it. When it's finished, it can be hung up at the Art
Rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it?"

"I wouldn't marry," said his aunt, firmly compressing her lips, "not
if anybody'd go down on their knees to me."

"Now I am sure, Aunt Rachel, that's cruel in you."

"There ain't any man that I'd trust my happiness to."

"She hasn't any to trust," observed Jack, _sotto voce_.

"They're all deceivers," pursued Rachel, "the best of 'em. You can't
believe what one of 'em says. It would be a great deal better if
people never married at all."

"Then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her
nephew.

"Come to an end, most likely," said Aunt Rachel; "and I don't know
but that would be the best thing. It's growing more and more wicked
every day."

It will be seen that no great change has come over Miss Rachel Crump
during the years that have intervened. She takes the same
disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects, as
ever. Nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as
ever. Her appetite continues remarkably good, and although she
frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use
in living, probably she would be as unwilling to leave the world as
any one. I am not sure that she does not derive as much enjoyment
from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness.
Unfortunately, her peculiar way of enjoying herself is calculated to
have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with
whom she comes in contact--always excepting Jack, who has a lively
sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in
bantering his aunt.

Ida is no less a favorite with Jack than with the other members of
the household. Rough as he is sometimes, Jack is always gentle with
Ida. When she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness
needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve
his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. He had never
had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as Ida was a
novelty to him. It was, perhaps, this very office of guardian to the
child, assumed when she was so young, that made him feel ever after
as if she was placed under his special protection.

And Ida was equally attached to Jack. She learned to look up to him
for assistance in anything which she had at heart, and he never
disappointed her. Whenever he could, he would accompany her to
school, holding her by the hand; and fond as he was of rough play,
nothing would induce him to leave her.

"How long have you been a nurse-maid?" asked a boy, older than
himself, one day.

Jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he
had a duty to perform, and contented himself with saying, "Just wait
a few minutes, and I'll let you know."

"I dare say," was the reply. "I rather think I shall have to wait
till both of us are gray before that time."

"You won't have to wait long before you are black and blue,"
retorted Jack.

"Don't mind what he says, Jack," whispered Ida, fearful lest he
should leave her.

"Don't be afraid, Ida; I won't leave you; I guess he won't trouble
us another day."

Meanwhile the boy, emboldened by Jack's passiveness, followed, with
more abuse of the same sort. If he had been wiser, he would have
seen a storm gathering in the flash of Jack's eye; but he mistook
the cause of his forbearance.

The next day, as they were again going to school, Ida saw the same
boy dodging round the corner, with his head bound up.

"What's the matter with him, Jack?" she asked.

"I licked him like blazes, that's all," said Jack, quietly.

"I guess he'll let us alone after this."




CHAPTER VIII.

A STRANGE VISITOR.



IT was about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, Mrs. Crump was in the
kitchen, busy in preparations for dinner, when a loud knock was
heard at the door.

"Who can it be?" ejaculated Mrs. Crump. "Aunt Rachel, there's
somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?"

"People have no business to call at such an hour in the morning,"
grumbled Aunt Rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and
rose from her seat. "Nobody seems to have any consideration for
anybody else. But that's the way of the world."

Opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in
a gown of some dark stuff, with marked, and not altogether pleasant
features.

"Are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor.

"There ain't any ladies in this house," said Rachel. "You've come to
the wrong place. We have to work for a living here."

"The woman of the house, then. It doesn't make any difference about
names. Are you the one I want to see?"

"No, I ain't," said Rachel, shortly.

"Will you lead me to your mistress, then?"

"I have none."

The visitor's eyes flashed, as if her temper was easily roused.

"I want to see Mrs. Crump," she said, impatiently. Will you call
her, or shall I go and announce myself?"

"Some folks are mighty impatient," muttered Rachel. "Stay here, and
I'll call her to the door."

In a short time Mrs. Crump presented herself.

"Won't you come in?" she asked, pleasantly.

"I don't care if I do," was the reply. "I wish to speak to you on
important business."

Mrs. Crump, whose interest was excited, led the way into the
sitting-room.

"You have in your family," said the stranger, after seating herself,
"a girl named Ida."

Mrs. Crump looked up suddenly and anxiously. Could it be that the
secret of Ida's birth was to be revealed at last!

"Yes," she said.

"Who is not your child."

"But _whom_ I love as such; whom I have always taught to look upon
me as a mother."

"I presume so. It is of her that I wish to speak to you."

"Do you know anything of her parentage?" inquired Mrs. Crump,
eagerly.

"I was her nurse," said the other, quietly.

Mrs. Crump examined, anxiously, the hard features of the woman. It
was a relief at least to know, though she could hardly have
believed, that there was no tie of blood between her and Ida.

"Who were her parents?"

"I am not permitted to tell," was the reply.

Mrs. Crump looked disappointed.

"Surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of heart, "you have not
come to take her away?"

"This letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the
woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried on her
arm.

The cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as
follows:--

"MRS. CRUMP;

"Eight years ago last New Year's night, a child was left on your
door-steps, with a note containing a request that you would care for
it kindly as your own. Money was sent, at the same time, to defray
the expenses of such care. The writer of this note is the mother of
the child Ida. There is no need to say, here, why I sent the child
away from me. You will easily understand that only the most
imperative circumstances would have led me to such a step. Those
circumstances still prevent me from reclaiming the child, and I am
content, still, to leave Ida in your charge. Yet, there is one thing
of which I am (sic) desirious. You will understand a mother's desire
to see, face to face, the child who belongs, of right, to her. With
this view, I have come to this neighborhood. I will not say where,
for concealment is necessary to me. I send this note by a
trustworthy attendant,--Mrs. Hardwick, my little Ida's nurse in her
infancy,--who will conduct Ida to me, and return her again to you.
Ida is not to know whom she is visiting. No doubt she believes you
her mother, and it is well. Tell her only, that it is a lady who
takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish
curiosity. I make this request as

"IDA'S MOTHER."

Mrs. Crump read this letter with mingled feelings. Pity for the
writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances
which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of
jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear
adopted daughter superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief
at the assurance that Ida was not to be permanently removed,--all
these feelings affected the cooper's wife.

"So you were Ida's nurse," she said, gently.

"Yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "I hope the dear child is well."

"Perfectly well. How much her mother must have suffered from the
separation!"

"Indeed, you may say so, ma'am. It came near to break her heart."

"So it must," said sympathizing Mrs. Crump. "There is one thing I
would like to ask," she continued, hesitating and reddening. "Don't
answer it unless you please. Was--is Ida the child of shame?"

"She is not," answered the nurse.

Mrs. Crump looked relieved. It removed a thought from her mind which
would now and then intrude, though it had never, for an instant,
lessened her affection for the child.

At this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. He
had just come home on an errand.

"It is my husband," said Mrs. Crump, turning to her visitor, by way
of explanation. "Timothy, will you come in a moment?"

Mr. Crump regarded his wife's visitor with some surprise. His wife
hastened to introduce her as Mrs. Hardwick, Ida's nurse, and handed
to the astonished cooper the letter which the latter had brought
with her.

He was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through
the letter. He laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. The
nurse regarded him with a slight uneasiness.

"This is, indeed, unexpected," he said, at last. "It is a new
development in Ida's history. May I ask, Mrs. Hardwick, if you have
any further proof. I want to be prudent with a child that I love as
my own,--if you have any further proof that you are what you claim
to be?"

"I judged that this letter would be sufficient," said the nurse;
moving a little in her chair.

"True; but how can we be sure that the writer is Ida's mother?"

"The tone of the letter, sir. Would anybody else write like that?"

"Then you have read the letter?" said the cooper, quickly.

"It was read to me, before I set out."

"By----"

"By Ida's mother. I do not blame you for your caution," she
continued. "You must be so interested in the happiness of the dear
child of whom you have taken such (sic) excelent care, I don't mind
telling you that I was the one who left her at your door eight years
ago, and that I never left the neighborhood until I found that you
had taken her in."

"And it was this, that enabled you to find the house, to-day."

"You forget," said the nurse, "that you were not then living in this
house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the
street."

"You are right," said the cooper. "I am disposed to believe in the
genuineness of your claim. You must pardon my testing you in such a
manner, but I was not willing to yield up Ida, even for a little
time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into."

"You are right," said the nurse. "I don't blame you in the least. I
shall report it to Ida's mother, as a proof of your attachment to
your child."

"When do you wish Ida to go with you?" asked Mrs. Crump.

"Can you let her go this afternoon?"

"Why," said Mrs. Crump, hesitating, "I should like to have a chance
to wash out some clothes for her. I want her to appear as neat a
possible, when she meets her mother."

The nurse hesitated.

"I do not wish to hurry you. If you will let me know when she will
be ready, I will call for her."

"I think I can get her ready early to-morrow morning."

"That will answer excellently. I will call for her then."

The nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her.

"Where are you going, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife.

"To a hotel," was the reply.

"We cannot allow that," said Mrs. Crump, kindly. "It is a pity if we
cannot accommodate Ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as
long, for that matter."

"My wife is quite right," said the cooper; "we must insist upon your
stopping with us."

The nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. It was plain she would
have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which Mrs. Crump made,
decided her to accept the invitation.

It was this. "You know, Mrs. Hardwick, if Ida is to go with you, she
ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you
go."

"I will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but I am afraid I
shall be in your way."

"Not in the least. It will be a pleasure to us to have you here. If
you will excuse me now, I will go out and attend to my dinner, which
I am afraid is getting behindhand."

Left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be
regarded as singular. She rose from her seat, and approached the
mirror. She took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and
laughed a short, hard laugh.

Then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying, "How
do you do, Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry
on his way out.

"No," said the nurse, a little awkwardly. "I believe I said
something to myself. It's of no consequence."

"Somehow," thought the cooper, "I don't fancy the woman's looks, but
I dare say I am prejudiced. We're all of us as God made us."

While Mrs. Crump was making preparations for the noon-day meal, she
imparted to Rachel the astonishing information, which has already
been detailed to the reader.

"I don't believe a word of it," said Rachel, resolutely.

"She's an imposter. I knew she was the very first moment I set eyes
on her."

This remark was so characteristic of Rachel, that Mrs. Crump did not
attach any special importance to it. Rachel, of course, had no
grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. It was
consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature.

"What object could she have in inventing such a story?"

"What object? Hundreds of 'em," said Rachel, rather indefinitely.
"Mark my words, if you let her carry off Ida, it'll be the last
you'll ever see of her."

"Try to look on the bright side, Rachel. Nothing is more natural
than that her mother should want to see her."

"Why couldn't she come herself?" muttered Rachel.

"The letter explains."

"I don't see that it does."

"It says that the same reasons exist for concealment as ever."

"And what are they, I should like to know? I don't like mysteries,
for my part."

"We won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to
keep Ida with us."

Aunt Rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, "but I ought to invite Mrs.
Hardwick in here. I have left her alone in the front room."

"I don't want to see her," said Aunt Rachel. Then changing her mind,
suddenly, "Yes, you may bring her in. I'll find out whether she is
an imposter or not."

Mrs. Crump returned with the nurse. "Mrs. Hardwick," said she, "this
is my sister, Miss Rachel Crump."

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the nurse.

"Aunt Rachel, I will leave you to entertain Mrs. Hardwick," said
Mrs. Crump. "I am obliged to be in the kitchen."

Rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike.

"I hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said Rachel. "I never
expect to entertain anybody again. This is a world of trial and
tribulation, and I've had my share. So you've come after Ida, I
hear?" with a sudden change of subject.

"At her mother's request," said the nurse.

"She wants to see her, then?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I wonder she didn't think of it before," said Aunt Rachel, sharply.
"She's good at waiting. She's waited eight years."

"There are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the
nurse.

"No, I dare say not," said Rachel, dryly. "So you were her nurse?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Hardwick, who evidently did not relish this
cross-examination.

"Have you lived with the mother ever since?"

"No,--yes," stammered the nurse. "Some of the time," she added,
recovering herself.

"Umph!" grunted Rachel, darting a sharp glance at her.

"Have you a husband living?" inquired Rachel, after a pause.

"Yes," said Mrs. Hardwick. "Have you?"

"I!" repeated Aunt Rachel, scornfully. "No, neither living nor dead.
I'm thankful to say I never married. I've had trials enough without
that. Does Ida's mother live in the city?"

"I can't tell you," said the nurse.

"Humph, I don't like mystery."

"It isn't my mystery," said the nurse. "If you have any objection to
make against it, you must make it to Ida's mother."

The two were not likely to get along very amicably. Neither was
gifted with the best of tempers, and perhaps it was as well that
there should have been an interruption as there was.




