Kitabı oku: «The Coxswain's Bride; also, Jack Frost and Sons; and, A Double Rescue», sayfa 7
“Nell,” murmured the coxswain in a deep, earnest whisper to his wife, who stood at his elbow, “the tide’s a-goin’ to rise again wi’ poor Peggy, if my eyes are tellin’ truth.”
“What d’ee mean, Bob?” asked Nellie, with a quick, anxious look.
“Five men went away, Nell; six are comin’ back!”
As he spoke, a tall figure rose up in the stern of the boat and waved a hand.
Nellie glanced quickly at her friend. She was standing with glaring eyes, parted lips, and a deathly pallor on her worn face.
“Peggy!”
The familiar word came rolling to the shore, and a piercing shriek replied to it as the poor woman threw up both hands and fell backward into the ready arms of the coxswain’s wife, who had sprung to her side in anticipation of some such catastrophe.
There was the voice of prayer and thanksgiving that night in the hut on the lonely shore—such thanksgiving as we might conceive filled the hearts of Jairus and of the widow of Nain in the days of old.
Story 1 – Chapter 12
The state of things on the island was now considerably improved. Peggy, under the influence of gratitude for restored felicity, became more helpful than she had formerly been, and more loquacious than ever. Her female companions, being amiable and easily pleased, were rather amused than otherwise at the continuous flow of discursive, sometimes incomprehensible, and always good-natured small talk—particularly small talk—with which she beguiled the hours that might have otherwise hung heavily on their minds while their hands were busily engaged with the bone-needles and sinew threads which the coxswain had manufactured for them. For the clothes with which they had landed on the island—especially those of the men—had begun to wear out after eight or ten months, and new garments had to be made, while repairs never ceased.
Meanwhile, the men were fully occupied each day in hunting seals or fishing, cutting firewood with the axe they had found in the hut, and in making their home more comfortable. A door was fitted to the hut; a wooden partition was put up to cut off more effectually the women’s apartment from that of the men; the open crevices in the walls were stopped up with moss, and many other improvements were made. A few nails extracted from the walls of the hut were converted into fish-hooks, by means of the file which had been found, and Nellie spun some excellent fishing-lines from flax found growing wild in abundance. The file also enabled them to strike fire with broken flints picked up on the shore. The ash of burnt cotton, as the doctor knew, makes good tinder; so in the public interest, John Mitford agreed to part with the ragged remains of the cotton shirt he had long worn—quite unnecessarily—over his woollen jersey. Thus they could afford to let the fire go out, and were relieved from constant watching, as well as anxiety in regard to it.
They did not, however, cease their nocturnal vigils, for the hope of deliverance never died out, though it at last sank very low. Besides keeping their seal-skin flag flying, they kindled a beacon-fire every night, to guard and replenish which became the nightly duty of one or other of the men—watch and watch about—all the time they stayed on the island.
During the earlier part of each night, however, the beacon-fire was not watched. It was merely lighted and left for some hours to look after itself. During this period, after supper, the whole party were wont to draw round the blazing fire in the hut, and each contributed his or her share to the entertainment of the social circle. Then it was that lugubrious John Mitford developed amazing powers of inventive story-telling, and Joe Slag came out strong with thrilling lifeboat tales, every word of which Bob Massey corroborated, while Terrence O’Connor displayed powers of sarcastic criticism of the highest order, and Tomlin, Black Ned, and the women proved an intensely appreciative audience. But the latter were not merely listeners. True, Peggy did nothing for the general good. Having quite exhausted her lungs with incessant talk during each day, she was fortunately almost incapable of speech in the evening, but Nellie, who possessed a voice as sweet as herself, and clear and true as that of a nightingale, was induced to “favour the company”—chiefly with pathetic or patriotic ditties and hymns—while Eva thrilled her audience with terrible tales of slavery, in many of which she had acted a part. Of course Dr Hayward lent his aid, both with song and story; but, like a true leader, he devoted himself chiefly to drawing out the powers of his companions, directing or diverting the flow of conversation, and keeping order. He also instituted what may be truly styled family worship at night, by repeating from memory portions of the word of God and engaging in prayer just before retiring to rest. Bob Massey and Tomlin were induced to help him in this, and never was a prayer put up from that hut in which there was not an earnest petition that a ship might be sent for their deliverance.
“But a ship is long, long o’ comin’,” said Slag to Jarring as he accompanied the latter part of the way to the beacon-fire one night when it was Black Ned’s turn to watch.
