In our last chapter we gave some account of Mrs. Weatherbe's
quilting, and of the sorrow and disappointment of the good
lady on the oecasion; and we now propose to return to Helph,
and give you some particulars of the night as it passed with
him. It was near noon when he drew rein before the house
of his father, with a heart full of happy anticipations for the
afternoon and evening; but his bright dream was destined
quickly to darken away to the soberest reality of his life. His
father met him in the hall with a face flushed, and taking his
hand with some pretence of cordiality, said in an irritable
tone, and as though he had not the slightest idea of his errand—
“Why, my son Helph, what in the devil's name has brought
you?”

He then made a doleful narrative of the discomforts and
privations he had endured during the few days of Mrs. Randall's
absence, for whom he either felt or affected to feel the
greatest love and admiration whenever she was separated from
him; though his manner, with the exception of these spasmodic
affections, was neglectful and harsh towards her in the extreme.

“What in the devil's name is a man to do, my son Helph?”
he said; “your poor father hasn't had a meal's victuals fit for

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a dog to eat, since your mother went into the country: how
is she? poor woman. I think I'll just get into your buggy,
boy, and run out and bring your mother home; things will
all go to ruin in two days more—old black Kitty aint worth a
cuss, and Jenny aint worth another.”

And this last hit he seemed to regard as most incidentally
happy in its bearing upon Helph, whose opinions of Jenny by
no means coincided with his own; and this coarse allusion to
her, so far from warping his judgment against her, made him
for the time oblivious to every thing else, and he hastened in
search of her.

“Lord, honey, I is glad to see you,” exclaimed Aunt Kitty,
looking up from her work in the kitchen, for she was kneading
bread with the tray in her lap, in consequence of rheumatic
pains, which disabled her from standing much on her feet.

“What in the world is the matter?” asked Helph, anxiously,
as he saw her disability.

“Noffin much,” she said, smiling; “my feet are like to bust
wid de inflammatious rheumatis—dat's all. But I's a poor sinful
critter,” she continued, “and de flesh pulls mighty hard on de
sperit, sometimes, when I ought to be thinkin' ob de mornin'
ober Jordan.”

And having assured him that she would move her old bones
as fast as she could, and prepare the dinner, she directed him
where to find Jenny, saying, “Go 'long wid you, and you'll
find her a seamsterin' up stairs, and never mind de 'stress of
an old darkie like me.”

As he obeyed, he heard her calling on the Lord to bless him,
for that he was the best young master of them all. Poor
kind-hearted creature—she did not ask any blessing for herself!

In one end of the long low garret, unplastered and

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comfortless from the heat in summer and the cold in winter, there was
a cot bed, an old dilapidated trunk, a broken work-stand, a
small cracked looking-glass, and a strip of faded carpet, denominated,
by courtesy, Jenny's room; and here, seated on a
chair without any back, sat the poor girl, stitching shirts for
her adopted brothers, when he, who from some cause or other
never called her sister, appeared suddenly before her. Smiling,
she ran forward to meet him, but suddenly checking herself,
she blushed deeply, and the exclamation, “Dear Helph,” that
rose to her lips, was subdued and formalized to simple Helphenstein.
The cheek that was smooth when she saw him last,
was darkened into manhood now, and the arm remained passive
that had always thrown itself lovingly about his neck;
but in the new timidity, she appeared only the more beautiful
in the eyes of her admirer; and if she declined the old expressions
of fondness, he did not.

The first feeling of pleasure and surprise quickly subsided
on her part into one of pain and embarrassment, when she
remembered her torn and faded dress, and the disappointment
that awaited him.

“Come, Jenny,” said Helph, when the first greeting was
over, “I have come for you; go, get ready as soon as possible.”

Poor child, she turned away her face to hide the tears that
would come, as she answered, “I cannot go—I have nothing
to get ready.”

And then came inquiries about the new dress of which he
had been informed, and though for a time the girl hesitated,
he drew from her at last the confession, that it had been appropriated
by his mother, under the promise of procuring for
her another when she should have made a dozen shirts to earn
it. An exclamation that evinced little filial reverence found

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expression—then as he soothed and sympathized, the boyish
affection was deepened more and more by pity.

“Never mind, Jenny,” said Helph, in tones of simple and
truthful earnestness, “wear any thing to-day, but go—for my
sake go; I like you just as well in an old dress as in a new
one.”

Jenny had been little used to kindness, and from her lonely
and sad heart the gratitude flowed in hot thick-coming tears.

Certainly she would like of all things to go to the quilting,
and the more, perhaps, that Helph was come for her; but in
no time of her life her poverty seemed so painful a thing.
During the past week she had examined her scanty wardrobe
repeatedly—her shoes, too, were down at the heel and out at
the toe—to go decently was quite impossible, and yet she
could not suppress the desire, nor refrain from thinking over
and over, if this dress was not quite so much faded, or if that
were not so short and outgrown, and then if she had money
to buy a pair of shoes, and could borrow a neck-ribbon and
collar—in short, if things were a little better than they were,
she might go, and perhaps, in the night, deficiencies would be
less noticeable.