CHAPTER IX.

A JOURNEY.



"OH, mother," exclaimed Ida, bounding into the room, fresh from
school.

She stopped short, in some confusion, on seeing a stranger.

"Is this my own dear child, over whose infancy I watched so
tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed
into a smile.

"It is Ida," said Mrs. Crump.

Ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment.

"Ida," said Mrs. Crump, in a little embarrassment, "this is Mrs.
Hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant."

"But I thought you took care of me, mother," said Ida, in surprise.

"Very true," said Mrs. Crump, evasively, "but I was not able to have
the care of you all the time. Didn't I ever mention Mrs. Hardwick to
you?"

"No, mother."

"Although it is so long since I have seen her, I should have known
her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes.
"So pretty as she's grown up, too!"

Mrs. Crump, who, as has been said, was devotedly attached to Ida,
glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the
compliment.

"Ida," said Mrs. Hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?"

Ida looked at the hard face, which now wore a smile intended to
express affection. Without knowing why, she felt an instinctive
repugnance to her, notwithstanding her words of endearment.

She advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly
able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse.

There was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet
not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of Ida's
feeling towards her, and resented it. But whether or not she was
playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed
the unwilling child more closely to her bosom.

Ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and walked
quietly away, wondering what it was that made her dislike the woman
so much.

"Is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with
Mrs. Crump, who was setting the table for dinner.

A good woman! What makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother,
in surprise.

"I don't know," said Ida.

"I don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said Mrs.
Crump. "And, by the way, Ida, she is going to take you on a little
excursion, to-morrow."

"She going to take me?" exclaimed Ida. "Why, where are we going?"

"On a little pleasure trip, and perhaps she may introduce you to a
pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what
she has told her."

"What could she say of me?" inquired Ida, "she has not seen me since
I was a baby."

"Why," said the cooper's wife a little puzzled, "she appears to have
thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection."

"Is it wicked," asked Ida, after a pause, "not to like those that
like us?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Because, somehow or other, I don't like this Mrs. Hardwick at all,
for all she was my old nurse, and I don't believe ever shall."

"Oh yes, you will," said Mrs. Crump, "when you find she is exerting
herself to give you pleasure."

"Am I going to-morrow morning with Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Yes. She wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in
order."

"We shall come back at night, sha'n't we?"

"I presume so."

"I hope we shall," said Ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me
to go with her again."

"Perhaps you will think differently when it is over, and you find
you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated."

Mrs. Crump exerted herself to fit Ida up as neatly as possible, and
when at length she was got ready, she thought to herself, with
sudden fear, "Perhaps her mother won't be willing to part with her
again."

When Ida was ready to start, there came over all a little shadow of
depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a
year, and not for a day only. Perhaps this was only natural, since
even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been
parted from her since, an infant, she was left at their door.

The nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany
her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of
Ida's mother should not be known at once. "Of course," she said,
"after Ida returns, she can tell you what she pleases. Then it will
be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. She does not live
in this neighborhood; she has only come here to have an interview
with Ida."

"Shall you bring her back to-night?" asked Mrs. Crump.

"I may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "After eight years'
absence, that will seem short enough."

To this, Mrs. Crump agreed, but thought that it would seem long to
her, she had been so accustomed to have Ida present at meals.

The nurse walked as far as Broadway, holding Ida by the hand.

"Where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "Are we going to
walk all the way?"

"No," said the nurse, "we shall ride. There is an omnibus coming
now. We will get into it."

She beckoned to the driver who stopped his horse. Ida and her
companion got in.

They got out at the Jersey City ferry.

"Did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone
intended to be gracious.

"Once or twice," said Ida. "I went with brother Jack once, over to
Hoboken. Are we going there, now?"

"No, we are going over to the city, you can see over the water."

"What is it? Is it Brooklyn?"

"No, it is Jersey City."

"Oh, that will be pleasant," said Ida, forgetting, in her childish
love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired
her.

"Yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the
nurse.

"Are we going further?" asked Ida, her eyes sparkling. "Where are we
going?"

"To a town on the line of the railroad."

"And shall we ride in the cars?" asked the child, with animation.

"Yes, didn't you ever ride in the cars before?"

"No, never."

"I think you will like it."

"Oh, I know I shall. How fast do the cars go?"

"Oh, a good many miles an hour,--maybe thirty."

"And how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to
carry me to!"

"I don't know exactly,--perhaps two hours."

"Two whole hours in the cars!" exclaimed Ida. "How much I shall have
to tell father and Jack when I get back."

"So you will," said Mrs. Hardwick, with an unaccountable smile,
"when you get back."

There was something peculiar in her tone as she pronounced these
last words, but Ida did not notice it.

So Ida, despite her company, actually enjoyed, in her bright
anticipation, a keen sense of pleasure.

"Are we most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours.

"It won't be long," said the nurse.

"We must have come ever so many miles," said Ida.

An hour passed. She amused herself by gazing out of the car windows
at the towns which seemed to flit by. At length, both Ida and her
nurse became hungry.

The nurse beckoned to her side a boy who was going through the cars
selling apples and seed-cakes, and inquired their price.

"The apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes a cent
apiece."

Ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round,
and exclaimed, in great astonishment; "Why, William Fitts, is that
you?"

"Why, Ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, his surprise
equalling her own.

The nurse bit her lips in vexation at this unexpected recognition.

"I'm making a little journey with her," indicating Mrs. Hardwick.

"So you're going to Philadelphia," said the boy.

"To Philadelphia!" said Ida, in surprise. "Not that I know of."

"Why, you're most there now."

"Are we, Mrs. Hardwick?" asked Ida, looking in her companion's face.

"It isn't far from there where we're going," said the nurse,
shortly. "Boy, I'll take two of your apples and four seed-cakes. And
now you'd better go along, for there's somebody by the stove that
looks as if he wanted to buy of you."

William looked back as if he would like to question Ida farther, but
her companion looked forbidding, and he passed on reluctantly.

"Who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly.

"His name is William Fitts."

"Where did you get acquainted with him?"

"He went to school with Jack, so I used to see him sometimes."

"With Jack! Who's Jack?"

"What! Don't you know Jack, brother Jack?" asked Ida, in childish
surprise.

"O yes," replied the nurse, recollecting herself; "I didn't think of
him."

He's a first-rate boy, William is," said Ida, who was disposed to be
communicative. "He's good to his mother. You see his mother is sick
most of the time, and can't do much; and he's got a little sister,
she ain't more than four or five years old--and William supports
them by selling things. "He's only sixteen; isn't he a smart boy?"

"Yes;" said the nurse, mechanically.

"Some time," continued Ida, "I hope I shall be able to earn
something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so
hard."

"What could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously.

"I don't know as I could do much," said Ida, modestly; "but when I
have practised more, perhaps I could draw pictures that people would
buy."

"So you know how to draw?"

"Yes, I've been taking lessons for over a year."

"And how do you like it?"

"Oh, ever so much! I like it a good deal better than music."

"Do you know anything of that?"

"Yes, I can play a few easy pieces."

Mrs. Hardwick looked surprised, and regarded her young charge with
curiosity.

"Have you got any of your drawings with you?" she asked.

"No, I didn't bring any."

"I wish you had; the lady we are going to see would have liked to
see some of them."

"Are we going to see a lady?"

"Yes, didn't your mother tell you?"

"Yes, I believe she said something about a lady that was interested
in me."

"That's the one."

"Where does she live? When shall we get there?"

"We shall get there before very long."

"And shall we come back to New York to-night?"

"No, it wouldn't leave us any time to stay. Besides, I feel tired
and want to rest; don't you?"

"I do feel a little tired," acknowledged Ida.

"Philadelphia!" announced the conductor, opening the car-door.

"We get out, here," said the nurse. "Keep close to me, or you may
get lost. Perhaps you had better take hold of my hand."

"When are you coming back, Ida?" asked William Fitts, coming up to
her with his basket on his arm.

"Mrs. Hardwick says we sha'n't go back till to-morrow."

"Come, Ida," said the nurse, sharply. "We must hurry along."

"Good-by, William," said Ida. "If you see Jack, just tell him you
saw me."

"Yes, I will," was the reply.

"I wonder who that woman is with Ida," thought the boy. "I don't
like her looks much. I wonder if she's any relation of Mr. Crump.
She looks about as pleasant as Aunt Rachel."

The last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt complimented at the
comparison, or the manner in which it was made.

Ida looked about her with curiosity. There was a novelty in being in
a new place, since, as far back as she could remember, she had never
left New York, except for a brief excursion to Hoboken; and one
Fourth of July was made memorable in her recollection, by a trip to
Staten Island, which she had taken with Jack, and enjoyed
exceedingly.

"Is this Philadelphia?" she inquired.

"Yes;" said her companion, shortly.

"How far is it from New York?"

"I don't know; a hundred miles, more or less."

"A hundred miles!" repeated Ida, to whom this seemed an immense
distance. "Am I a hundred miles from father and mother, and Jack,
and--and Aunt Rachel?"

The last name was mentioned last, and rather as an after-thought, if
Ida felt it her duty to include the not very amiable spinster, who
had never erred in the way of indulgence.

"Why, yes, of course you are," said Mrs. Hardwick, in a practical,
matter-of-fact tone. "Here, cross the street here. Take care or
you'll get run over. Now turn down here."

They had now entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly
houses on either side.

"This ain't a very nice looking street," said Ida, looking about
her.

"Why isn't it?" demanded the nurse, looking displeased.

"Why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice."

"What do you think of that house, there?" asked Mrs. Hardwick,
pointing out a tall, brick tenement house.

"I shouldn't like to live there," said Ida, after a brief survey.

"You shouldn't! You don't like it so well as the house you live in
in New York?"

"No, not half so well."

The nurse smiled.

"Wouldn't you like to go up and look at the house?" she asked.

"Go up and look at it!" repeated Ida, in surprise.

"Yes, I mean to go in."

"Why, what should we do that for?"

"You see there are some poor families living there that I go to see
sometimes," said Mrs. Hardwick, who appeared to be amused at
something. "You know it is our duty to visit the poor."

"Yes, that's what mother says."

"There's a poor man living in the third story that I've made a good
many clothes for, first and last," said the nurse, in the same
peculiar tone.

"He must be very much obliged to you," said Ida, thinking that Mrs.
Hardwick was a better woman than she had supposed.

"We're going up to see him, now," said the nurse. "Just take care
of. that hole in the stairs. Here we are."

Somewhat to Ida's surprise, her companion opened the door without
the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor untidy room, in which
a coarse, unshaven man, was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a
pipe.

"Hallo!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up suddenly. "So you've
got along, old woman! Is that the gal?"

Ida stared from one to the other, in unaffected amazement.




CHAPTER X.

UNEXPECTED QUARTERS.



THE appearance of the man whom Mrs. Hardwick addressed so familiarly
was more picturesque than pleasing. He had a large, broad face,
which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness
of stubble. His nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic
beverages. His eyes, likewise, were bloodshot, and his skin looked
coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt
which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation.
The same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were
ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to
the laws of health. He was sitting in a chair pitched back against
the wall, with his feet resting on another, and a short Dutch pipe
in his mouth, from which volumes of smoke were pouring.

Ida thought she had never seen before so disgusting a man. She
continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till
the object of her attention exclaimed,--

"Well, little girl, what you're looking at? Hain't you never seen a
gentleman before?"

Ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to
find, did not resent the man's impertinence.

"Well, Dick, how've you got along since I've been gone?" asked Mrs.
Hardwick, to Ida's unbounded astonishment.

"Oh, so so."

"Have you felt lonely any?"

"I've had good company."

"Who's been here?"

Dick pointed significantly to a jug, which stood beside his chair.

"So you've brought the gal. How did you get hold of her?"

There was something in these questions which terrified Ida. It
seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two, which
boded no good to her.

"I'll tell you the particulars by and by," said the nurse, looking
significantly at the child's expressive face.

At the same time she began to take off her bonnet.

"You ain't going to stop, are you?" whispered Ida.

"Ain't going to stop!" repeated the man called Dick. "Why shouldn't
she? Ain't she at home?"

"At home!" echoed Ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in
astonishment.

"Yes, ask her."

Ida looked, inquiringly, at Mrs. Hardwick.

"You might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly.
"We ain't going any farther to-day."

"And where's the lady you said you were going to see?" asked the
child, bewildered.

"The one that was interested in you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm the one."

"You!"

"Yes."

"I don't want to stay here," said Ida, becoming frightened.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the woman,
mockingly.

"Will you take me back early to-morrow?"