“A ship’ll come, Joe, when God sees fit to send it,” said Ned.
Slag glanced at his comrade in surprise, the reply was so very unlike Ned’s usual style of speech that he felt uncertain whether it was uttered in earnest.
“The only thing I feel an awful longin’ for now, at times, is a bit o’ ’baccy,” continued Ned.
“So does I, Ned, an’ I sometimes think Dr Hayward has got the advantage of us there, for he never smoked, so he says, an’ in coorse it stands to reason that he can’t have no longin’ for a thing he don’t want—an’ he seems as jolly an’ happy as the best of us without it!”
“Ay, jollier and happier!” replied Ned, shortly.
“But, I say, Ned, don’t ye ever feel a longin’ for grog? Ye used to be raither fond of it.”
“No—not now, Joe. It’s the best thing as ever happened to me, bein’ cast on this here island—wi’ Dr Hayward to give a feller a word of advice.”
Slag, who felt a sort of self-righteous superiority over his comrade, inasmuch as he had never given way to drink, said, “You should be thankful for that, Ned.”
“I am thankful,” returned the other in a tone that induced Slag to say no more.
It was a very dark night, and cold, so that Black Ned involuntarily shuddered as he approached the beacon-fire alone—Joe having left him—and commenced to heap on fuel. Then rain began to fall heavily. There was no shelter, and the watchman was soon drenched to the skin. Heaping on more logs till the fire roared again, he tried to warm himself, and stood so close to the blaze that his garments smoked—they would have burnt had they not been wet—but no heat seemed to penetrate the shivering frame of Black Ned.
Next morning the poor man was smitten with a raging fever. From the first the doctor had little hope of his recovery. With a constitution fatally injured by dissipation and drink, his chance was very small; but of course every effort was made to save him. He was laid on a soft bed of moss in the warmest corner of the hut, and the women took their turn in nursing him, night and day—the coxswain’s wife, however, being the chief nurse; for, besides being sympathetic and tender by nature, she had been trained in a rough school where self-reliance and capacity were constantly called into action in circumstances of difficulty, so that she was better fitted for the post than either of her companions. But their efforts were of no avail. After a week, Black Ned died, with a smile of gratitude on his dark face as he gazed in Hayward’s eyes, and held his hand until the spirit returned to God who gave it.
The gloom cast over the little community by this sudden appearance of the King of Terrors lasted for many days, and had the good effect of turning the thoughts of all of them to those subjects which are obviously and naturally distasteful to fallen man—the soul and the world to come. But gradually the gloom passed away, though it left in the party a greater longing than ever to escape from their island prison.
One day, while some of them were at breakfast, Terrence O’Connor rushed into the hut with the news that a ship was in sight! Instantly the boat was manned, and they rowed with all their might towards the vessel, which was seen like a white speck on the horizon. They rowed to within four miles of her, with an oar set up as a mast, and a jacket attached thereto as a flag, but a breeze sprang up, and the strange sail actually passed on without taking the slightest notice of them—though the people on board could not have failed to see the boat!
Profound was the disappointment, and violent the indignation, that filled the thoughts of the castaways as they rowed slowly back to land.
“Sure it’s devils that must live in the bodies o’ some men,” growled O’Connor, in the bitterness of his soul.
“You’re too hard on the devils, Terrence,” said Bob Massey. “Some men in this world do the worst that they can, an’ surely devils can do no more than that.”
This incident, however, aroused the hopes and expectations of the party to a high pitch, so that the beacon-fire was kept burning more steadily and brightly than before, and the look-out hill was more frequently visited; still, weeks and months passed by, and no deliverance came to them.
During this period, the seal-hunting, fishing, clothes-mending, etcetera, were carried on with unflagging energy, and the nightly entertainments became more and more entertaining, by reason of use and effort developing new capacities and talents that might in less favourable circumstances have lain altogether dormant. All this was due very much to their leader; for, besides being a God-fearing man, Hayward was pre-eminently cheery, and full of fun as well as vigour. The coxswain, too, was like-minded, and of great capacity in every way; while his wife’s voice was so charming that the party became almost dependent on it. They could scarcely have gone to rest at last without Nellie’s hymn or song as a lullaby! We must state, however, that Tomlin did not share in this pleasure. That poor man had been born musically deaf, as some people are born physically blind. There was no musical inlet to his soul! There was, indeed, a door for sound to enter, and music, of course, sought an entrance by that door; but it was effectually destroyed, somehow, in passing through the doorway, so that poor Tomlin showed no symptom of pleasure. What he heard, and how he heard it, is known only to himself!
