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“Not a bit more’n you do, miss,” said the girl, with a compassionate glance at Floy’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes. “Dear me! don’t you think riches harden the heart? There’s the Madame has a dozen elegant silk dresses, good as new, if she has one, yet we must both wear ourselves out to get this done for to-morrow, though there won’t be a soul besides ourselves here to look at it, unless the lawyer or doctor should happen to call, which ain’t in the least likely, seein’ it’s a holiday.”

“Perhaps, then, we may consider ourselves blest in being poor,” Floy returned cheerfully; “and which of us would exchange our health for the poor Madame’s wealth?”

“Not I, I’m sure,” said Mary, shaking her head; “she’s worth her thousands, and has everything that money can buy, but she has never an hour’s ease or happiness.”

Both were too weary, Floy too heartsore, to be in a talkative mood; so they worked on in silence till startled from it by a sudden loud peal from the door-bell.

“Who can that be?” exclaimed Mary, laying down her work and glancing at the clock on the mantel; “half-past nine, and we never have any callers of evenings. There,” returning to her work at the sound of the opening and shutting of a door, followed by footsteps hastily descending the stairs, “Katty’s gone to answer it.”

The next minute Floy felt a light tap on her shoulder, and looked up to find Hetty’s bright, cheery face bending over her.

“Ah, I’ve surprised you! Thought I should. Hope the shock will be good for your nerves,” Hetty said, laughing in a pleased, kindly way at Floy’s start and joyous exclamation:

“Oh! is it you? how glad I am!”

“Yes; John and I have come to take you home.”

“John?”

“One of Aunt Prue’s boys. The children have come home for the holidays – but wouldn’t Araminta take my head off if she heard me say that! She’s the youngest, has arrived at the mature age of fifteen, and considers herself wiser than her parents or ‘than ten men that can render a reason.’ Come, put on your things, my dear.”

“I wish I could, but I have engaged to finish this to-night, and there’s a full hour’s work on it yet.”

“Not if I help,” said Hetty, pulling off her gloves and taking a thimble from her pocket. “I’ll call master John up and give him a book. You see I came prepared for emergencies.”

“He won’t like it, will he?”

“He’s a dear good fellow, and would do more than that for me; or for you when he knows you.”

CHAPTER XXIII
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW

 
“All things, friendship excepted,
Are subject to fortune.” —
 

Lilly.

The hands on the dial-plate of the clock pointed to quarter-past ten as Hetty’s nimble fingers set the last stitch in the gown and Floy drew on her gloves, having already donned hat and cloak in obedience to orders.

“Done!” cried Hetty, putting her needle in the cushion and her thimble into her pocket. “Now, John, make way with these few basting threads while I put on my duds, there’s a good soul!”

John – a well-grown lad of seventeen, in looks a happy mixture of father and mother, in character an improvement upon both, having his mother’s energy without her hardness and closeness – laid down the paper he had been reading, and with the smiling rejoinder, “Pretty work to set a man at, Het!” was about to comply with her request when Mary, coming in from her mistress’s bedroom, her hands full of packages, interposed:

“Oh, never mind them! I’ll have them all out in the morning before the Madame’s up. Here, Miss Goodenough, Miss Kemper, and Mr. John, she charged me to give you each one of these. They’re boxes of fine candies. She always lays in a great store of them about Christmas.”

“Ah, ha!” cried John as the street-door closed on him and his companions, “won’t I have the laugh on Lu to-night, Het? He’d never have let me be your gallant if he’d thought there was a box of candy to be won by it.”

“A good thing he didn’t; he’ll manage as it is to get enough to make himself sick,” she returned somewhat scornfully.

“It was so kind in you to come for me,” remarked Floy. “How did you happen to do it, Hetty?”

“Because we wanted you – mother and I at least – and we thought it was getting too late for you to come alone.”

Floy was very weary in body, inexpressibly sad and weary in heart and mind. She strove to shake off her depression and respond to Hetty’s merry mood; but in vain. She could not banish the thick-coming memories of other holiday seasons made bright and joyous by the gifts, and still more by the love, of those of whom she was now bereaved by death and enforced separation.