"No, I don't intend to take you back at all," said the nurse,
coolly.

Ida seemed stupefied with astonishment and terror at first. Then,
actuated by a sudden impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it
open when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm,
dragged her rudely back.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded, roughly.

"Back to father and mother," said Ida, bursting into tears. "Oh, why
did you carry me away?"

"I'll tell you why," answered Dick, jocularly. "You see, Ida, we
ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you."

"But I don't love you, and I never shall," said Ida, indignantly.

"Now don't you go to saying that," said Dick. "You'll break my
heart, you will, and then Peg will be a widow."

To give effect to this pathetic speech, Dick drew out a tattered red
handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes.

The whole scene was so ludicrous that Ida, despite her fears and
disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. She recovered herself
instantly, and said, imploringly, "Oh, do let me go, and father will
pay you; I'm sure he will."

"You really think he would?" said Dick.

"Oh, yes; and you'll tell her to carry me back, won't you?"

"No, he won't tell me any such thing," said Peg, gruffly; "and if he
did, I wouldn't do it; so you might as well give up all thoughts of
that first as last. You're going to stay here; so take off that
bonnet of yours, and say no more about it."

Ida made no motion towards obeying this mandate.

"Then I'll do it for you," said Peg.

She roughly untied the bonnet, Ida struggling vainly in opposition,
and taking this with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which
she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the
key in her pocket.

"There," said she, "I guess you're safe for the present."

"Ain't you ever going to carry me back?" asked Ida, wishing to know
the worst.

"Some years hence," said the woman, coolly. "We want you here for
the present. Besides, you're not sure that they want to see you back
again."

"Not glad to see me?"

"No; how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on
purpose? They've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've
bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen."

"It's a lie," said Ida, firmly. "They didn't send me off, and you're
a wicked woman to keep me here."

"Hoity-toity!" said the woman, pausing and looking menacingly at the
child. "Have you anything more to say before I whip you?"

"Yes," said Ida, goaded to desperation; "I shall complain of you to
the police, and they will put you in jail, and send me home. That is
what I will do."

The nurse seized Ida by the arm, and striding with her to the closet
already spoken of, unlocked it, and rudely pushing her in, locked
the door after her.

"She's a spunky 'un," remarked Dick, taking the pipe from his mouth.

"Yes," said the woman, "she makes more fuss than I thought she
would."

"How did you manage to come it over her family?" asked Dick.

His wife, gave substantially, the same account with which the reader
is already familiar.

"Pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed Dick, approvingly. "I
always said you was a deep 'un. I always say if Peg can't find out a
way to do a thing it can't be done, no how."

"How about the counterfeit coin?" asked his wife, abruptly.

"They're to supply us with all we can get off, and we are to have
one half of all we succeed in passing."

"That is good," said the woman, thoughtfully. "When this girl Ida
gets a little tamed down, we'll give her some business to do."

"Won't she betray us if she gets caught?"

"We'll manage that, or at least I will. I'll work on her fears so
that she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her
own head off."

Ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been
thrust. Utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black
seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. She had
been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded
as such, and from a comfortable and happy though humble home, to
this dismal place. In place of the kindness and indulgence to which
she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and
cruelty. What wonder that her heart desponded, and her tears of
childish sorrow flowed freely?




CHAPTER XI.

SUSPENSE.



IT doesn't somehow seem natural," said Mr. Crump, as he took his
seat at the tea-table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half
of the family were gone."

"Just what I've said twenty times to-day," remarked his wife.
"Nobody knows how much a child is to them till they lose it."

"Not lose it, mother," said Jack, who had been sitting in a silence
unusual for him."

"I didn't mean to say that," said Mrs. Crump. "I meant till they
were gone away for a time."

"When you spoke of losing," said Jack, "it made me feel just as Ida
wasn't coming back."

"I don't know how it is," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but that's
just the feeling I've had several times to-day. I've felt just as if
something or other would happen so that Ida wouldn't come back."

"That is only because she has never been away before," said the
cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble; we shall have
enough of it without."

"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, lugubriously.
"'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' This world is a
vale of tears. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't
what they're sent here for."

"Now that's where I differ from you," said the cooper,
good-humoredly, "just as there are many more pleasant than stormy
days, so I believe that there is much more of brightness than shadow
in this life of ours, if we would only see it."

"I can't see it," said Rachel, shaking her head very decidedly.

"Perhaps you could if you tried."

"So I do."

"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds
than the sun."

"Yes," chimed in Jack; "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up
the newspaper, she always looks first at the (sic) death's, and next
at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."

"It's said," said Aunt Rachel, with severe emphasis, "if you should
ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded you wouldn't find much
to laugh at."

"Yes, I should," said Jack. "I should laugh----"

"What!" said Aunt Rachel, horrified.

"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait
till I had got through the sentence."

"I don't think it proper to make light of such matters."

"Nor I, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his
mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I
should feel as they said the cow did, that was thrown three hundred
feet into the air."

"How was that?" inquired his mother.

"A little discouraged," replied Jack.

All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe
composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air
of one gulping down medicine.

So the evening passed. All seemed to miss Ida. Mrs. Crump found
herself stealing glances at the smaller chair beside her own in
which Ida usually sat. The cooper appeared abstracted, and did not
take as much interest as usual in the evening paper. Jack was
restless, and found it difficult to fix his attention upon anything.
Even Aunt Rachel looked more dismal than usual, if such a thing be
possible.

In the morning all felt brighter.

"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "What an
age it seems since she left us!"

"We shall know better how to appreciate her presence," said the
cooper, cheerfully.

"What time do you expect her home? Did Mrs. Hardwick say?"

"Why no," said Mrs. Crump, she didn't say, but I guess she will be
along in the course of the afternoon."

"If we only knew where she had gone," said Jack, "we could tell
better."

"But as we don't know," said his father, "we must wait patiently
till she comes."

"I guess," said Mrs. Crump, in the spirit of a notable housewife,
"I'll make up some apple-turnovers for supper to-night. There's
nothing Ida likes so well."

"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, "apple-turnovers are
splendid."

"They're very unwholesome," remarked Aunt Rachel.

"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel,"
retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."

"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said Rachel,
dolefully. "I didn't think you took the trouble to keep account of
what I ate."

"Come, Rachel, this is unreasonable," said her brother. "(sic)
Noboby begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice
as much as you do. I dare say, Jack ate more of them than you did."

"I ate six," said Jack.

Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more; but, feeling
it unnecessary to explain why she ate what she admitted to be
unhealthy, added, "And if I do eat what's unwholesome, it's because
life ain't of any value to me. The sooner one gets out of this vale
of affliction the better."

"And the way you take to get out of it," said Jack, gravely, "is by
eating apple-turnovers. Whenever you die, Aunt Rachel, we shall have
to put a paragraph in the papers, headed, 'Suicide by eating
apple-turnovers.'"

Rachel intimated, in reply, that she presumed it would afford Jack a
great deal of satisfaction to write such a paragraph.

The evening came. Still no tidings of Ida.

The family began to feel alarmed. An indefinable sense of
apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Mrs. Crump feared that
Ida's mother, seeing her grown up so attractive, could not resist
the temptation of keeping her.

"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her; but it
will be a terrible thing for us to part with her."

"Don't let us trouble ourselves in that way," said the cooper. "It
seems to me very natural that they should keep her a little longer
than they intended. Besides, it is not too late for her to return
to-night."

This cheered Mrs. Crump a little.

The evening passed slowly.

At length there came a knock at the door.

"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully.

Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But
there was no Ida there. In her place stood William Fitts, the boy
who had met Ida in the cars.

"How do you do, Bill?" said Jack, endeavoring not to look
disappointed. "Come in, and take a seat, and tell us all the news."

"Well," said William, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got
home."

"No," said Jack, "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come
yet."

"She told me that she expected to come back to-day," said William.

"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all in chorus.

"Yes, I saw her yesterday noon."

"Where?"

"Why, in the cars," said William, a little surprised at the
question.

"What cars?" asked the cooper.

"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course, you knew that was where she
was going?"

"Philadelphia!" all exclaimed, in surprise.

"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with
her?"

"Mrs. Hardwick, who was her old nurse."

"Anyway, I didn't like her looks," said the boy.

"That's where I agree with you," said Jack, decidedly.

"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued William,
"but hurried her off, just as quick as possible."

"There were reasons for that," said Mrs. Crump, "she wanted to keep
secret her destination."

"I don't know what it was," said William; "but any how, I don't like
her looks."

The family felt a little relieved by this information; and, since
Ida had gone so far, it did not seem strange that she should have
outstayed her time.



CHAPTER XII.

HOW IDA FARED.



WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over
her.

After an hour she was released.

"Well," said Peg, grimly, "how do you feel now?"

"I want to go home," sobbed the child.

"You are at home," said the woman. This is going to be your home
now."

"Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?"

"Why," answered Peg, "that depends on how you behave yourself."

"Oh, if you will only let me go," said Ida, gathering hope from this
remark, "I'll do anything you say."

"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting
away?"

"Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me
what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."

"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to get anything out of
me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you
don't care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and
finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."

"What is it, then?" asked Ida.

"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."

"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."

"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do
as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her
repugnance.

"That's well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the
present."

"Yes--aunt."

"The second is, you're not to tell anybody that you came from New
York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?"

The child replied in the affirmative.

"The next is, that you're to pay for your board, by doing whatever I
tell you."

"If it isn't wicked."

"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?"

"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.

"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that?
Answer me."

"Yes."

"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."

Ida hung down her head.

"Ha!" said Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"

"Yes," said Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation; "I did think I
should if I got a good chance."

"Humph!" said the woman; "I see we must understand one another.
Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I
shall keep you there all the time."

Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes," said the child, faintly.

"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have
something to show you."

She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.

"There," she said, "do you see that?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"What is it?"

"It is a pistol, I believe."

"Do you know what it is for?"

"To shoot people with," said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as
if impelled by a species of fascination.

"Yes," said the woman; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know
what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or
attempt to run away? Can you guess now?"

"Would you shoot me?" asked the child, struck with terror.

"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what
I'd do. And what's more," she added, "even if you got away, and got
back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you
dead in the street."

"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida, appalled.

"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't
believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try
it?"

"No," said the child, with a shudder.

"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now, that you
have got to be a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am
going to do with you."

Ida looked up eagerly into her face.

"I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a
little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then
send you back to your friends in New York."

"Will you?" said Ida, hopefully.

"Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you."

"O yes," said the child, joyfully.

This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the
prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh
courage.

"What shall I do?" she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.

"You may take the broom,--you will find it just behind the
door,--and sweep the room."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash
the dishes first."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And after that I will find something for you to do."

The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the
street.

This was a welcome proposition, as the sun was shining brightly, and
there was little to please a child's fancy in Peg's shabby
apartment.

"I am going to let you do a little shopping," said Peg. "There are
various things that we want. Go and get your bonnet."

"It's in the closet," said Ida.

"O yes, where I put it. That was before I could trust you."

She went to the closet, and came back bringing the bonnet and shawl.
As soon as they were ready, they emerged into the street. Ida was
glad to be in the open air once more.

"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't
it?" said Peg.

Ida owned that it was.

"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you.
I don't want to do you any harm. I want you to be happy."

So they walked along together, until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her
hand on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her, "Do
you see that shop?"

"Yes," said Ida.

"Well, that is a baker's shop. And now I'll tell you what to do. I
want you to go in, and ask for a couple of rolls. They come at three
cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a silver
dollar, as you see. You will give this to them, and they will give
you back ninety-four cents in change. Do you understand'?"

"Yes," said Ida; "I think I do."

"And if they ask if you haven't anything smaller, you will say no."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so that you
will get used to doing without me."

Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood
behind the counter.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.

"I should like a couple of rolls."

"For your mother, I suppose," said the baker, sociably.

"No," said Ida; "for the woman I board with."

"Ha! a silver dollar, and a new one, too," said the baker, receiving
the coin tendered in payment. "I shall have to save that for my
little girl."

Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.

"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg, a little
anxiously.

"He said he should save it for his little girl."

"Good," said the woman, approvingly; "you've done well."

Ida could not help wondering what the baker's disposal of the dollar
had to do with her doing well, but she was soon thinking of other
things.



CHAPTER XIII.

BAD COIN.



THE baker introduced to the reader's notice in the last chapter was
named Crump. Singularly enough Abel Crump, for this was his name,
was a brother of Timothy Crump, the cooper. In many respects he
resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the
relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable
circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent
attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Crump had married,
and had one child, now about the size of Ida, that is, nine years
old. She had received the name of Ellen.

