[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]

Lucia could not doubt for a moment who had sent her
the Bible, and she knelt down and prayed, and poured
out her whole heart fervently, and rose with a lighter
heart.

All that despondency which had preyed upon her spirit,
was passing away, and the light of that new life, which
dawned upon her, flooded her heart with unspeakable
gratitude and thanks. God had heard her. And if, with
the pure gratitude of the child to heaven, some tender
gratitude toward the rough, but kind-hearted and true
boy were mingled, none will find fault with her for that—
even though this exhibition of his love for her, made her
cheek flush with pleasure.

She did not know that Wide-Awake had gone and entered—
contrary to his wishes and fixed principles—once
more into the newspaper business; and drawn a week's
salary in advance, and hastened to purchase the Bible with
the whole of it, trusting to Providence for meat and bread,
for those seven days! And such faith never is in vain.
Oh, friend, that readest these unworthy lines; for heaven
watches over those who love so truly, and give nobly;
and the invisible messengers of air and earth bring food
to them.

So Lucia had her own Bible, and her warm tears fell
upon it, for her heart was melted in her bosom, and she
cried—a lonely child, but not alone with that most

[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]

precious friend. Stronger than stormy winds and biting cold,
and all the arrows of adversity, it filled her heart with
warmth and happiness.

She repaired on the next morning to Aunt Phillis'
cellar, and commenced the task she had undertaken. She
brought water from the old pump, some distance down the
street, and fixed the irons, and then with Aunt Phillis
looking serenely and kindly upon her, applied herself to
the momentous task. Aunt Phillis was scarcely able to
leave her bed, by now, but managed to rise, and iron a
shirt at intervals, as though she wished to persuade herself
that she was not incapacitated from work. But even
one shirt was a hard task to the feeble old woman, and
Lucia insisted on her sitting down.

The child performed her work so well, that by noon she
had accomplished an amount of work, which Aunt Phillis
declared really astonishing. And then the simple dinner
was prepared, and, thereafter, Lucia got ready to carry
home the clothes which were “due” that evening.

Aunt Phillis gave her the most explicit directions, and
she had no difficulty in finding the houses. Going from
street to street over the frozen snow, in the dim afternoon,
the child found herself thrown with a new and strange
class of persons, whose homes she had never before
entered. The lace undersleeves, to which Aunt Phillis
had referred, seemed to be ardently expected by the rosy
child, who ran forward to receive them from Lucia, in the
rich home of her mother.

“Oh!” the little maiden cried, “it ain't Aunt Phillis!
Who are you?—you are prettier than Aunt Phillis.”

[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]

“My name is Lucia,” was the smiling reply; and unconsciously
the eyes of the child wandered to the splendid
furniture of the wealthy mansion.

“Lucia! Oh, what a pretty name! And you are
very pretty, Lucia, prettier than I am—only my frock's
nicer than yours!”

And the little maiden smoothed down her beautiful, rich
frock, and gazed with pride upon its embroidered flounces.

“We 're going to have a child's party to night, Lucia,”
said the little damsel, going up to Lucia, and looking at
her curiously with her great eyes; “don't you wish you
were to be here?”

“No—I think not,” said Lucia, softly; “I hope you
will be happy.”

“Oh, we are sure to have a delightful time. Mamma
has made a lovely cake, and it 's all covered with icing—
and Uncle Robert's coming to play games for us, and
make tableaus—I wonder what they are—and Cousin
Lucy 's coming, too; and we 're to have a dance, and—
oh! we 'll be so happy!—can't you stay and eat some
cake, Lucia. I am sure you are good, because you are so
pretty.”

“I don't think I can stay,” faltered Lucia, whose heart
was touched by the kind mirth of the little girl, “I have
my work at home to do.”

Work! Oh, what a pity! Do you work? Oh, yes!
you mean your French lesson—how I hate my French
lesson! But I have n't got any to-night! This is my
new dress, and we 're to be so happy! Mamma 's given
me a new lace collar, and she says we may light the

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chandelier, and—oh! how foolish I am! All this time I 've
been forgetting my undersleeves. How nicely they are
done—how nice I 'll look. Good bye!”

And running up stairs with the coveted articles of
clothing, the child disappeared, the kind smile still upon
her face, turned toward Lucia.

The closing door shut out all that warmth and happiness;
but Lucia had in her heart a larger and truer
happiness still—which no cold could deprive her of. No
bitter or repining thought for a moment entered her mind,
and she said only, “What a happy little girl, and what a
tender voice she has!” And so the child went back to
her cold, bare room, and lighting her piece of candle, read
her Bible, shivering as she read—while under the brilliant
chandelier, the kind little maiden romped, and laughed, and
played, and told her friends what a sweet looking girl had
come “just before dark, to bring her things.” And then
Uncle Robert fixed the tableaus, and they were as merry
a parcel of happy children as the light of joy had ever
shone upon.