Ah, what of Espy to-night?

Hetty read something of this in the sad eyes, and her mood changed to quiet, subdued cheerfulness.

They entered the house quietly, letting themselves in with a latch-key, and passed into the room back of the store.

Floy uttered a slight exclamation of pleased surprise as John turned up the light.

The room had put on quite a festive appearance; all signs of work had vanished, and it had been made neat and orderly, and its walls tastefully decorated with evergreens.

“John’s doings,” said Hetty, pushing a cushioned arm-chair nearer the fire. “Sit down here, my dear, and we’ll have some refreshments shortly; you see the kettle’s boiling, and the coals are just splendid, and we can take our time, as we’re not obliged to rise early to-morrow.

“Toast and tea, Jack, my boy; you and I know how to make ’em,” she went on, throwing off cloak and hat, and producing the requisite articles from a closet beside the chimney.

“I’ve already had three good meals to-day,” observed Floy, smiling slightly.

“What of that? four or five hours of hard work since the last, beside a brisk walk and a ride through the cold, ought to have made you ready for another,” returned Hetty, giving John the toaster and a slice of bread, then putting on the tea to draw.

“Have you nothing for me to do?” asked Floy.

“Yes; warm yourself thoroughly. Ah, what a good forgettery I have of my own! Here’s something else to employ you. A bit of Christmas in it, I suspect,” she ran on, taking a letter from the mantel and putting it into Floy’s hand.

A flush of pleasure came into the young girl’s cheek as she recognized in the address the writing of her old friend Miss Wells, but faded again instantly, leaving it paler than before.

What news did this missive bring? would it tell her of Espy, and that sorrow and bereavement had befallen him?

She broke the seal with a trembling hand. Ah, if she were only alone!

But Hetty and John, busy with their culinary labors, might have been unconscious of her existence for all the notice they seemed to be taking of her movements.

She opened the letter. A pair of black kid gloves and a folded bank-note fell into her lap; but without waiting to examine them, she glanced her eye down the page.

It was a kind, motherly letter, saying a great deal in few words; for Miss Wells had but little time to give to correspondence.

“She sent a trifling gift just to assure her dear child of her loving remembrance, and she inclosed ten dollars, fearing her purse might be low (she had not forgotten how it was with herself in the days when she was an apprentice and getting nothing but her board for her work); and if Floy did not like to take it as a gift, as she would be only too glad to have her do, then let it stand as a loan.”

“How kind, how very kind!” thought Floy.

Yes, her purse was very low, and such a loan from such a source was very acceptable. Ah, here was Espy’s name! He had been called home to see his mother die; she had had a stroke of paralysis, but the case was not hopeless; she might linger a good while, and perhaps get about again.

Floy breathed more freely.

There were just a few more lines.

“Dear child, sorrow and care will sometimes press heavily; you will sadly miss the old loves; but take heart: ‘He careth for you,’ He who loves you with a greater, tenderer love than a mother’s, and hath all power in heaven and in earth.”

“Good news, I see! and I’m real glad for you, poor child!” said Hetty softly, as she handed Floy a cup of fragrant tea and a slice of hot buttered toast, and in so doing caught the look of sweet peace and joy in the dewy eyes lifted from the letter to her face.

“Good news? oh, yes indeed! that I’m not forgotten, that I’m loved and cared for still by – ”

“Ah, yes, don’t I know how nice it is to be remembered by home friends when you’re far away!” Hetty put in quickly, as the low, tremulous tones faltered and fell, and Floy hastily drew out her handkerchief to wipe away the tears she could not keep back.

“I too,” said John, buttering his toast and taking a sip of tea; “a fellow gets awfully homesick sometimes at school, and a letter such as you, for instance, dash off once in a while, Het, does him a world of good.”

“News from home,” whispered Floy to herself, as she laid her weary head upon her pillow; “yes, from my Father’s house; a sweet message from my Elder Brother on the throne, reminding me anew that He cares for me; how strange that, knowing that, I can ever be sad and anxious!”

It was the last waking thought. But, alas! what a pang of remembrance came with the first moment of returning consciousness! One year ago how loved and cared for, to-day how lonely and forsaken!