When the baker closed his shop for the night he did not forget the
silver dollar which he had received, or the disposal which he told
Ida he should make of it.

He selected it carefully from the other coins, and slipped it into
his vest pocket.

Ellen ran to meet him as he entered the house.

"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" said her father,
smiling.

"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.

"What if I should tell you it was a silver dollar?"

"Oh, father, thank you," and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.

"You got it at the shop?" asked his wife.

"Yes," said the baker; "I received it from a little girl about the
size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that gave me the idea of
bringing it home to her."

"Was she a pretty little girl?" asked Ellen, interested.

"Yes, she was very attractive. I could not help feeling interested
in her. I hope she will come again."

This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of
her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been
recalled by circumstances.

Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money,
could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to
lay it away, or perhaps deposit it in some Savings Bank; but Ellen
preferred present gratification.

Accordingly one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she
persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw
in the window. The price was sixty-two cents. Ellen concluded to
take it, and tendered the silver dollar in payment.

The shopman took it into his hand, glancing at it carelessly at
first, then scrutinizing it with considerable attention.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Crump. "It is good, isn't it?"

"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.

"It is new."

"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to
be genuine."

"But you wouldn't (sic) comdemn a piece because it was new?"

"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases
where spurious dollars have been circulated, and I suspect this is
one of them. However, I can soon test it."

"I wish you, would," said Mrs. Crump. "My husband took it at his
shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is placed on his
guard."

The shopman retired a moment, and then reappeared.

"It is as I thought," he said. "The coin is not good."

"And can't I pass it, then?" said Ellen, disappointed.

"I am afraid not."

"Then I don't see, Ellen," said her mother, "but you will have to
give up your purchase for to-day. We must tell your father of this."

Mr. Crump was exceedingly surprised at his wife's account.

"Really," he said, "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible
that such a beautiful child could be guilty of such a crime?"

"Perhaps not," said his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter
as Ellen or myself."

"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that such a child
should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before
long."

"How?"

"She will undoubtedly come again some time, and if she offers me one
of the same coins I shall know what to think."

Mr. Crump watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days
in vain. It was not the policy of Peg to send the child too often to
the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.

One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.

"Good morning," said the baker. "What will you have to-day?"

"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."

The baker placed it in her hands.

"How much will it be?"

"Twelve cents."

Ida offered him another silver dollar.

As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter, and
managed to place himself between Ida and the door.

"What is your name, my child?" he asked.

"Ida, sir."

"Ida? A very pretty name; but what is your other name?"

Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the
name of Crump, and told her if the inquiry was ever made, she must
answer Hardwick.

She answered, reluctantly, "My name is Ida Hardwick."

The baker observed the hesitation, and this increased his
suspicions.

"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the
child as much information as he could before allowing her to
perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"

Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be
questioned so closely. She said, with some impatience, "I am in a
hurry, sir, and would like to have you hand me the change as soon as
you can."

"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner changing; "but
you cannot go just yet."

"And why not?" asked Ida, her eyes flashing.

"Because you have been trying to deceive me."

"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed the child, in astonishment.

"Really," thought Mr. Crump, "she does it well, but no doubt they
train her to it. It is perfectly shocking, such depravity in a
child."

"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he said, in
as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.

"Yes," said Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls at three cents a
piece."

"And what did you offer me in payment?"

"I handed you a silver dollar."

"Like this?" asked Mr. Crump, holding up the coin.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you mean to say," said the baker, sternly, "that you didn't
know it was bad when you handed it to me?"

"Bad!" exclaimed Ida, in great surprise.

"Yes, spurious. It wasn't worth one tenth of a dollar."

"And is this like it?"

"Precisely."

"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly,
"I hope you will believe me when I say that I thought it was good."

"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed.

"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said he. "Have you any
other money?"

"That is all I have got."

Of course, I can't let you have the gingerbread. Some would deliver
you up into the hands of the police. However, I will let you go if
you will make me one promise."

"Oh, anything, sir."

"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good
one to-morrow?"

Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.




CHAPTER XIV.

DOUBTS AND FEARS.

WELL, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida
rejoined her at the corner of the street, where she had been waiting
for her. "And where's your gingerbread?"

"He wouldn't let me have it," said Ida.

"And why not?"

"Because he said the money wasn't good."

"Stuff! it's good enough," said Peg, hastily. "Then we must go
somewhere else."

"But he said the dollar I gave him last week wasn't good, and I
promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me
go."

"Well, where are you going to get your dollar to carry him?"

"Why, won't you give it to me?" said Ida, hesitatingly.

"Catch me at such nonsense! But here we are at another shop. Go in
and see whether you can do any better there. Here's the money."

"Why, it's the same piece."

"What if it is?"

"I don't want to pass bad money."

"Tut, what hurt will it do?"

"It is the same as stealing."

"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."

"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida, whose truthful
perceptions saw through the woman's sophistry.

"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly.
"Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do to
be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out if you live with me
long."

"Where did you take the dollar?" asked Ida, with a sudden thought;
"and how is it that you have so many of them?"

"None of your business," said her companion, roughly. "You shouldn't
pry into the affairs of other people."

"Are you going to do as I told you?" she demanded, after a moment's
pause.

"I can't," said Ida, pale but resolute.

"You can't," repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do
whatever I told you?"

"Except what was wicked," interrupted Ida.

"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with
me."

Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl
upon the unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her
determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the
woman whom she had every reason to dread.

Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.

Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.

"Hilloa!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, "what's
the gal been doing, hey?"

"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg; "I should like to know what
she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some
gingerbread of the baker, as I told her."

"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't
this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of
ingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay
for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and
buy it?"

"I would just as lieves go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good
money to pay for it."

"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist; "jest
do as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."

"I can't!" said the child.

"You hear her?" said Peg.

"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head. "Put her in
the closet."

So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet, in the
midst of her desolation, there was a feeling of pleasure in thinking
that she was suffering for doing right.

When Ida failed to return on the expected day, the Crumps, though
disappointed, did not think it strange.

"If I were her mother," said Mrs. Crump, "and had been parted from
her so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear
heart! how pretty she is, and how proud her mother must be of her!"

"It's all a delusion," said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. "It's all
a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs.
Hardwick is an imposter. I knew it, and told you so at the time, but
you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in
this world."

"I do," said Jack, confidently.

"There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment," said Aunt
Rachel.

"So there is," said Jack. "I was hoping mother would have
apple-pudding for dinner to-day, but she didn't."

The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloud
of anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was
more silent than usual at the evening meal.

At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said,
anxiously, "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged
absence, Mary?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, seriously. "It seems to me, if her
mother wanted te keep her longer than the time she at first
proposed, it would be no more than right that she should write us a
line. She must know that we would feel anxious."

"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothing
else."

"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from
her, I shall be seriously troubled."

"Suppose she should never come back," said the cooper, sadly.

"Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing," said his wife,
distressed.

"We must contemplate it as a possibility," returned Timothy,
gravely, "though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an
undoubted right to her; a better right than any we can urge."

"Then it would be better," said his wife, tearfully, "if she had
never been placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the
pain of parting with her."

"Not so, Mary," said the cooper, seriously. "We ought to be grateful
for God's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a
short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many
hours have been made happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts
have been filled with cheerful happiness and affection when we have
gazed upon her! That can't be taken from us, even if she is, Mary.
There's some lines I met with in the paper, to-night, that express
just what I feel. Let me find them."

The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns
of the paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson,
which he read aloud,--

"I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."

"There, wife," said he, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who
writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great
sorrow, and conquered it."

"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say
you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn the
truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that
Ida will come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon."

"At any rate," said the cooper, "there is no doubt that it is our
duty to take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her
mother insists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought
to be sure, before we yield her up, that such is the case."

"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious
interest.

"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said her husband. "Very
likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel
more anxious."

"You have already aroused my anxiety," said his wife. "I should feel
better if you would tell me."

"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes doubted," he
continued, lowering his voice, "whether Ida's mother really sent for
her."

"And the letter?" queried Mrs. Crump, looking less surprised than he
supposed she would.

"I thought--mind it is only a guess on my part--that Mrs. Hardwick
might have got somebody to write it for her."

"It is very singular," murmured Mrs. Crump, in a tone of
abstraction.

"What is singular?"

"Why, the very same thought occurred to me. Somehow, I couldn't help
feeling a little suspicious of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps
unjustly. But what object could she have in obtaining possession of
Ida?"

"That I cannot conjecture; but I have come to one determination."

"And what is that?"

"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she
left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or send Jack, and endeavor
to get track of her."



CHAPTER XV.

AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS.



THE week which had been assigned by Mr. Crump slipped away, and
still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not
until then, did they understand how largely she had entered into
their life and thoughts. But worse even, than the sense of loss, was
the uncertainty as to her fate.

When seven days had passed the cooper said, "It is time that we took
some steps about finding Ida. I had intended to go to Philadelphia
myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon
a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to
send Jack."

"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack, eagerly.

"To-morrow morning," answered his father, "and you must take clothes
enough with you to last several days, in case it should be
necessary."

"What good do you suppose it will do, Timothy," broke in Rachel, "to
send such a mere boy as Jack?"

"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.

"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need
somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after
him."

"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack.
"You know I'm most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well
say you're hardly forty, when everybody knows you're most fifty."

"Most fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base
slander. I'm only forty-three."

"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly.
I only judged from your looks."

"'Judge not that ye be not judged!'" said Rachel, whom this
explanation was not likely to appease. "The world is full of calumny
and misrepresentation. I've no doubt you would like to shorten my
days upon the earth, but I sha'n't live long to trouble any of you.
I feel that, ere the summer of life is over, I shall be gathered
into the garden of the Great Destroyer."

At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket-handkerchief to
her eyes; but unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect,
instead of being pathetic, as she had intended, was simply
ludicrous.

It so happened that a short time previous the inkstand had been
partially spilled on the table, and this handkerchief had been used
to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently on the window-seat,
where it had remained till Rachel, who sat beside the window, called
it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The
consequence was that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face
was found to be covered with ink in streaks,--mingling with the
tears that were falling, for Rachel always had tears at her command.

The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her misfortune,
was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack, whose organ of
mirthfulness, marked _very large_ by the phrenologist, could not
withstand such a provocation to laughter.

He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow upon his aunt's
face, of which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went into a
perfect paroxysm of laughter.

Aunt Rachel looked equally amazed and indignant.

"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the
cause of his amusement. "It's improper for you to laugh at your aunt
in such a rude manner."

"Oh, I can't help it, mother. It's too rich! Just look at her," and
Jack went off into another paroxysm.

Thus invited, Mrs. Crump did look, and the rueful expression of
Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical,
that, after a little struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's
example.

Astounded and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her
sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again
had recourse to the handkerchief.

"I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as
my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her
laughing-stock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your
dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poor-house, and end my
life as a pauper. If I only receive Christian burial, when I leave
the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who
will be glad enough to get rid of me."

The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the
effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while
the cooper, whose attention was now for the first time drawn to his
sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.

This more amazed Rachel than even Mrs. Crump's merriment.

"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed,
in an 'Et tu Brute,' tone.

"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped Mrs. Crump, with
difficulty, "but we can't help laughing----"

"At the prospect of my death," uttered Rachel. "Well, I'm a poor
forlorn creetur, I know; I haven't got a friend in the world. Even
my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying
they shout their joy to my face."

"Yes," gasped Jack, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're
laughing at, but your face."

"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a
fright, by the way you laugh at it."

So you are," said Jack, in a state of semi-strangulation.

"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own
nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."

The excited maiden seized her hood, which was hanging from a nail,
and hardly knowing what she did, was about to leave the house with
no other protection, when she was arrested in her progress towards
the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to
say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."

Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon
a face which streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every
direction.

In her first confusion, Rachel did not understand the nature of her
mishaps, but hastily jumped to the conclusion that she had been
suddenly stricken by some terrible disease like the plague, whose
ravages in London she had read of with the interest which one of her
melancholy temperament might be expected to find in it.

Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and
exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish,--

"It is the fatal plague spot! I feel it; I know it! I am marked for
the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out!"

Jack broke into a fresh burst of merriment, so that an observer
might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent
danger of suffocation.

"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will," he gasped out.

"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral
tone. "I sha'n't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for
a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like
to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help. I
will go up to my chamber."

"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "that you will
find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the
plague-spots, as you call them."

Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes
rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had
used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was
enabled to account for her own.

Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as
the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly,
and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.

After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's
approaching journey.

"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack
isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake
such a mission."

"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against
me, are you?"