Once or twice during this time they visited the cavern of the wreck, with the view, if possible, of recovering something from the sunk vessel, but though most of the men could swim, none of them could dive, therefore the result was failure.
They succeeded, however, in making soap by boiling wood-ash and seal’s fat in their cast-iron pot. Those who are accustomed to the celebrated “Pears” can scarcely understand what an addition to cleanliness and comfort resulted from this coarsely manufactured article.
Gulls’ eggs were found in great quantity on the cliffs, and the discovery and capture of wild pigs added to the luxury of their table—which latter, by the way, was an ingenious contrivance of Joe Slag. Binding four sticks together in the form of a stout oblong frame, Joe had covered this—filled it in as it were—with straight branches about a finger thick, laid side by side and tied to the frame. This he fixed on four posts driven into the ground, and thus formed an excellent, if not an elegant, table.
One morning at breakfast, Terrence O’Connor was observed to be unusually busy with a large hook.
“Are you goin’ to fish for sharks to-day?” asked Slag.
“Faix, no; it’s to the woods I’ll go fishin’ to-day, Joe. Now, Nell, gi’ me the stoutest line ye’ve got on hand, mavourneen.”
“Will that do? I made it the other day specially for sharks—or whales!” said Nellie, with a light laugh, for she expected him to reject the line she held up.
“The very thing, Nell. Hand it over. Now, boys, I’m off to try my luck i’ the woods, for I’m gittin’ tired o’ the say.”
O’Connor went off alone, bestowing a mysterious wink on Peggy Mitford as he left.
The Irishman had observed that the wild pigs were particularly fond of a certain root which was plentiful in a valley about three miles distant from the hut. Repairing to that valley, he dug up one of the roots, baited his hook with it, hung it from a low branch to attract attention, fastened the other end of the line to a tree, and went off to hide and bide his time. Before half-an-hour had elapsed, a gay young pig visited the scene of its former festivities, saw the pendent bait, smelt it, took it in its mouth, and straightway filled the woods with frantic lamentations. The struggle between the Irishman and that pig was worthy of record, but we prefer leaving it to the reader’s imagination. The upshot was, that the pig was overcome, carried—bound, and shrieking—to the hut, and tamed by Peggy. In a short time, other pigs were caught and tamed. So, also, were rabbits. These bred and multiplied. The original pig became the mother of a large family, and in a short time something like the sounds and aspects of a farm began to surround the old hut. Still further—by means of the cast-iron pot, which already boiled their soup and their soap—they managed to boil sea-water down into salt, and with this some of the pigs were converted into salt pork—in short, the place began to assume the appearance of a busy and thriving backwoods settlement.
“It’s risin’ tide with us again, after a fashion, Nell,” said the coxswain to his wife, as they stood one evening on the sea-shore watching the sunset.
Nellie sighed. “It is, Bob,” she said, “and I’m very thankful; but—but I’d rather be at home in Old England among kith and kin, even though the tide was low!”
“What! alongside o’ Aunt Betty?”
“Yes, even alongside o’ Aunt Betty; for if this voyage has taught me anything at all, it has taught me that, after all, ‘there’s no place like home!’”
“Right you are, Nell,” said Joe Slag, who came up at that moment, “there’s no place like home—when it’s a happy one; but if it ain’t a happy one, there may be difference of opinion even on that pint, d’ee see?”
That very night, a great ocean steamer, bound from the Antipodes to Old England, chanced to diverge from her true course, and sighted the beacon-fire which Tomlin—on duty at the time—was stirring up to fervent heat. The Captain was not one of those whom Terrence O’Connor credited with diabolic possession. He was a good man; and, knowing that men did not light beacon-fires on lonely islands merely for amusement, he resolved to lay-to till daylight, which was due in about an hour from the time the island was sighted. Meanwhile, he sounded his steam whistle.
At the sound, the hut instantly disgorged its male inmates, who, recognising the familiar noise and the steamer’s lights, sent up a shout of mingled joy and thanksgiving.
“Get out the boat, boys!” cried Hayward, as he ran back to the hut to rouse the women.
“Get ready, quick! Eva; a steamer at last, thank God, in the offing! Don’t lose a moment. They may have little time to wait. Boat will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Ay, an’ pack up all you want to carry away,” cried the coxswain, crossing the threshold at that moment.
“So it is all going to end suddenly like a dream!” said Eva, as she hastened to obey orders.
“Home, sweet home!” murmured Nellie, trembling with joy at the prospect.