Ah no, not that! “He careth for you,” sweetly whispered the Comforter to her aching heart, and she was comforted.

A few quiet tears dropped upon her pillow, but they were not all of sadness.

A faint rustling sound came from the bed on the other side of the room, then a whisper from Hetty.

“Merry Christmas, mothery! how are you this morning?”

“Oh, I’m splendid! I’m going to say everything’s splendid now. Merry Christmas to you too. I wish I had a million to give you.”

“A million of what, mothery?” laughed the girl.

“Dollars, to be sure! But what is it Shakespeare says?”

“Don’t know, mothery; but it’s getting light, and I must get up and see about breakfast.”

“Yes, and we’re to have Indian; Thorne insisted on it.”

“What in the world is that?” thought Floy, raising her head to look at Hetty, who was making a hasty but very quiet toilet.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!” they cried simultaneously, ending in a merry laugh.

“We’ll exchange Yankee sixpences when we get our faces washed,” said Hetty. “Breakfast in twenty minutes precisely. Indian all hot and hot!” and with the last word she darted from the room.

“Thorne gives a good bit o’ trouble one way and another,” observed Mrs. Goodenough, who had risen also and was dressing much more deliberately than Hetty had done; “he’ll have what he wants in spite of everything (in the line of trouble to other folks ’specially). But then there ain’t many that’s equivalent to him in learning. There isn’t anything but what he’s read; he knows everything. So it’s quite natural Prue should be proud of him and spoil him with humoring all his whims.”

“Do we all breakfast together this morning, Mrs. Goodenough?” asked Floy.

“Yes; but I’m going to wear this thick wrapper; it’s not handsome or dressy, but the comfort supersedes the outward appearance.”

With this remark she left the room.

Floy was glad of the few moments of solitude thus afforded her. It was growing light, and she found time before the call to breakfast for another peep at her precious letter. She hurried down at the first stroke of the bell, anxious to avoid meeting the Sharps on the stairway.

Patsy, in her ordinary soiled, frowsy-headed, slipshod condition, was setting the chairs up to the table, on which Mrs. Goodenough and Hetty were arranging an unusually inviting meal.

“Don’t delude yourself with the hope that you are about to be regaled upon pound-cake, Miss Kemper,” remarked Hetty, placing a loaf of hot corn-pone near Floy’s plate, another at the farther end of the board.

“No, it’s only Indian,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “but it’s splendid, and more than equivalent to pound-cake for breakfast.”

“Yes indeed,” said Floy, “I greatly prefer it, at any rate; I’m extremely fond of good corn-bread.”

“Well, Hetty’s is always superior to the best.”

“Superior to the best, eh?” sneered the Thorne, as with pompous air he came leisurely in and took his accustomed seat. “Madam, that is a contradiction in terms.”

“Well, if it isn’t good enough for you, you needn’t eat it,” she returned indifferently; “but let’s sit down and begin while it’s hot.”

The Thorne was evidently in no holiday mood. “Where are the children?” he demanded, with a scowl, glancing about upon the empty seats as he took up the carving knife and fork.

“Don’t wait for them; they’ll be here presently,” said his wife.

“Presently, madam!” he growled; “they ought to have been ready an hour ago. You are bringing up your children to ruinous habits of self-indulgence.”

“Example is better than precept,” Hetty could not help remarking.

“And pray, miss, what do you mean by that?” he asked, turning almost fiercely upon her.

“Surely a man of Mr. Sharp’s talent and erudition can have no difficulty in understanding words so simple,” she replied, with a twinkle of fun in her eye.

“Come, don’t let’s quarrel to-day of all days in the year,” put in her mother good-humoredly. “Here’s John, anyhow,” as the lad came briskly in with a “Merry Christmas to you all!”

“Where have you been, sir, that you are so late to this very late breakfast?” asked his father, ignoring the greeting.

“Round to the grocer’s on the corner, sir.”

“Doing an errand for me,” said Hetty, “and he’s not to be scolded; for if it hadn’t been for him – getting me kindling to hurry up my fire, and assisting in various ways – breakfast would have been later than it is.”

“Where now, Prudence?”