"There is no better plan," said Mr. Crump, quietly, "and I have
sufficient confidence in Jack's shrewdness and intelligence to
believe he may be trusted in this business."

Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity,
and determined to show that he was deserving of his father's
favorable opinion.

The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set
out early the next morning. He went to bed with the brightest
anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if
she was anywhere in Philadelphia.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.



HENRY BOWEN was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned
the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing
his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest
success. The foremost rank in his profession was not for him. But he
had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his
productions were pleasing and popular. A few months before his
introduction to the reader's notice, he had formed a connection with
a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable
work in his way.

"Have you any new commission this morning?" inquired the young
artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed
to pass off spurious coins.

"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which I
think may prove attractive. Just at present, the public seem fond of
pictures of children in different characters. I should like to have
you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of
flowers in her hand. The attitude and incidentals I will leave to
your taste. The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive
as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient.
Do you comprehend my idea?"

"I believe I do," said the young man, "and hope to be able to
satisfy you."

The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he
had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but
found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not
sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to
produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively
outlined were all stiff, and though perhaps sufficiently regular in
feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and life-like.

"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently, throwing
down his pencil. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? Well, I will
be patient, and make one trial more."

He made another trial, that proved as unsatisfactory as those
preceding.

"It is clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out
and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something will
strike me."

He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and, descending, emerged
into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng.
It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task still in his
thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young
girls as he met.

"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I
may see. That will be better than to depend upon my fancy. Nothing,
after all, is equal to the masterpieces of Nature."

But the young artist was fastidious. "It is strange," he thought,
"how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be
called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes
but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face
was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was
designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances
have pinched and cramped it."

It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the
corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.

Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own
lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as
he has despaired of it.

"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself.
"My flower-girl is found at last!"

He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at
a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there.
This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.

"It is precisely what I want," he murmured. "Now the question comes
up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant,
will permit me to copy her face."

The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was
natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to
her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more
likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.

The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments
which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he
learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the
relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had
the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He
mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" said a sharp voice from within.

"I should like to see you a moment," was the reply.

Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man
suspiciously.

"I don't know you," she said, shortly. "I never saw you before."

"I presume not," said the young man. "We have never met, I think. I
am an artist."

"That is a business I don't know anything about," said Peg,
abruptly. "You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any
pictures. I've got plenty of other ways to spend my money."

Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did
not look like a patron of the arts.

"You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with
you," said the artist.

"Who told you that?" queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.

"No one told me. I saw her with you in the street."

Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the
fact that that the child was stolen--possibly he might be acquainted
with the Crumps, or might be their emissary. She therefore answered,
shortly,--

"People that are seen walking together don't always live together."

"But I saw the child entering this house with you."

"What if you did?" demanded Peg, defiantly.

"I was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was
misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, "I was about to
make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us."

"Eh!" said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is, and
perhaps we may come to terms."

"It is simply this," said Bowen, "I am, as I told you, an artist.
Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a
face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your
child."

"Of Ida?"

"Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars for the
privilege of copying it."

Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars
through Ida's instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the
possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to
her friends.

"Well," said she, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't
know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here
as well as anywhere."

"I should prefer to have her come to my studio."

"I sha'n't let her come," said Peg, decidedly.

"Then I will consent to your terms, and come here."

"Do you want to begin now?"

"I should like to do so."

"Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you."

"Yes, Peg."

"This young man wants to copy your face."

Ida looked surprised.

"I am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I
will endeavor not to try your patience too much. Do you think you
can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?"

Ida was easily won by kindness, while she had a spirit which was
roused by harshness. She was prepossessed at once in favor of the
young man, and readily assented.

He kept her in pleasant conversation while with a free, bold hand,
he sketched the outlines of her face and figure.

"I shall want one more sitting," he said. "I will come to-morrow at
this time."

"Stop a minute," said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How
do I know that you will come again?"

"Certainly, if you prefer it," said the young man, opening his
pocket-book.

"What strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought these two
together? Surely there can be no relationship."

The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once
placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.




CHAPTER XVII.

JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION.



JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of
enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first
journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few
hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in
Philadelphia.

Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was
prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as
economical as possible.

Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along,
with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very
little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his
uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found
it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker
as his nephew Jack.

"What, are you Jack?" exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his
labor; "well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless
me, how you've grown! Why, you're most as big as your father, ain't
you?"

"Only half an inch shorter," returned Jack, complacently.

"And you're--let me see, how old are you?"

"Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months."

"Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of
your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and
Rachel, and your adopted sister?"

"Father and mother are pretty well," answered Jack, "and so is Aunt
Rachel," he added, smiling; "though she ain't so cheerful as she
might be."

"Poor Rachel!" said Abel, smiling also, "all things look upside down
to her. I don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. Folks differ
constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of
things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark
one."

"You've hit it, uncle," said Jack, laughing. "Aunt Rachel always
looks as if she was attending a funeral."

"So she is, my boy," said Abel Crump, gravely, "and a sad funeral it
is."

"I don't understand you, uncle."

"The funeral of her affections,--that's what I mean. Perhaps you
mayn't know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to
a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then
from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the
wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the
disappointment. But that isn't what I was going to talk about. You
haven't told me about your adopted sister."

"That's what I've come to Philadelphia about," said Jack, soberly.
"Ida has been carried off, and I've been sent in search of her."

"Been carried off!" exclaimed his uncle, in amazement. "I didn't
know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?"

In answer to this question Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick's
arrival with a letter from Ida's mother, conveying the request that
the child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to
pay her a visit. To this, and the subsequent details, Abel Crump
listened with earnest attention.

"So you have reason to think the child is in (sic) Phildelphia?" he
said, musingly.

"Yes," said Jack, "Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy
who knew her in New York."

"Ida!" repeated his Uncle Abel, looking up, suddenly.

"Yes. You know that's my sister's name, don't you?"

"Yes, I dare say I have known it; but I have heard so little of your
family lately, that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular
circumstance."

"What is singular!"

"I will tell you," said his uncle. It may not amount to anything,
however. A few days since, a little girl came into my shop to buy a
small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her
appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very sweet face."

"What was her name?" inquired Jack.

"That I will tell you by and by. Having made the purchase, she
handed me in payment a silver dollar. 'I'll keep that for my little
girl,' thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I
just took the dollar out the till, and gave it to her. Of course she
was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at
once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well,
they selected some nicknack or other, but when they came to pay for
it the dollar proved to be spurious."

"Spurious!"

"Yes, bad. Got up, no doubt, by a gang of coiners. When they told me
of this I thought to myself, 'Can it be that this little girl knew
what she was about when she offered me that money?' I couldn't think
it possible, but decided to wait till she came again."

"Did she come again?"

"Yes, only day before yesterday. This time she wanted some
gingerbread, so she said. As I thought likely, she offered me
another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I
had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions, with
the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told
her the coin was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might
have been all acting, but I didn't think so then. I even felt pity
for her and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a
good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a
fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I
couldn't make up my mind to speak or harshly to her. But I'm afraid
that I was deceived, and that she is an artful character, after
all."

"Then she didn't come back with the good money?" said Jack.

"No, I haven't seen her since; and, what's more, I don't think it
very likely she will venture into my shop at present."

"What name did she give you?" asked Jack.

"Haven't I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling
you. It was Ida Hardwick."

"Ida Hardwick!" exclaimed Jack, bounding from his chair, somewhat to
his uncle's alarm.

"Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn't anything to do with your Ida,
has it?"

"Hasn't it, though?" said Jack. "Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman
that carried her away."

"Mrs. Hardwick--her mother!"

"No, not her mother. She was, or at least she said she was, the
woman that took care of Ida before she was brought to us."

"Then you think that Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?"

"That's what I don't know," said Jack. "If you would only describe
her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better."

"Well," said Mr. Abel Crump, thoughtfully, "I should say this little
girl might be eight or nine years old."

"Yes," said Jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?"

"Blue."

"So are Ida's."

"A small mouth, with a very sweet expression."

"Yes."

"And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon about
her waist. She also had a brown scarf about her neck, if I remember
rightly."

"That is exactly the way Ida was dressed when she went away. I am
sure it must be she."

"Perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, though calling herself
Ida's nurse, was really her mother."

"No, it can't be," said Jack, vehemently. "What, that ugly,
disagreeable woman, Ida's mother! I won't believe it. I should just
as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn-bush. There
isn't the least resemblance between them."

"You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick, so I cannot judge on that
point."

"No great loss," said Jack. "You wouldn't care much about seeing her
again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable looking woman; while Ida
is fair, and sweet looking. I didn't fancy this Mrs. Hardwick when I
first set eyes on her. Aunt Rachel was right, for once."

"What did she think?"

"She took a dislike to her, and declared that it was only a plot to
get possession of Ida; but then, that was what we expected of Aunt
Rachel."

"Still, it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the
part of this woman, supposing she is not Ida's mother."

"Mother, or not," returned Jack, "she's got possession of Ida; and,
from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I
am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me,
uncle?"

"You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do."

"Then," said Jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. I feel sure of
it. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' you know."




CHAPTER XVIII.

FINESSE.



THE next thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to
obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use
the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to
secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of
keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance
might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.

Fortunately her face was accurately daguerreotyped in his memory, so
that he felt certain of recognizing her, under whatever
circumstances they might meet.

In pursuance of this, the only plan which suggested itself, Jack
became a daily promenader in Chestnut and other streets. Many
wondered what could be the object of the young man who so
persistently frequented the thoroughfares. It was observed that,
while he paid no attention to young ladies, he scrutinized the faces
of all middle-aged or elderly women whom he met, a circumstance
likely to attract remark, in the case of a well-made youth like
Jack.

Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle's
house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each
occasion.

"I am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as finding a
needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so
many faces."

"There's nothing like trying," answered Jack, courageously. "I'm not
going to give up yet awhile."

He sat down and wrote the following note, home:--

"DEAR PARENTS:

"I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel's. He
received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not
found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs.
Hardwick--who is a double distilled she-rascal--probably has Ida in
her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. I am
spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for
her. If I do meet her, see if I don't get Ida away from her. But it
may take some time. Don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait
patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line
from your dutiful son

"JACK."

In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation
that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to
find Ida.

The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was
sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a
form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that
this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the
suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida's nurse.

The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected
encounter.

"Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man's resolute
expression warned her that this would prove in vain.

"Mrs. Hardwick!" said Jack.

"You are right," said she, nodding, "and you, if I am not mistaken,
are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York."

"Well," ejaculated Jack, internally, "if that doesn't beat all for
coolness."

"My name is Jack," he said, aloud.

"Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname."

"You can't guess what I came here for," said Jack, with an attempt
at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.

"To see your sister Ida, I presume," said Peg, coolly.

"Yes," said Jack, amazed at the woman's composure.

"I thought some of you would be coming on," said Peg, whose prolific
genius had already mapped out her course.

"You did?"

"Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say
to the letter I wrote them?"

"The letter you wrote them!"

"The letter in which I wrote that Ida's mother had been so pleased
with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not
resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the
present."

"You don't mean to say," said Jack, "that any such letter as that
has been written?"

"What, has it not been received?" inquired Peg, in the greatest
apparent astonishment.

"Nothing like it," answered Jack. "When was it written?"

"The second day after Ida's arrival," replied Peg, unhesitatingly.

"If that is the case," returned Jack, not knowing what to think, "it
must have miscarried."

"That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!" remarked Peg,
sympathizingly.

"It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's
mother mean to keep her?"

"A month or six weeks," was the reply.

"But," said Jack, his suspicions returning, "I have been told that
Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and, when asked
what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.' You don't mean to say
that you pretend to be her mother?"

"Yes, I do," returned Peg, calmly.

"It's a lie," said Jack, vehemently. "She isn't your daughter."

"Young man," said Peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are
exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I _pretended_ to be
her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all
pretence."

"I don't understand what you mean," said Jack, mystified.

"Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed
your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances
which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her
own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all
suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she
remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter."

This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to
gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a
nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.

"Can I see Ida?" asked Jack, at length.

To his great joy, Peg replied, "I don't think there can be any
objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or
appoint some other time?"

"I will go now by all means," said Jack, eagerly. "Nothing should
stand in the way of seeing Ida."

A grim smile passed over the nurse's face.

"Follow me, then," she said. "I have no doubt Ida will be delighted
to see you."

"Dear Ida!" said Jack. "Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Perfectly well," answered Peg. "She has never been in better health
than since she has been in Philadelphia."

"I suppose," said Jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with
her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New
York."

"If she did," said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable
self-possession, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. She
is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York
to those who have been so kind to her."

