A Daily Rate. Grace Livingston Hill

home where every necessary comfort at least had been hers, it was a long, hard day, and she looked forward with no hope of a let-up to the evening that was to follow. She grew crosser as the day began to wane, and she grew hungry, and then faint, and then lost both those feelings and settled down to a violent headache. It was then that a new cause for trouble loomed up before her imagination. What if she should get sick? Who would take care of her and how should she live? Aunt Hannah would have to come, and what an expense that would be!— No, aunt Hannah could not come. There was no money anywhere to pay her fare, or her board when she got there, and she was bound to stay with Nettie and Hiram as long as they were supporting her. She would have to get along without telling aunt Hannah. What would become of her? Oh, why of course, she would have to go to the hospital among strangers and be nursed, and perhaps die, and aunt Hannah never hear and then worry and worry and no one would tell her.

      It was just in the midst of these thoughts that there came the clear voice of the floor walker:

      “Miss Murray, will you step to the office a moment. There is a message there for you, a special delivery letter I believe.”

      With her heart throbbing violently at thought of the possibilities contained in a special delivery letter, she walked the length of the long store. Aunt Hannah must be sick and they had sent for her. Surely they would do that if aunt Hannah should be so ill she needed care, for Nettie would never care for her, she was no nurse and hated sick rooms. Besides, to be perfectly honest, Nettie would have enough to do in caring for her home and children. There was no hospital in the little town where Hiram lived, so he would, of course, rather pay her fare and keep her while she did the nursing than to hire someone to care for aunt Hannah. All this reasoning went clearly through her brain, as she walked swiftly in the direction of the office. It seemed as if the writing of her name on the receipt book was one of the longest actions she ever performed, and her hand trembled so when she retired to the little cloak room to read her letter that she could scarcely open the envelope, nor take in at first that the letter bore Rawley and Brown’s printed heading. And then she read just a few lines from them asking her to call once more upon them and as soon as possible. She went back to her place among the ribbons feeling almost angry with Rawley and Brown that they had frightened her so, and yet relieved that there was nothing the matter with aunt Hannah.

      It was nearly five o’clock, and the crowd of women who were doing rainy day shopping had gone home. The rain was pouring down harder than ever. The store was comparatively empty. Perhaps she might get away for a few moments now; she would ask. Permission was granted her, as she had had only half her noon hour, and she hurried up to the dark little office again.

      She found that she was not too late, for Mr. Rawley had not yet gone home, though lie had his overcoat on as if about to depart. It appeared that he wished to ask a few more questions to establish certain facts. Celia answered them as best she could, and then as he seemed to be through with her, she asked timidly:

      “Would you be so kind as to tell me what this is all about, anyway? You said there was property. If it should turn out to be mine, what would it be? I suppose you do not mind giving me a general idea of that, do you?”

      He looked at her almost kindly under his shaggy brows. “Why no, child!” he said. “That’s perfectly proper, of course. Why, I haven’t the exact figures in my head, but it’s several thousands, well invested, and an old farm up in New York state that’s well rented. There would be enough to give a pretty good income every year you know, and if you left the investments as they are, it would be a continuous one, for they are not likely to fail or fall through. Then, too, there is a considerable accumulation owing to the doubt about the heir. I hope you’ll turn out to be that heir and I have no doubt you will. Good-afternoon.” Celia tripped down the dark old staircase as if it were covered with the softest carpet ever made. Several thousands! What wealth! What luxury! She had wished for one single thousand, and her Father had sent her not one, but many. For she began to believe now that the money was hers. All the evidence seemed to point that way. The lawyer seemed to be convinced, and it needed only the coming of a few documents in possession of her uncle Joseph’s old lawyer to corroborate what she had told him. She felt pretty sure that it was all true. And here she had been cross and growling all day, and worse than that, she had been carrying crosses not meant for her shoulders, and probably leaving undone the things God had laid out for her to do. What wickedness had been hers. Only last night she had knelt in earnest consecration, and now to-day she had fallen so low as almost to forget that she had a Father whose dear child she was, and who was caring for her. Could she not retrieve some of the lost day? She had but one hour left in the store. She would try what she could do. She smiled on the beggar child who stood looking wistfully in at the pretty things, in the store window as she passed in to her work. When she reached the ribbon counter again, she found the head of the department looking very tired, and complaining of a headache. There were other burdens besides her own she could bear. She might offer to do her work for her and let her rest, and she could bring her a glass of water. It was not her business to put up certain ribbons not in her own case, but she could do it for the other girl who was absent and save the head girl. As she made her fingers fly among the bright silks and satins, she wondered if there were more burdens for her to bear for others when she reached the boarding-house, and whether Mrs. Morris would be better to-night and able to sit up and direct things a little, and then there came to her mind the joyous thought that perhaps she was to have the means soon to make that house permanently better in some ways and help its inmates. How light her heart and her shoulders felt now that she had laid down that heavy self-imposed cross! It was wonderful! Oh, why could she not learn to trust her Master? The verse of a loved hymn came and hummed itself over in her mind.

      “Fearest sometimes that thy Father

      Hath forgot?

      When the clouds around thee gather,

      Doubt him not!

      Always hath the daylight broken—

      Always hath he comfort spoken—

      Better hath he been for years,

      Than thy fears.”