Mrs. Sharp had risen hastily and pushed back her chair.

“I must go up and see if Araminta is sick, Thorne; the poor thing was too tired yesterday with her journey to do anything but lounge about.”

“Humph! I dare say; you are ruining that child with your coddling.”

“Ah, here she comes! Lucian too,” said Mrs. Sharp in a relieved tone, resuming her seat as the door opened and a girl of fifteen, looking only half awake and far from neat, in a loose, somewhat soiled morning dress and hair in crimps, came languidly in, followed by a lad some four years older, the veritable counterpart of his father in appearance and manners.

The latter had a scowl and rebuke for each, which were received as matters of course.

“Don’t scold ’em, Thorne,” said their aunt; “the poor things have so much book attention when they’re at school!”

“You’re rather late, children,” the mother remarked, helping them bountifully; “times are changed since you were little things. Then we could hardly keep you from waking us too soon Christmas morning.”

“That was when we were children indeed, and hung up our stockings,” said Lucian, “and didn’t know what was in them. Now you just give us the money and let us buy for ourselves.”

A loud peal from the door-bell sent Patsy flying out to the hall. She returned in a moment with a letter, two packages, and the morning paper.

“For me! I know they are!” cried Araminta, waking up. “Here, Patsy, give them to me. Dear me, no! how provoking! they’re every one directed to Miss Kemper,” and she looked around inquiringly.

Upon that John introduced the two, and Floy’s property was somewhat reluctantly resigned to her.

She had finished her meal, and, asking to be excused, was leaving the room, when an exclamation from John, who was glancing over the paper, stayed her steps.

“Lea! what Lea is it, I wonder? – ‘was arrested yesterday on a criminal charge, and has committed suicide. His affairs are found to be hopelessly involved.’”

“Doesn’t it give his Christian name?” asked Mrs. Sharp, with interest.

“Yes: Abner.”

“Just so; there’s a good customer lost!” she exclaimed in a tone of vexation.

“And they were so rich!” remarked her sister; “what turns of the wheel of fortune! What is it Shakespeare says?”

Floy hurried away to the privacy of Hetty’s parlor, sighing softly to herself, “Poor Miss Carrie! Ah, there are heavier trials than mine!”

Half an hour later Hetty looked in. “May I see what Santa Claus has sent you?”

“Yes, indeed. A dozen beautifully fine handkerchiefs, with Madame Le Conte’s card – ”

“Just like her! she’s the soul of generosity so far as money is concerned.”

“And a letter – such a nice one – and some warm stockings of her own knitting from my kind old friend Mrs. Bond,” concluded Floy.

“How splendid!” said Hetty. “You shall sit here and answer it, and the other if you like, while I see about dinner; and this afternoon we’ll take a walk and look at the fine things in the shop windows.”

CHAPTER XXIV
GILDED MISERY

 
“Thinking will make me mad: why must I think
When no thought brings me comfort?”
 

Madame Le Conte was suffering from her imprudent exposure on Christmas-eve. She had taken cold, and her increased difficulty of breathing had robbed both herself and Mary of the greater part of their night’s rest.

The gift of a black silk dress and a few trinkets mollified the maid’s ill-humor, but Madame was sadly depressed in spirit.

“Go downstairs and enjoy yourself, Mary,” she said when she had sent away her almost untasted breakfast. “I’m poor company for any one, and prefer to be alone.”

“Let me read to you,” said Mary, taking a new book from the table. “This book is lively and interesting.”

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“Then here’s the morning paper.”

“Take it and read it yourself. I tell you I wish to be alone. Go! I’ll ring when I want you.” And Madame waved her hand imperiously.

She was in her dressing-room, a cheery apartment elegantly furnished with every appliance for comfort and convenience; a velvet carpet of exquisite design covered the floor, lace and damask draped the windows; one or two fine paintings adorned the delicately-tinted walls; articles of virtu were scattered here and there; everything the eye rested on was beautiful and appropriate.

Her easy chair was drawn up before the fire (she loved open fires, and had them in every room much frequented by herself), and on a costly Persian rug at her feet Frisky lay sleeping, her only companion since Mary had gone out in obedience to her order, softly closing the door behind her.