"Really," thought Jack; "I don't know what to make of this Mrs.
Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her.
Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all."




CHAPTER XIX.

CAUGHT IN A TRAP.



JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building
of respectable appearance.

"Docs Ida's mother live here?" interrogated Jack.

"Yes," said Peg, coolly. "Follow me up the steps."

The woman led the way, and Jack followed.

The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her
appearance.

"We will go up-stairs, Bridget," said Peg.

Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an
upper room, and opened the door.

"If you will go in and take a seat," said Peg, "I will send Ida to
you immediately."

She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt
which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs,
and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man
with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to
this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose
employ she and her husband had entered, "I want you to keep this lad
in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let
him go."

"What has he done?" asked the old man.

"He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us," answered
Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were
supposed that she only had an interest in Jack's detention, they
would not take the trouble to keep him.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man; "is that so? Then, I warrant me, he
can't get out unless he has sharp claws."

"Fairly trapped, my young bird," thought Peg, as she hastened away;
"I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome
interference for the present. You haven't lived quite long enough to
be a match for old Peg. You'll find that out by and by. Ha, ha!
won't your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don't
come home to-night?"

Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played
upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for
the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to
New York if his persuasions could effect it.

Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room
in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is,
as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances.
The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a
mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing
stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no
great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the
centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which
Jack had been introduced.

Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow
impatient.

"Perhaps Ida is out," thought our hero; "but, if she is, Mrs.
Hardwick ought to come and let me know."

Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.

"This is rather singular," thought Jack. "She can't have told Ida
that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her
brother Jack."

At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had
been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon
the latch, attempted to open it.

There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.

Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the
door perversely refused to open.

"Good heavens!" thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing
upon him, "is it possible that I am locked in?"

To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still
resisted. He could no longer doubt.

He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out
upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was
visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the
attention of passers-by to his situation.

Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very
enviable state of mind.

"Well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I
wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a
prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs.
Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about
right when she said I wasn't fit to come alone. I hope she'll never
find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of
it."

Jack's mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded
by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he
resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick
suffer, he didn't quite know how, for the manner in which she had
treated him.

Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least
double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that
division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he
was getting hungry.

A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "The wretches can't
mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself, while, despite his
constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.

He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the
wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has
been referred to.

"Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a
disagreeable smile upon his features.

"Why am I confined here?" demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.

"Why are you confined?" repeated his interlocutor. "Really, one
would think you did not find your quarters comfortable."

"I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon
leaving them immediately," returned Jack.

"Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.

"It is locked; I can't open it."

"Can't open it!" repeated the old man, with another disagreeable
leer; "perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are
strong enough."

Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the
door, but to no purpose.

"The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.

"Good fellow!" said he, encouragingly. "try it again! Won't you try
it again? Better luck next time."

Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.

"Where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked.

"Peg? Oh, she couldn't stay. She had important business to transact,
my young friend, and so she has gone; but don't feel anxious. She
commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as
well treated as if she were here."

This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.

"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked,
desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.

"Really, my young friend, I couldn't say. We are very hospitable,
very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as
possible."

Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.

"One question more," he said, "will you tell me if my sister Ida is
in this house?"

"Your sister Ida!" repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.

"Yes," said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. "You needn't
pretend that you don't know anything about her. I know that she is
in your hands."

"Then if you know so much," said the other, shrugging his shoulders,
"there is no need of asking."

Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating
him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf,
just in front of the sliding door, and said: "Here's some supper for
you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa.
Sorry we didn't know of your coming, or we would have got our best
bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!"

Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and
disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.




CHAPTER XX.

JACK IN CONFINEMENT.



THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump's family, when Jack failed to return
at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among
unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city,
and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate
inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his
nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the
sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite
(sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.

In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look
in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as
active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add
to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one
who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely
unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him
three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look
forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon
the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had
tried to find entertainment in them.

Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit
chafed against the confinement.

"I believe," thought he, "I would sooner die than be imprisoned for
a long term. Yet," and here he sighed, "who knows what may be the
length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some
excuse for retaining me."

While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly
the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and
revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To
explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that
he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack's
confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with
the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was
connected.

The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by
the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he
might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once
induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another
motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be
very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody,
as well as involve a considerable expense.

Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man's visit.

"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he inquired,
impatiently.

"Don't you find your quarters comfortable?" asked Foley.

"As comfortable as any prison, I suppose."

"My young friend, don't talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder.
You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject."

"I wish I could," groaned poor Jack.

"Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain."

"But, I don't like the entertainment."

"The more the pity."

"How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of
his imprisonment."

"My young friend," said Foley, "I do not desire to control your
inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word."

"You are?" returned Jack, incredulously. "Then suppose I ask you to
let me go immediately."

"Certainly, I will; but upon one condition."

"What is it?"

"It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a
secret which might prove troublesome to me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack, mystified.

"Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me."

"I don't know what you mean," returned Jack, perplexed.

"No doubt, no doubt,", said Foley, cunningly. "Of course, if I
should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be
altogether new to you."

"On my honor," said Jack, "this is the first I knew of it. I never
saw or heard of you before I came into this house."

"Could Peg be mistaken?" thought Foley. "But no, no; he is only
trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such
chaff."

"Of course, I won't dispute your word, my young friend," he said,
softly; "but there is one tiling certain; if you didn't know it
before you know it now."

"And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police."

"Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a
little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody
wants to do, _making money_."

The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he
evidently considered a remarkably good one.

Jack reflected a moment.

"Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?" he
asked.

"How could I be sure you would do it?"

"I would pledge my word."

"Your word!" Foley snapped his fingers in derision. "That is not
sufficient."

"What will be?"

"You must become one of us."

"One of you!"

Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.

"Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that
it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot
trust you."

"And suppose I decline these terms," said Jack.

"Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my
guest."

Foley smiled disagreeably.

Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment
would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did
not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever night
be kept over him.

He thought it best to temporize.

"Well, what do you say?" asked the old man.

"I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said
Jack. "It is of so important a character that I do not like to
decide at once."

"How long do you require?"

"Two days," returned Jack. "If I should come to a decision sooner, I
will let you know."

"Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want
you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances."

"If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up.
It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do."

"You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young
friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that
article. We ain't any of us college graduates, but I will see what I
can do for you in that way. I'll be back directly."

Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two
old magazines, and a worn copy of the "Adventures of Baron Trenck."

It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this
singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for
political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner
in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in
breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly
wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much
similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader's
credence.

Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack's hands. He must have
been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident
to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.

Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as
he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It
gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul
into the Baron's plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when
he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating
volume, he thought, "Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far
worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many
obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape."

He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be
suggested.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE PRISONER ESCAPES.



TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack's situation, let it be
repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was
bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only
two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely
fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them,
if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however,
there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting
safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger
in getting into the street.

All these considerations passed through Jack's mind, and occasioned
him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable
Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under
similar circumstances.

At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a
hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently
large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should
he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all
probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it,
and then he would be free.

With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door
and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have
been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought
of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those
interested in frustrating his plans.

Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He
did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the
daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he
resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and
subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of
this he must run the risk. "Nothing venture, nothing have."

Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon
had never seemed so long.

It came at last--a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his
accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the
habit of providing him with a candle.

Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks
pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see
from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied
the building were probably asleep.

He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly
under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was
soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had
cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found
that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This
took him fifteen minutes longer.

His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one
Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt
that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not
quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry,
but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the
location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling
might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took
off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet.
Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and
the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the
front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door
opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out,
drowsily, "Who's there?"

Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed
himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led
him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.

The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his
ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and
thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To
make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of
his room, called out, "Is anybody there?"

Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to
this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a
small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature
of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which,
by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.

Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went
up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which
Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he
would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole,
but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered
him less watchful.

"All seems right," he muttered to himself, and re-entered the
bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular
breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep
cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily
to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the
faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as
he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.

"Nobody can tell," thought he, "what a blessed thing freedom is till
he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won't the
old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird
has flown? I've a great mind to serve him a little trick."

So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the
door after him, went off with the key in his. pocket. First,
however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the
door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of
identification.

This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house
of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had
led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course.
At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he
was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's
door.

Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of
Jack's protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still
he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of
him.

"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of
the day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably
rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the
death of him."

"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."

"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep
it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could,
hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold
it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy
to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him."

"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from
Jack before that time?"

The baker shook his head.

"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he
said.

He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the
thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.

About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by
a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, "Who's there?"

"A friend," was the answer.

"What friend?" asked the baker, suspiciously. Friends are not very
apt to come at this time of night."

"Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?" asked a cheery voice.

"Why, it's Jack, I verily believe," said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he
hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.

"Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?" he asked,
surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.

"I've been shut up, uncle,--boarded and lodged for nothing,--by some
people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night
I made out to escape, and hero I am. I'll tell you all about it in
the morning. Just now I'm confoundedly hungry, and if there's
anything in the pantry, I'll ask permission to go in there a few
minutes."

"I guess you'll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you.
Thank God, you're back alive. We've been very anxious about you."




CHAPTER XXII.

MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE.



PEG had been thinking.

This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had
kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an
(sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her
suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had
been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose.
So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats
and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger
of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.

Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate
object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida--that of
extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the
reader.

John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome
lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of
forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though
kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face.
At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined
with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not
without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely,
and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had
contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be
naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily
habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.

The evening before he is introduced to the reader's notice he had,
passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he
had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the
pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized
the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening
previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his
I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his
aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After
making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.

For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and
directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to
announce a visitor.

"Is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a
creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.

"No, sir."

"A lady?"

"No, sir."

"A child? But what could a child want of me?"

"If it's neither a gentleman, lady, nor child," said Somerville,
somewhat surprised, "will you have the goodness to inform me who it
is?"

"It's a woman, sir," said the servant, grinning.

"Why didn't you say so when I asked you?" said his employer,
irritably.

"Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn't--at least she
don't look like one."

"You can send her up, whoever she is," said Mr. Somerville.

A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.

John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that
she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for
charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman,
that she had passed out of his remembrance.

"Do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked, indifferently. "If
so, you must be quick, for I am just going out."

"You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville," said Peg, fixing
her keen black eyes upon his face.

"I can't say I do," he replied, carelessly. "Perhaps you used to
wash for me once."

"I am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman,
proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing
spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as
disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the
imputation that she was a washer-woman.

"In that case," said Somerville, carelessly, "you will have to tell
me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture."

"Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection," said Peg,
composedly.

"Ida!" repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with
attention at the woman's features.

"Yes."

"I have known several persons of that name," he said, evasively. "Of
course, I can't tell which of them you refer to."

"The Ida I mean was and is a child," said Peg. "But, Mr. Somerville,
there's no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight
to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and
myself were employed in carrying off a child--a female child of
about a year old--named Ida. We placed it, according to your
directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they
have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not
forgotten that."

John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to
put a bold face on the matter.

"I remember it," said he, "and now recall your features. How have
you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your
business profitable?"

"Far from it," answered Peg. "We are not yet able to retire on a
competence."

"One of your youthful appearance," said Solmerville, banteringly,
"ought not to think of retiring under ten years."

Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.

"I don't care for compliments," said she, "even when they are
sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have
reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into
my second childhood."

"Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has
brought you here?"

"I want a thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars!" repeated John Somerville. "Very likely, I
should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me
that?"

"I have come here to ask that amount of you."

"Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you
to apply to in such a case."

"I think I am more likely to get it out of you," answered Peg,
coolly. "My husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even
if he were willing, which is not likely."

"Much as I am flattered by your application," said Somerville,
"since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your
husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow
such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent
rendered."

"I am ready to give you an equivalent."

"Of what value?"

"I am willing to be silent."

"And how can your silence benefit me?"

John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of
indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.

"That _you_ will be best able to estimate," said Peg.

"Explain yourself."

"I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I
believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the
child's mother may have."

"What do you know about the child's mother?" demanded Somerville,
hastily.

"All about her!" returned Peg, emphatically.

"How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge."

"Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin,
_after rejecting you_. You never forgave her for this. When a year
after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They
were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain
of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence,
determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and
myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole
story, briefly told."

John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.

"Woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, coarsely.

"That is of no consequence," said Peg. "It was for my interest to
find out, and I did so."

"Well?"

"I know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. I
hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her
mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from
you, because it is your interest to comply with my request."

"You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York."

"You are mistaken," said Peg, coolly. "She is in Philadelphia."

"With you?"

"With me."

"How long has this been?"

