"I will come again in an hour," he at length said, "and see if there is any change. I would rather not give her any more medicine for the present. Let her remain perfectly quiet."
True to his promise, Doctor R—entered the room just an hour from the time he left it. The scene that met his eye moved his heart deeply, all used as he was to the daily exhibition of misery in its many distressing forms. The child was dead! He was prepared for that—but not for the abandoned grief to which the mother gave way. The chords of feeling had been drawn in her heart too tightly. Mind and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children, and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.
When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in streams.
"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of that voice in ill accordance with the scene.
As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with trembling eagerness to her heart.
"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R—, approaching the bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted out to her?"
"I cannot give up my child, doctor. Oh, I cannot give up my child! It will break my heart!" she replied, her voice rising and trembling more and more at each sentence, until it gave way, and the hot tears came raining over her face, and falling upon the insensible cheek of her child.
"'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,' Mrs. Gaston. Can you not look up, even in this sore affliction, and say, 'Blessed be the name of the Lord?' It is your only hope. An arm of flesh cannot support you now. You must look to the Strong for strength."
As Doctor R—thus urged her to reason and duty, the tears of the bereaved mother gradually ceased to flow. She grew calmer, and regained, in some degree, her self-possession. As she did so, she slowly disengaged her arm from the body of her child, placed its head, as carefully as if it had been asleep, upon the pillow, and then arose, and stood with her hands tightly clasped across her forehead.
"I am but a weak woman, doctor, and you must bear with me," said she, in a changed voice. "I used to have fortitude; but I feel that I am breaking fast. I am not what I was."
The last two sentences were spoken in a tone so sad and mournful, that the doctor could scarcely keep back the tears.
"You have friends here, I suppose," he remarked, "who will be with you on this afflicting occasion?"
"I have no friends," she replied, in the same sad voice. "I and my children are alone in this hard world. Would to heaven we were all with Ella!" Her tears again gushed forth and flowed freely.
"Then I must send some one who will assist you in your present need," said Dr. R—; and turning away he left the room, and, getting into his chaise, rode off at a brisk pace. In about a quarter of an hour, he returned with a woman who took charge of the body of the child, and performed for it the last sad offices that the dead require.
Upon close inquiry, he ascertained from Mrs. Gaston that she was in a state of extreme destitution; that so far from having the means to bury her dead child, she was nearly without food to give to her living ones. To meet this pressing need, he went to a few benevolent friends, and procured money sufficient to inter the corpse, and about ten dollars over. This he gave to her after the funeral, at which there were only three mourners, the mother and her two children.
CHAPTER IV.
LIZZY GLENN AROUSES THE INTEREST OF A STRANGER.
BERLAPS was leaning over his counter late in the afternoon of the second day from that on which the person calling herself Lizzy Glenn had applied for and obtained work, when a young man entered and asked for some article of dress. While the tailor was still engaged in waiting upon him, the young woman came in, carrying a small bundle in her hand. Her vail was drawn over her face as she entered; but was thrown partly aside as she retired to the back part of the store, where she stood awaiting the leisure of the man from whom she had obtained work. As she passed him, the customer turned and looked at her earnestly for a moment or two, and then asked in a whisper—
"Who is that?"
"Only one of our sewing-girls," replied Berlaps, indifferently.
"What is her name?"
"I forget. She's a girl to whom we gave out work day before yesterday."
This paused the man to look at her more attentively. The young woman, becoming conscious that she was an object of close scrutiny by a stranger, turned partly away, so that her face could not be seen.
"There is something singularly familiar about her," mused the young man as he left the store. "Who can she be? I have certainly seen her before."
"Ah, good-afternoon, Perkins!" said a familiar voice, while a friendly hand was laid upon his arm. "You seem to be in a browner mood than usual!"
"I am a little thoughtful, or abstracted, just as you please," replied the individual addressed.
"Are you, indeed? May I ask the reason?"
"The reason hardly seems to be a sufficient one—and, therefore, I will not jeopardize your good opinion of me by mentioning it."
"O, very well! I am content to have my friends conceal from me their weaknesses."
The two young men then walked on arm and arm for some distance. They seemed to be walking more for the sake of a little conversation than for any thing else, for they went slowly, and after winding about among the labyrinthine streets for ten or twenty minutes, took their way back again.
"There she is again, as I live!" Perkins exclaimed, half pausing, as the young woman he had seen at the tailor's passed quickly by them on their turning a corner.
"You've noticed her before, then?" remarked the friend, whose name was Milford.
"I saw her a little while ago in a clothing store; and her appearance instantly arrested my attention. Do you know who she is?"
"I do not. But I'd give something to know. You saw her in a clothing store?"
"Yes. In the shop of that close-fisted Berlaps. She is one of his seamstresses—a new one, by the way—to whom he has just given work. So he informed me."
"Indeed! She must be in great extremity to work for his pay. It is only the next remove, I am told, from actual starvation."
"But tell me what you know of her, Milford. She seems to have attracted your notice, as well as mine."
"I know nothing of her whatever," replied the young man, "except that I have met her five or six times during the last two weeks, upon the Warren Bridge, on her way to Charlestown. Something in her appearance arrested my attention the first time I saw her. But I have never been able to catch more than a glimpse of her face. Her vail is usually drawn."
"Who can she visit