When Lucia covered herself with the old tattered
counterpane, and sank to sleep, with a last murmured
prayer, her heart was full of warmth, and joy, and love,
such as no words could utter. Sleeping, her parted lips
still smiled, as infant lips do in the downy cradles, which
fond mothers, bending down above until the balmy breath
is on their cheeks, press to their own with whispered
blessings. Sleeping, the hand of love seemed pressed
upon the eyelids, and the dews of slumber softened the
tender features, rounding every line—and peace was in

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the heart which dreamed of love and beauty, and the light
of heaven.

The child rose early and repaired to Aunt Phillis' cellar.
But that indefatigable matron was already up, and
had made her own fire, and set the kettle on for breakfast.

“Bless de Lord, honey,” said Aunt Phillis, feebly, “I 's
quite strong yit, an' I kin do all but wash an' ir'n. The
strength in the arms is gone, and bendin' over makes my
back ache—God knows my back do ache—but I kin see to
breakfas'.”

“I am glad you feel so well, Aunt Phillis,” said Lucia.

“I ain't well, chile—I 'm poorly, thank God, an' to his
name be the praise, amen! Stop, chile!” added the old
woman, “don't you be a-gittin' out that clothes-horse.”

“Why, Aunt Phillis?”

“There ain't a-goin to be no washin' here to-day.”

Lucia's look asked the reason.

“'Cause sister Marthy and the rest is comin' to hold a
little pray'r meetin',” said aunt Phillis, understanding
and replying to the look, “brother Wilkison's comin',
too, an' I want you to set right about gettin' ready the
things.”

“The things, aunt Philis?”

“The very things, chile—de Lord he knows it would'nt
be a right pray'r meetin' if de bretheren had'nt somethin'
after all thayr singin'.”

With which aunt Phillis gave Lucia sundry directions—
and after long and dubious reflection, entrusted
her with the keys of the mysterious press, the opening of
which she narrowly and jealously watched

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Lucia soon got out the things which aunt Phillis desired:
and then she set to work, under the old lady's
directions, and prepared the material for the collation to
be laid before aunt Phillis' visitors.

“Them's all mine,” said aunt Phillis, with satisfaction.
“I ain't come on the 'sociation yit.”

“The what, aunt Phillis?”

“The 'sociation, chile. De Lord help us! ain't you
hearn 'bout the Social Band?”

Lucia said she had not.

“We dresses,” said aunt Phillis, plunging boldly into
the middle of things, “we dresses in white bonnets, trim'
wid black—white cuffs an' cape, and dress of black likewise.
We pays a eight in pence 'bout ev'ry month or so,
an' sister Beel is cash-er. When we's sick they comes an'
sets up with us, an' the 'sociation pays, don't care what it
is. They does all nice—so nice! an' buries you wid
pleasure—they does;—its mighty pleasant now, I do
assure you, chile!”

Lucia said that the association must be a great assistance
to the sick, and then finished the preparations, and
asked aunt Phillis if she needed her father.

“No my chile,” said the old lady, “sister Beel 'll do
the rest, an' you oughtn't to make your young cheeks thin
a-workin' all the day. Set down now an' eat a good
breakfas', an' then the brethren will be 'bout comin'.”

Lucia drank some tea and ate a biscuit, and then told
aunt Phillis good-bye, and went up to her room. Just as
she sat down before the small fire of splinters, a knock
came at her door, and Ellie entered, smiling sweetly, and

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carrying in her hand a bundle. Her face was full of
pleasure, and the hand which she placed on Lucia's head,
gently caressed the dark hair.

The children kissed each other, as their custom was,
and then Ellie held up the bundle and placed it in Lucia's
hands.

“Look what a pretty present a lady gave me, Lucia!”
she said.

“Oh!” said Lucia, unrolling it, “why, Ellie, it is a
warm, good dress.”

“Yes, it is warm and good, and I am so glad! You
know your old one is so thin, Lucia!”

“My old one!”

“The one you have on. I had that dress, and it is a
great deal too large for me. Miss Aurelia gave it to me—
and I want you to have it, dear Lucia. I will not.”

And Ellie's face was radiant with pleasure and
goodness.

Her pleasure in offering her only comfortable dress to
her friend was as evident as anything could possibly
be, and for a moment Lucia remained overcome by her
question, and remained silent.

p506-251

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