"Nearly a fortnight."

John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him
carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile,
and stood before her.

"You demand a thousand dollars," he said.

"I do."

"I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum,
no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at
this time,--no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for
you."

"Very well," said Peg.

Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection.
Difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it
hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to
meet this woman's demand. Something must be done. Gradually his
countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE LAW STEPS IN.



WHEN Peg left Mr. John Somerville's apartment, it was with a high
degree of satisfaction at the result of her interview. She looked
upon the thousand dollars as sure to be hers. The considerations
which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every
effort to secure her silence. With a thousand dollars, what might
not be done? She would withdraw from the coining-business, for one
thing. It was too hazardous. Why might not Dick and she retire to
the country, lease a country-inn, and live an honest life hereafter.
There were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at
present. It would be pleasant to go to some place where she was not
known, and enrol herself among the respectable members of the
community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home.
Her early years had been passed in the country. She remembered still
the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman,
old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return.

It occurred to her to look in upon Jack, whom she had left in
captivity four days before. She had a curiosity to see how he bore
his confinement.

She knocked at the door, and was admitted by the old man who kept
the house. Mr. Foley was looking older and more wrinkled than ever.
He had been disturbed of his rest the night previous, he said.

"Well," said Peg, "and how is our prisoner?"

"Bless my soul," said Mr. Foley, "I haven't been to give him his
breakfast this morning. He must be hungry. But my head is in such a
state. However, I think I've secured him."

"What do you mean?"

"I have asked him to become one of us,--he's a bold lad,--and he has
promised to think of it."

"He is not to be trusted," said Peg, hastily,

"You think not?"

"I know it."

"Well," said the old man, "I suppose you know him better than I do.
But he's a bold lad."

"I should like to go up and see him," said Peg.

"Wait a minute, and I will carry up his breakfast."

The old man soon reappeared from the basement with some cold meat
and bread and butter.

"You may go up first," he said; "you are younger than I am."

They reached the landing.

"What's all this?" demanded Peg, her quick eyes detecting the
aperture in the door.

"What's what?" asked Foley.

"Is this the care you take of your prisoners?" demanded Peg,
sharply. "It looks as if he had escaped."

"Escaped! Impossible!"

"I hope so. Open the door quick."

The door was opened, and the two hastily entered.

"The bird is flown," said Peg.

"I--I don't understand it," said the old man, turning pale.

"I do. He has cut a hole in the door, slipped back the bolt, and
escaped. When could this have happened?"

"I don't know. Yes, I do remember, now, being disturbed last night
by a noise in the entry. I got out of bed, and looked out, but could
see no one."

"Did you come up-stairs?"

"Part way."

"When was this?"

"Past midnight."

"No doubt that was the time he escaped."

"That accounts for the door being locked," said the old man,
thoughtfully.

"What door?"

"The outer door. When I got up this morning, I found the key had
disappeared, and the door was locked. Luckily we had an extra key,
and so opened it."

"Probably he carried off the other in his pocket."

"Ah, he is a bold lad,--a bold lad," said Foley.

"You may find that out to your cost. He'll be likely to bring the
police about your ears."

"Do you think so?" said the old man, in alarm.

"I think it more than probable."

"But he don't know the house," said Foley, in a tone of reassurance.
"It was dark when he left here, and he will not be apt to find it
again."

"Perhaps not, but lie will be likely to know you when he sees you
again. I advise you to keep pretty close."

"I certainly shall," said the old man, evidently alarmed by this
suggestion. "What a pity that such a bold lad shouldn't be in our
business!"

"Perhaps you'll wish yourself out of it before long," muttered Peg.

As if in corroboration of her words, there was a sharp ring at the
door-bell.

The old man, who was constitutionally timid, turned pale, and looked
helplessly at his companion.

"What is it?" he asked, apprehensively.

"Go and see."

"I don't dare to."

"You're a coward," said Peg, contemptuously. "Then I'll go."

She went down stairs, followed by the old man. She threw open the
street door, but even her courage was somewhat daunted by the sight
of two police officers, accompanied by Jack.

"That's the man," said Jack, pointing out Foley, who tried to
conceal himself behind Mrs. Hardwick's more ample proportions.

"I have a warrant for your arrest," said one of the officers,
advancing to Foley.

"Gentlemen, spare me," he said, clasping his hands. "What have I
done?"

"You are charged with uttering counterfeit coin.

"I am innocent."

"If you are, that will come out on your trial."

"Shall I have to be tried?" he asked, piteously.

"Of course. If you are innocent, no harm will come to you."

Peg had been standing still, irresolute what to do. Determined upon
a bold step, she made a movement to pass the officers.

"Stop!" said Jack. "I call upon you to arrest that woman. She is the
Mrs. Hardwick against whom you have a warrant."

"What is all this for?" demanded Peg, haughtily. "What right have
you to interfere with me?"

"That will be made known to you in due time. You are suspected of
being implicated with this man."

"I suppose I must yield," said Peg, sulkily. "But perhaps you, young
sir," turning to Jack, "may not be the gainer by it."

"Where is Ida?" asked Jack, anxiously.

"She is safe," said Peg, sententiously.

"You won't tell me where she is?"

"No. Why should I? I am indebted to you, I suppose, for this arrest.
She shall be kept out of your way as long as it is in my power to do
so."

Jack's countenance fell.

"At least you will tell me whether she is well?"

"I shall answer no questions whatever," said Mrs. Hardwick.

"Then I will find her," he said, gaining courage. "She is somewhere
in the city, and sooner or later I shall find her."

Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great
disappointment to her. Apart from the consequences which might
result from it, it would prevent her meeting with John Somerville,
and obtaining from him the thousand dollars of which she had
regarded herself certain. Yet even from her prison-cell she might
hold over him _in terrorem_ the threat of making known to Ida's
mother the secret of her child's existence. All was not lost. She
walked quietly to the carriage in waiting, while her companions, in
an ecstasy of terror, seemed to have lost the power of locomotion,
and had to be supported on either side.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"THE FLOWER-GIRL."

"BY gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound
surprise.

He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled
by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody,
he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than
before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide.
In his perplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the
"Flower-Girl."

"Yes," said he, "that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know
in the store where she is to be found."

He at once entered the store.

"Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken
for?" he asked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.

The clerk smiled.

"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think it would take you a long
time to find the original."

"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. It is
the picture of my sister."

"Of your sister!" repeated the clerk, with surprise, half
incredulous.

There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout,
good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a
delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,--her skin of a
brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,--exhibiting a
physical perfection, which it requires several generations of
refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to
produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter
of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward
conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty
to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in
this respect.

"Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."

"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she
is."

Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a
surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her
eyes, also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."

"Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"

"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.

"Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack.
In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as
it seemed, disappointment.

"Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.

"Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I
should hardly have supposed it."

"She is not my own sister," said Jack, "but I love her just the
same."

"Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the
lady, eagerly.

"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us
nearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I
have not been able to find her yet."

"Did you say her name was Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange
agitation.

"Yes, madam."

"My young friend," said the lady, rapidly, "I have been much
interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more,
but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me,
and telling me the rest? Then we will, together, concert measures
for discovering her."

"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the
lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to
converse with many ladies of her rank; "I shall be very much obliged
to you for your advice and assistance."

"Then we will drive home at once."

Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage,
and a coachman in livery.

With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage,
and, at her bidding, got in himself.

"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as
possible."

"Yes, madam."

"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.

"About a year old, madam."

"And how long since was it?" asked the lady, bending forward with
breathless interest.

"Eight years since. She is now nine."

"It must be," said the lady, in a low voice. "If it is indeed so,
how will my life be blessed!"

"Did you speak, madam?"

"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida."

Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar
to the reader.

"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"

"It was at the close of December, the night before New Years."

"It is--it must be she!" ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands
while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.

"I--I do not understand," said Jack.

"My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I
have every reason to believe that this child--your adopted
sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the
time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been
able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery.
I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead."

"It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside
him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened
into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling
complexion--the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were
wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.

"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

"Yes, madam."

"I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost
her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you."

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet
street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted
Mrs. Clifton to alight.

Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,
seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor
which excited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for
Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire,
hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

"Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?" she
asked. "Did she look like this?"

"It is her image," said Jack, decidedly. "I should know it
anywhere."

"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my
child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have
known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have
spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I
have not yet asked your name."

"My name is Crump--Jack Crump."

"Jack?" said the lady, smiling.

"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to
be called by another."

"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's
heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful
than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in
some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Crump, for that would
seem too formal. I will call you Jack."

To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her
life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be
exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs.
Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a
profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

"Now Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, "we must take measures immediately to
discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from
your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding
her out."

Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs.
Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false
representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to
Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate
refusal to impart any information as to Ida's whereabouts.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more
difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

"Do you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, at length.

"Yes, madam," said our hero. "The man who painted the picture of Ida
may know where she is to be found."

"You are right," said the lady. "I should have thought of it before.
I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go
back to the print-store."

An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant
lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.

"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower-Girl,'" said
Mrs. Clifton.

"I am, madam."

"It was taken from life?"

"You are right."

"I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can
you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?"

"I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam," said
the young man. "It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much
beauty."

"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far,"
said the lady. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your
orders."

Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the
carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite
scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.

"This can't be the place, madam," he said.

"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and
find out all that is needful."

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and
took away the child."

Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.

"My child, my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to
acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who
had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated
than ever.




CHAPTER XXV.

IDA IS FOUND.



IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now
obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite
certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had
left some work for the child,--some handkerchiefs to hem for
Dick,--with strict orders to keep steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a
knock at the, door.

"Who's there?" asked Ida.

"A friend," was the reply.

"Mrs. Hardwick--Peg isn't at home," returned Ida. "I don't know when
she will be back."

"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," said the voice
outside.

"I can't open the door," said Ida. "It's fastened on the outside."

"Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."

Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in
eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time,
he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.

Ida returned to the window.

"How beautiful she is!" thought Somerville, with surprise. "She
inherits all her mother's rare beauty."

On the table beside Ida was a drawing.

"Whose is this?" he inquired.

"Mine," answered Ida.

"So you have learned to draw?"

"A little," answered the child, modestly.

"Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?"

"No;" said Ida.

"You have not always lived with her, I am sure."

Ida admitted that she had not.

"You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?"

"Do you know father and mother?" asked Ida, with sudden hope. "Did
they send you for me?"

"I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a
few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever
she goes away?"

"I suppose," said Ida, "she is afraid I will run away."

"Then she knows you don't want to live with her?"

"Oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "I have asked
her to send me home, but she says she won't for a year."

"And how long have you been with her?"

"About a fortnight."

"What does she make you do?"

"I can't tell what she made me do first."

"Why not?"

"Because she would be very angry."

"Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would
you be willing to go with me?"

"And you would carry me back to my mother and father?"

"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," said he, evasively.

"Then I will go with you."

Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.

"We had better go at once," said Somerville. "Peg might return, and
give us trouble."

"O yes, let us go quickly," said Ida, turning pale at the remembered
threats of Peg.

Neither knew yet that Peg could not return if she would; that, at
this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious
nature. Still less did Ida know that, in going, she was losing the
chance of seeing Jack and her mother, of whose existence, even, she
was not yet aware; and that he, to whose care she consigned herself
so gladly, had been her worst enemy.

"I will carry you to my room, in the first place," said her
companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg
will, undoubtedly, be on the lookout for you, and we want to avoid
all trouble."

Ida was delighted with her escape, and, with the hope of soon seeing
her friends in New York, She put implicit faith in her guide, and
was willing to submit to any conditions which he might impose.

On emerging into the street, her companion summoned a cab. He had
reasons for not wishing to encounter any one whom he knew.

At length they reached his lodgings.

They were furnished more richly than any room Ida had yet seen; and
formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and
scantily-furnished apartment which she had occupied for the last
fortnight.

"Well, are you glad to get away from Peg?" asked John Somerville,
giving Ida a seat at the fire.

"Oh, _so_ glad!" said Ida.

"And you wouldn't care about going back?"

The child shuddered.

"I suppose," said she, "that Peg will be very angry. She would beat
me, if she should get me back again."

"But she sha'n't. I will take good care of that."

Ida looked her gratitude. Her heart went out to those who appeared
to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion
for his instrumentality in effecting her deliverance from Peg.

"Now," said Somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what
it was you were required to do."

"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told. It was to
pass bad money."

"Ha!" exclaimed her companion. "Do you mean bad bills, or spurious
coin?"

"It was silver dollars."

"Does she do much in that way?"

"A good deal. She goes out every day to buy things with the money."