But between all her thinking and planning lay the forbidding
if; and in answer to the young man's entreaties, she
could only cry and shake her head negatively.

She half wished he would go away, and yet feared at the
same time he would go; she avoided looking at the old rundown
slippers she wore, as well as the patched gown, in the
vain delusion that he would thus be prevented from seeing
them; and so, half sorry and half glad, half ashamed and half
honestly indignant, she sat—the work fallen into her lap, and
the tears now and then dropping, despite of the frequent winking
and vain efforts to smile.

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At length Helph remembered that his horse had not been
cared for; and looking down from the little window, he found,
to his further annoyance, that both horse and buggy were
gone, and his return home indefinitely delayed.

“I wish to Heaven,” he said, indignantly turning towards
Jenny, “you and I had a home somewhere beyond the reach
of the impositions practised upon us by Mr. and Mrs. Randall!”

The last words were bitter and sarcastic, and thus in anger
and sorrow began the love-making of Helph and Jenny.

Down the thinly-wooded hills to the west of the great city,
reached the long shadows of the sunset. The streets were
crowded with mechanics hurrying homeward—in one hand
the little tin pail in which the dinner had been carried, and in
the other a toy for the baby, perhaps, or a pound of soap or
of meat for the good wife.

The smoke curled upward from the chimneys of the
suburban districts, and little rustic girls and boys were seen
in all directions, hurrying homeward with their arms full of
shavings—old women, too, with their bags of rags, betook
themselves somewhere—Heaven only knows whether they had
any homes, or where they went—at any rate, with backs bent
under their awful burdens, they turned into lanes and alleys, and
disappeared. The tired dray-horses walked faster and nimbler
as they smelled the oats in the manger; and here and there, in
the less frequented streets, bands of schoolboys and girls drove
their hoops, or linked their arms and skipped laughingly up
and down the pavement; while now and then a pair of older
children strolled in happiness, for that they dreamed of happier

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times to come. The reflection of the beautiful things in the
future made the present bright, and well it is that it is so, for
the splendor fades from our approach, and it is only in dreams
that we find ourselves shadowed by the glory.

We have need to thank Thee, O our Father, that Thou hast
given us the power of seeing visions and dreaming dreams!
Earth, with all the glory of its grass and all the splendor of its
flowers, were dreary and barren and desolate, but for that
divine insanity which shapes deformity into grace, and darkness
into light. How the low roof is lifted up on the airy
pillars of thought, and the close dark walls expanded and
made beautiful with the pictures of the imagination! And
best of all, by this blessed power the cheeks that are flattened,
and the foreheads that are wrinkled by time, retain in our eyes
the smoothness and the sheen of primal years; to us they
cannot grow old, for we see


Poured upon the locks of age,
The beauty of immortal youth.
Life's sharp realities press us sore, sometimes, and but for the
unsubstantial beams upon which we build some new hope, we
should often rush headlong to the dark.

They were sitting together, Helph and Jenny, with the twilight
deepening around them, speaking little, thinking much,
and gazing down the long vistas opening to the sunshine, and
brighter than the western clouds. Ah me, they did not think
of the night that was falling, they did not hear the wind
soughing among the hot walls and roofs, and prophesying
storm.

Suddenly appeared before them a miserably clad little boy,
the one mentioned in a previous chapter as coming for money,
and now, after a moment's hesitancy, on seeing a stranger,
he laid his head in the lap of Jenny, and cried aloud.

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Stooping over him, she smoothed back his hair and kissed
his forehead; and in choked and broken utterances he made
known his mournful errand: little Willie was very sick, and
Jenny was wanted at home.

Few preparations were required. Helph would not hear of
her going alone; and in the new and terrific fear, all her pride
vanished, and she did not remonstrate, though she knew all
the wretchedness of poverty that would be bared before him.
Close folding the hand of her little brother in hers, and with
tears dimming her eyes, she silently led the way.

It was night, and the lights of a hundred windows shone
down upon them, when, turning to her young protector, she
said, in a voice trembling with both shame and sorrow, perhaps,
“This is the place.” The house was a tolerably new
one, built of brick very roughly, but substantially, fronting
about a hundred feet on an alley, and five stories in height.

It was situated in the meanest suburb of the city, on an unpaved
street, and opposite a ruinous graveyard, and had been
erected on the cheapest possible plan, and with special reference
to the poorest class of the community. Scarcely had the
wealthy proprietor an opportunity of posting bills announcing
rooms to let, so soon were they taken; and with its miserable
accommodations and crowded with people who were almost
paupers, it was a perfect hive of misery. Porch above porch
opened out on the alley, and served as door-yards to the different
apartments—places for the drying of miserable rags—
play-grounds for the children—and a look-out for the decrepit
old women on sunny afternoons.

Dish-water, washing suds and all, from the tea and coffee
grounds to all manner of picked bones and other refuse, were
dashed down from these tiers of porches to the ground below,
so that a more filthy and in all ways unendurable place can

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scarcely be imagined than was presented in the vicinity of this
money-making device, or house of terrible refuge.