“Wherever you are, my dear, the home will be sweet,” said Peggy. “Though of course it wouldn’t be that without your ’usband, for it takes two to make a fight, you know, an’ it takes two no less, I think, to make things pleasant, but—dear, dear, what a disagreeable thing it is to ’ave to dress in a ’urry, though one shouldn’t—”
“Look alive, there! look al–i–ve!” roared O’Connor, putting his head in at the door. “Daylight’s a-breakin’, an’ they won’t—”
“Oh! Terrence, that reminds me—don’t forget our pets,” cried Nellie, who had steadily declined to speak of them as “live stock.”
“All right, missis. It’s lookin’ after them I am this minnit.”
The Irishman ran, as he spoke, to the styes and hutches where the pigs and rabbits were kept and opened the doors.
“Out wid ye!” he cried, “the Act of Emancipation’s passed, and ye’re all free—ivery mother’s son of ye.”
Accustomed to his voice and his caressing hand, the astonished creatures seemed to look up at him in surprise.
“Be aff, at wance, hooroo!” cried the excited man, with a clap of his hands and a Donnybrook yell that sent all the “pets” leaping and squealing into their native jungle.
Soon after that the boat was bounding out to sea under the impulse of strong arms and willing hearts. A few minutes more, and they were receiving the warm congratulations of the passengers and crew of the steamer. Then the order was given to go ahead full speed, and the engine’s great heart seemed to throb sympathetically within the hearts of the rescued ones as the vessel cut her way swiftly through the Southern Ocean—homeward bound for Old England! Nevertheless, there was a touch of sadness in the breasts of all as they turned their farewell gaze on the receding island and thought of the pets, the old hut, the long period of mingled pleasure and suffering, and the lonely grave.
We cannot part from the friends whose footsteps we have followed so long and so far without a parting word or two.
On returning to his native village, Bob Massey found that his successor as coxswain had died, and that another man had not yet been appointed to the lifeboat—he was therefore installed, with much rejoicing, in his old position as a rescuer of human lives. Joe Slag, naturally and pleasantly, also fell into his old post at the bow. Nellie found that Aunt Betty had had what the villagers called “a stroke” during her absence; which crushing blow had the effect of opening her eyes to many things regarding herself and others, to which she had been particularly blind before. It also had the effect—indirectly—of subduing much of the evil in her character and bringing out much of the good. As evil begets evil, so good begets good; and one result of this law was, that the seven children, whom she had brought—or banged—up, became seven repentant and sympathetic and reasonably good creatures when they saw the old mother, whom they used to think so harsh and so physically strong, reduced to amiable helplessness. Thus it came to pass that there was not in all the village an old woman who was so well looked after by her progeny as Aunt Betty.
Terrence O’Connor continued to rove about the world in the capacity of a ship’s cook till near the end of his days. John Mitford and Peggy unexpectedly came into a small inheritance soon after returning home, and settled down for life close to the coxswain’s cottage. Tomlin went to New Zealand to seek his fortune. Whether he found it or not, we cannot tell! Last, but not least, Dr Hayward and his wife returned to their native land, and for many years afterwards kept up a steady correspondence with Nell Massey, in which, you may be sure, there were frequent and pleasant allusions to the time which they had spent together on the lonely isle in the southern seas.
One morning, Nellie presented her husband with a baby boy. Bob was out with the lifeboat rescuing a shipwrecked crew at the time the presentation was made. On his return, he opened the door and stood before his wife dripping wet.
“Fifteen saved this time, Nell,” he began, but the nurse stopped him by exhibiting the baby boy.
“Thank the Lord!” he said, with a glad look in his wet eyes.
“You mustn’t come near us,” said the nurse, with a look of warning. “Only a look just now.”
“The tide has risen to the flood now, Bob,” murmured the young mother, softly.
“Ay,” said the coxswain in a deep voice, “an’ it’s a high spring tide too. God bless you, Nell!”
The End
Story 2 – Chapter 1.
Jack Frost and Sons—A Short Story
One year in the last quarter of the present century John Frost, Esquire, of Arctic Hall, paid an unusually long visit to the British Islands.
John, or Jack, Frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous, self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some circumstances, quite impossible to overcome.
Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a “giant-killer,”—an insolent, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same reception everywhere.
In palaces and mansions he was usually met in the entrance hall by a sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, while in cottages and lowly dwellings he was so feebly opposed that he gained entrance easily—for he was a bullying shameless fellow, who forced his way wherever he could—and was induced to quit only after much remonstrance and persuasion, and even then, he usually left an unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him.