"I am glad to learn this," said John Somerville, thoughtfully.

"Ida," said he, after a pause, "I am going out for a time. You will
find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading; I won't
make you sew, as Peg did," he said, smiling.

Ida laughed.

"Oh, yes," said she, "I like reading. I shall amuse myself very
well."

Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he recommended, read awhile.
Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A
carriage was passing slowly, on account of a press of carriages. Ida
saw a face that she knew. Forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy,
she ran down the stairs, into the street, and up to the carriage
window.

"O Jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?"

It was Mrs. Clifton's carriage, returning from Peg's lodgings.

"Why, it's Ida!" exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window
of the carriage. "Where did you come from, and where have you been
all the time?"

He opened the door of the carriage, and drew Ida in.

Till then she had not seen the lady who sat at Jack's side.

"My child, my child! Thank God, you are restored to me," exclaimed
Mrs. Clifton.

She drew the astonished child to her bosom. Ida looked up into her
face. Was it Nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace?

"My God, I thank thee!" murmured Mrs. Clifton; "for this, my child,
was lost and is found."

"Ida," said Jack, "this lady is your mother."

"My mother!" said the child, bewildered. "Have I two mothers?"

"Yes, but this is your real mother. You were brought to our house
when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but
this lady is your real mother."

Ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.

"And you are not my brother?"

"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton.
"Heaven forbid that I should wean your heart from the friends who
have cared so kindly for you! You shall keep all your old friends,
and love them as dearly as ever. You will only have one friend the
more."

"Where are we going?" asked Ida, suddenly.

"We are going home."

"What will the gentleman say?"

"What gentleman?"

"The one that took me away from Peg's. Why, there he is now!"

Mrs. Clifton followed the direction of Ida's finger, as she pointed
to a gentleman passing.

"Is he the one?"

"Yes, mamma," said Ida, shyly.

Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her breast. It was the first time she
had ever been called mamma. It made her realize, more fully, her
present happiness.

Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. He hung back, and
hesitated about going in.

Mrs. Clifton observed this.

"Jack," said she, "this house is to be your home while you remain in
Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your baggage."

"Perhaps I had better go with him," said Jack. "Uncle Abel will be
glad to know that Ida is found."

"Very well; only return soon."

"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the (sic) carraige, and gave
the direction to the coachman; "won't Uncle Abel be a little
surprised when he sees me coming home in such style!"






CHAPTER XXVI.

"NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."



MEANWHILE, Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was
certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was
likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection, she
determined to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew,
trusting to her generosity for a recompense.

To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the
intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs.
Clifton, and absolutely refused to make it unless the lady would
visit her in prison.

Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home, after recovering her child,
than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.

"Is this Mrs. Clifton?" he inquired.

"It is."

"Then I have a message for you."

The lady inclined her head.

"You must know, madam, that I am one of the officers connected with
the City Prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who
says she has a most important communication to make to you, but
declines to make it except to you in person."

"Can you bring her here, sir?"

"That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for
visiting her in prison."

"It must be Peg," whispered Ida; "the woman that carried me off."

Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready
to accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her,
fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she
might disappear again as before.

As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they
proceeded at once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed beneath
the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many.

"This way, madam!"

They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came
to the cell in which Peg was confined.

The tenant of the cell looked surprised to find Mrs. Clifton
accompanied by Ida.

"How do you do, Ida?" she said, smiling grimly; "you see I've moved.
Just tell your mother she can sit down on the bed. I'm sorry I
haven't any rocking-chair or sofa to offer you."

"O Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's
misfortunes; "how sorry I am to find you here!"

"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in surprise.

"You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy, or one of
the worst."

"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine
compassion; "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able
to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."

Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since
it had been touched as it was now by this great pity on the part of
one she had injured.

"You're a good girl, Ida," she said; "and I'm sorry I've injured
you. I didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I
do ask your forgiveness."

The child rose, and advancing towards Peg, took her large hand in
(sic) her's and said, "I forgive you, Peg."

"From your heart?"

"With all my heart."

"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I
thought I should like to lead a better life."

"It is not too late now, Peg."

Peg shook her head.

"Who will trust me after I have come from here?"

"I will," said Mrs. Clifton, speaking for the first time.

"You will?"

"Yes."

"And yet you have much to forgive. But it was not my plan to steal
your daughter from you. I was poor, and money tempted me."

"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?"

"One whom you know well,--Mr. John Somerville."

"Surely, you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded
astonishment. "It cannot be. What object could he have had?"

"Can you think of none?" queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.

Mrs. Clifton changed color. "Perhaps so," she said. "Go on."

Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially, that there was no
room left for doubt.

"I did not believe him capable of such wickedness," she ejaculated.
"It was a base, unmanly revenge. How could you lend yourself to it?"

"How could I?" repeated Peg. "Madam, you are rich. You have always
had whatever wealth could procure. How can you understand the
temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face,
we have not the strength to resist that you have in your luxurious
homes."

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter,
half pathetic; "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you
have done me now. When you are released from your confinement, come
to me. If you wish to change your mode of life and live honestly
henceforth, I will give you the chance."

"You will!" said Peg, eagerly.

"I will."

"After all the injury I have done you, you will trust me still?"

"Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and
forgive you."

"I never expected to hear such words," said Peg, her heart softened,
and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion, "least of all from
you. I should like to ask one thing."

"What is it?"

"Will you let her come and see me sometimes?" she pointed to Ida as
she spoke; "it will remind me that this is not all a dream--these
words which you have spoken."

"She shall come," said Mrs. Clifton, "and I will come too,
sometimes."

"Thank you," said Peg.

They left the prison behind them, and returned home.

"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room," said the servant. "He
wishes to see you."

Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.

"I will go down," she said. "Ida, you will remain here."

She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured
her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single
cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother's love for the
daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had
it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to
a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his
ambition.

Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer
him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this
omission.

"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville.

Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to
introduce this subject.

"Eight years," she said.

"And you believe she yet lives?"

"Yes, I am certain of it."

John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a
mother never gives up hope.

"Yet it is a long time," he said.

"It is--a long time to suffer," she said. "How could any one have
the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a
sad and solitary life,--years that might have been made glad by
Ida's presence."

There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but
he was far enough from suspecting the truth.

"Rose," he said, after a pause. "Do you love your child well enough
to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?"

"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.

"A sacrifice of your feelings."

"Explain. You talk in enigmas."

"Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the
opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will
reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote
myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able
to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my
reward?"

"What reason have you for thinking you should find her?" asked Mrs.
Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.

"I think I have got a clew."

"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding
of me this sacrifice?"

"No, Rose," he said, "I am not unselfish enough."

"But, consider a moment. Will not even that be poor atonement enough
for the wrong you have done me,"--she spoke rapidly now,--"for the
grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty
have wrought?"

"I do not understand you," he said, turning pale.

"It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in
prison,--your paid agent,--and that I need no assistance to recover
Ida. She is in my house."

What more could be said?

John Somerville rose, and left the room. His grand scheme had
failed.






CHAPTER XXVII.

CONCLUSION.



I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Crump. "It's
almost a week since we heard from him. I'm afraid he's got into some
trouble."

"Probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper.

"I told you so," said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of
depression. "I told you Jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an
errand. If you'd only taken my advice, you wouldn't have had so much
worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he's got into the House
of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away
from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became
of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes."

"How can you talk so, Rachel?" said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; "and of
your own nephew, too!"

"This is a world of trial and disappointment," said Rachel; "and we
might as well expect the worst, because it's sure to come."

"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said the cooper.
"No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn't send us into the world to be
melancholy. He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that
Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim."

"I suppose," said Rachel, "you expect him to come home in a coach
and four, bringing Ida with him."

"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "I don't know but that is
as probable as your anticipations."

Rachel shook her head dismally.

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; "there's a
carriage just stopped at our door, and--yes, it is Jack, and Ida
too!"

The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper's suggestion struck even
Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome
carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays,
standing before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now
assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she
ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her
adopted mother.

"O mother!" she exclaimed; "how glad I am to see you once more."

"Haven't you a kiss for me too, Ida?" said the cooper, his face
radiant with joy. "You don't know how much we've missed you."

"And I'm so glad to sec you all, and Aunt Rachel, too."

To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in the child's
remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome
home.

Scarcely had the spinster done so than her observant eyes detected
what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy.

"Where did you get this dress, Ida?" she asked.

Then, for the first time, all observed that Ida was more elegantly
dressed than when she went away. She looked like a young princess.

"That Mrs. Hardwick didn't give you this gown, I'll be bound," said
she.

"Oh, I've so much to tell you," said Ida, breathlessly. "I've found
my mother,--my other mother!"

A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife.
Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had
watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.

Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold.
Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the
cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.

"Mother," said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump,
"this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me
and loved me so well."

"Mrs. Crump," said Mrs. Clifton, "how can I ever thank you for your
care of my child?"

My child!

It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.

"I have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply; "I love her
so much."

"Yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little
huskily, "we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so
long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and--and
it won't be easy at first to give her up."

"My friend," said Mrs. Clifton, "think not that I shall ever ask you
to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little
less yours than mine."

"But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her."

"Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too."

"I am not sure whether I could find work there."

"That shall be my care. I have another inducement. God has bestowed
upon me a large share of this world's goods. I am thankful for it,
since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of
your great services to Ida. I own a neat brick house in a quiet
street, which you will find more comfortable than this. Just before
I left Philadelphia my lawyer drew up a deed of gift, conveying the
house to you. It is Ida's gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr.
Crump."

The child took the parchment, and handed it to the cooper, who was
bewildered by his sudden good fortune.

"This for me?" he said.

"It is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not
be the last," said Mrs. Clifton.

"How shall I thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "To a poor man this
is, indeed, an acceptable gift."

"By accepting it," said Mrs. Clifton. "Let me add, for I know it
will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only
five minutes' walk from my own house, and Ida will come and see you
every day."

"Yes, mamma," said Ida; "I couldn't be happy away from father and
mother and Jack, and Aunt Rachel."

"You must introduce me to your Aunt Rachel," said Mrs. Clifton, with
a grace all her own.

Ida did so.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Rachel," said Mrs.
Clifton. "I need not say that I shall be glad to see you, as well as
Mr. and Mrs. Crump, at my house very frequently."

"I'm much obleeged to you," said Aunt Rachel; "but I don't think I
shall live long to go anywhere. The feelin's I have, sometimes warn
me that I'm not long for this world."

"You see, Mrs. Clifton," said Jack, his eyes dancing with mischief,
"we come of a short-lived family. Grandmother died at eighty-two,
and that wouldn't give Aunt Rachel long to live."

"You impudent boy!" exclaimed Miss Rachel, in great indignation.
Then relapsing into melancholy, "I'm a poor afflicted creetur, and
the sooner I leave this scene of trial the better."

"Let us hope," said Mrs. Clifton, politely, "that you will find the
air of Philadelphia beneficial to your health. Change of air
sometimes works wonders."

In the course of a few weeks the whole family removed to
Philadelphia. The house which Mrs. Clifton had given them, (sic)
excceeded their anticipations. It was so much better and larger than
their present dwelling, that their furniture would have shown to
great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and
they found the house already furnished for their reception. Through
Mrs. Clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself
in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working
himself, for hire. Ida was such a frequent visitor, that it was hard
to tell which she considered her home--her mother's elegant
dwelling, or Mrs. Cooper's comfortable home.

For Jack, a situation was found in a merchant's counting-room, and
he became a thriving young merchant, being eventually taken into
partnership. Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare
beauty caused her to be sought after. If she does not marry well and
happily, it will not be for want of an opportunity.

Dear reader, you who deem that all stories should end with a
marriage, shall not be disappointed.

One day Aunt Rachel was missing from her room. It was remembered
that she had appeared singularly for some days previous, and the
knowledge of her constitutional low spirits, led to the apprehension
that she had made way with herself. The cooper was about to notify
the police, when the front door opened and Rachel walked in. She was
accompanied by a short man, stout and freckled.

"Why, Aunt Rachel," exclaimed Mrs. Crump, "where _have_ you been? We
have been so anxious about you."

A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel's sallow cheek.

"Sister Mary," said she, "you will be surprised, perhaps, but--but
this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister."

"Then you are married, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.

"Yes," said Rachel; "I--I don't expect to live long, and it won't
make much difference."

"I congratulate you, _Mrs. Smith_," said Mary Crump, heartily; "and
I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure."

It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel's fits of
depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to
smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical
equanimity, her nephew Jack's sly allusions to her elopement.

One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to
Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and
she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her
as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those
she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her
energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she
leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her
antecedents are not known.

*** END. ***