Perhaps there were few sadder hearts to-day in all the great city than that of this rich but childless and lonely woman. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, sigh after sigh heaving her bosom, and tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Remorse, remorse!” she whispered almost under her breath; “can there be anything worse? Oh, Pansy, my little Pansy! where are you? living or dead? Are you poor and suffering? Oh, come back, come back to me, and gladly, gladly will I share with you all I have!”

Covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud, her whole frame shaking with the violence of her emotion.

This lasted several minutes; then, gradually growing calmer, she wiped away her tears, rose, went to her jewel-box, and possessing herself of the little locket she had been looking on the previous night, returned to her chair by the fire, touched the spring, and again gazed mournfully upon the pretty child-face.

She sat there for hours with the locket in her hand, sometimes looking at the picture, dropping tears upon the sweet face, pressing it to her lips; at others lying back among her cushions with closed eyes, while quick-coming memories of the past thronged through her brain.

At length Mary became alarmed, and ventured in without being summoned.

Her mistress was again gazing at the miniature, and seemed unconscious of her entrance until she stood close at her side.

“A thousand pardons for intruding upon you, Madame,” said the girl, “but I grew frightened lest you had been taken suddenly ill and were not able to ring.”

“See! look! tell me if you see any resemblance to any one,” said the Madame huskily, holding out the picture, the tears stealing down her cheeks.

“No-o, Madame,” returned the maid doubtfully, gazing upon it with some surprise that she had never been shown it before – she who had deemed herself fully acquainted with the contents of her mistress’s jewel-box.

“No?” cried the Madame irritably. “Look again. Well? Speak out; do not fear to offend.”

“That young girl we had here yesterday – ”

“Well? well? go on; what of her?” asked the Madame, fairly struggling for breath in her excitement.

“I can imagine she might have looked like this years ago.”

“Yes, yes! I have thought so too;” and tears rained down the Madame’s cheeks.

Mary’s curiosity was strongly excited, but she indulged in no questions or remarks in regard to the original of the picture; she had learned long since that her mistress would tolerate no prying into the secrets of her past life. She waited a moment in silence, then said soothingly, “Come, Madame, cheer up. Just consider how much you have to make you happy. Look at this beautiful room, this grand house – all your own; your elegant dresses too; your silks and laces and jewels; your fine carriage and horses; Katty and Rory and me to wait on you, and your loads of money. Why, Madame, who would not be glad to change places with you?”

“You, Mary?” she asked, with sudden impulse, extending her maimed limb toward the girl, her breast heaving with sobs, her eyes full of passionate sorrow; “say, would you give your good right hand for all my wealth? to say nothing of my struggles for breath, and all the rest of it?”

“I – I don’t know – ”

“I know you would not! Then don’t talk to me of how fortunate I am,” she said, heaving a deep sigh as she drew back the hand, laid her head against the cushions, and averted her face.

“Ah, well, Madame, none of us can have everything,” observed the girl, “and we must all make the best of our lot. There’s some that’s sick and crippled, and poor too; not a bite or sup, or fire to keep ’em warm this cold day. And we’ve everything that’s good downstairs, thanks to your generosity and your full purse. Now what will you have for dinner?”

“Dinner!” Madame turned her head away with a look and gesture of disgust as if loathing the very thought of food, and by an imperative wave of the hand indicated that it was her pleasure that her maid should consider herself dismissed from her presence.

Without another word Mary promptly left the room, but within half an hour returned, accompanied by Kathleen, the two bringing with them materials for a most tempting meal, which they quickly spread out upon the table, and presently found means to induce their mistress to eat of, with very considerable appetite.

The Madame’s mental anguish had been real, but the violence of the paroxysm was over for the time, and the long-indulged love of the pleasures of the table asserted its sway.

But the poor lady’s enjoyments were few; she was an educated but not an intellectual woman, and cared little for any books except novels of the most frivolous and sensational class; she had no friends, hardly an acquaintance in the city, having purposely avoided society from extreme sensitiveness regarding the loss of her hand – a loss which had befallen her prior to the removal of herself and husband to Chicago. And she was also a stranger to the consolations of religion.