But there were some abodes in which our hero met with no opposition at all, where the inmates scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and sat down beside them.
Jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. He had, for the most part, a bright, beaming, jovial outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. He was most deadly in his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took pleasure in sallying forth accompanied by his like-minded sons, Colonel Wind and Major Snow. And it was a tremendous sight, that few people cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went swaggering through the land together.
One Christmas morning, at the time we write of, Jack and his two sons went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the London streets towards the “west end,” blinding people’s eyes as they went, reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black footballs. Turning into Saint James’s Park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from basement to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, assaulted the Admiralty and the Horse-Guards—taking a shot at the clubs in passing. It need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on those centres of wealth and power.
Undismayed—for Jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or favour—they went careering westward until they came to a palatial mansion, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl stood peeping out. It was early. Perhaps she was looking for the milkman—possibly for the policeman. With that quick perception which characterises men of war, Major Snow saw and seized his opportunity. Dashing forward he sprang into the hall. Colonel Wind, not a whit less prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion.
But “Jeames” was not far distant. The screams of Mary drew him forth, he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with a crash, but with no further damage to the foe than the snipping off part of Major Snow’s tails, which Mary swept up into a dust shovel and deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below.
Our trio possessed neither fear nor pride. They were also destitute of taste, and had no respect for persons. Treating their repulse as a good joke, they turned round and went hilariously along the Strand, embracing every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with pointed impartiality, until they reached the City. There we will leave them to revel amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the west end.
In two snug bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable beds, partially awake and yawning—the one flat on his back as if laid out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next washing. The rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty years.
“Ned,” said the straight one to the bundle.
“Well, Tom,” (sleepily).
“Did you hear that noise—like a cannon-shot?”
“Ya–i–o–u yes—som’ing tumbled—door bang’d,” (snore).
“Hallo, Ned!” cried Tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to dress in haste; “why, it’s Christmas morning! I had almost forgot. A Merry Christmas to you, my boy!”
“M’rry Kissm’s, ol’ man, but don’ waken me. What’s use o’ gettin’ up?”
“The use?” echoed Tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; “why, Ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and I’ve a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end.”
“So ’v’ I,” murmured Ned, “at th’ wes’ end.”
“Indeed. What are you going to do?”
“Sk–t.”
“Sk–t? What’s that?”
“Skate—ol’ man, let m’ ’lone,” growled Ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze.
With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose, and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better known as Matty, met him with a warm reception.
Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit. Outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated 5 degrees below zero!
“Why, Matty,” exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, “I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames if it lasts long enough.”
Matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother’s arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Tom.
“About the poor,” answered Matty, as she went and seated herself at the breakfast-table. “On such a terrible morning as this I feel so inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing meal in the midst of such warmth and comfort, when I know that there are hundreds and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have neither fire nor food sufficient—little clothing, and no comfort. It is dreadful,” added Matty, as an unusually fierce gust dashed the snow against the windows.
Tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile as he looked into her pretty little anxious face.
“Yes, Matty, it is dreadful,” he replied, “and the worst of it is that we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. Yet I don’t feel as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in comfortable circumstances, for it is God who has given us all that we have, as well as the power to enjoy it. I grant, that if we simply enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor, we should indeed be most abominably selfish, but happily that is not our case this morning. Have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go out and do what we can to mitigate the sorrows of the poor? Are we not about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this Christmas morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold bodies and half-filled—I beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. Besides, sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed, would it not be probable that I should have to go and fetch a doctor for you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor people?”
“That may be all very true, Tom,” returned Matty, with a dissatisfied and puzzled look, “but I cannot help feeling that I have so much, so very much, more than I need of everything, while the thousands I speak of have so little—so very little. Why could not rich people like us be content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to give to the poor?”
“You have broached a very wide and profound subject, Matty, and it would probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. Suppose that all the people in England were all at once smitten with your desire to retrench in order to have more to spare to the poor—and were to act upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, I ask you, would become of the great army of confectioners? Would they not be thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell the ranks of the poor? If the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of painters? If they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? If carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and grooms and ostlers—to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers, harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants? No—living plainly or simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably—according to one’s means. Then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need—that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. Does not part of the surplus go to Mary and James and the other servants, and much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor themselves?”
“Well, but,” returned Matty, with the distressed and puzzled look still unabated, “though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the least degree alter the fact that there is something quite wrong in the condition of the poor of our great cities, which ought to be remedied.”