Leaning against the balusters, and smoking and talking, or
quarrelling and swearing, were groups of men who might be
counted by tens and twenties; and the feeble querulous tones
of woman, now and then, sounded among the others. A little
apart from one of these groups of ignorant disputants, sat an
old crone, combing her gray hair by the light of a tallow candle;
others were ironing and washing dishes; while others,
again, lolled listlessly and gracelessly about, listening to, and
sometimes taking part in, the conversation.

Children, half naked, were playing among the pools of stagnant
water, and now and then pelting each other with the
heads of fishes and the slimy bones caught up at random; and
one group, more vicious than the rest, were diverting themselves
by throwing stones at an old cat that lay half in and
half out of a puddle, responding by feeble kicks as the rough
missiles struck against her.

Depravity, as well as poverty, had joined itself to that miserable
congregation. Smoke issued thick from some of the
chimneys, full of the odors of mutton and coffee, and as they
mixed with the vile stenches that thickened the atmosphere
near the ground, Helph, who had been accustomed to the free
air of the country, fresh with the scents of hay-fields and orchards,
found it hard to suppress the exclamation of disgust
and loathing that rose to his lips as they turned to the alley
and his senses apprehended in a twinkling what I have been
so long in describing.

Up the steep narrow wooden stairs, flight after flight they
passed, catching through the open doors of the different apartments
as they did so, glimpses of the same squalid character—
greasy smoking stoves, dirty beds. ragged women and

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children, with here and there dozing dogs, or men prostrate on
the bare floors, either from weariness or drunkenness, and
meagerly-spread tables, and cradles, and creeping and crying
and sleeping babies, all in close proximity.

On the third landing they turned into a side door, and such
a picture presented itself as the young man had never seen
before: the windows were open, but the atmosphere was close,
and smelled of herbs and medicines. A single candle was alight,
and though the shapes of things were not distinctly brought
out, enough was visible to indicate the wretchedness and
poverty of the family.

It was very still in the room, for the children, with instinctive
fear, were huddled together in the darkest corner, and
spoke in whispers when they spoke at all; and the mother,
patient and pale and wan, sat silent by the bed, holding in
hers the chubby sun-burned hands of her dying little boy.

“Oh mother,” said Jenny, treading softly and speaking low.
Tears filled the mild blue eyes, and the lip trembled as it
answered, “It is almost over—he does not know me any
more.”

And forgetting, in the blind fondness of the mother, the
darkness and the sorrow and the pain, and worst of all, the
contagion of evil example, from which he was about to be
free, she buried her face in her hands, and shook with convulsive
agony. All the deprivation and weariness and struggle
that had sometimes seemed to her so hard, were in this new
sorrow as nothing; with her baby laughing in her arms, as he
had been last week, she would be strong to front the most
miserable fate.

Tie after tie may be unbound from the heart, as the steps
climb the rough steep that goes up to power, for the sweet
household affections unwind themselves more and more as the

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distance widens between aspiration and contentment, and over
the tide that sweeps into full glory there is no crossing back.
The brow that has felt the shadow of the laurel, will not be
comforted by the familiar kisses of love. And up to the
heights of fame, the rumble of the clods against the coffin of
some mate of long ago, go softened of the awfullest terror;
but where the heart, unwarped from its natural yearnings,
presses close, till its throbbings bring up echoes from the stony
bottom of the grave, and when from the heaped mound
reaches a shadow that darkens the world for the humble eyes
that may never look up any more—these keep the bleeding
affections, these stay the mourning that the great cannot understand.
Where the wave is narrow, the dropping of even
a pebble of hope sends up the swelling circles till the whole
bosom of the stream is agitated; but in the broader sea they
lessen and lessen till they lose themselves in a border of light.
And over that little life, moaning itself away in the dim obscurity
of its birth-chamber, fell bitterer tears, and bowed hearts
aching with sharper pains than they may ever know, whose
joys are not alike as simple and as few. “Oh Willie, dear
little Willie,” sobbed Jenny, folding her arms about him and
kissing him over and over, “speak to me once, only once
more.” Her tears fell hot upon his whitening face, but he did
not lift his heavily-drooping eyes, nor turn towards her on the
pillow. The children fell asleep, one upon another, where they
sat. In the presence of the strong healthy man they were
less afraid, and nestling close together, gradually forgot that
little Willie was not amongst them—and so came the good
gift which God giveth his beloved.

In some chink of the wall the cricket chirped, the same
quick short sound, over and over to itself, and about the candle
circled and fluttered the gray-winged moths heedless of

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their perished fellows; on the table stood a painted bucket
half filled with tepid water, and beside it a brown jug and
broken glass.

Now and then the mother and daughter exchanged anxious
looks, as some footstep sounded on the stairs, but when it
turned aside to some one of the adjoining chambers, they resumed
their watching, speaking not their hopes or fears, if
either had been awakened.

From the white dome of St. Peter's sounded the silvery
chime of the midnight: the sick child had fallen asleep an
hour before, but now his eyes opened full upon his mother,
and his white lips worked faintly. “Jenny,” she said, in a
tone of low but fearful distinctness—for with her head on the
bedside she was fast dozing into forgetfulness—“he is going—
going home.” “Home,” he repeated, sweetly, and that
was the last word he ever said. The young man came forward
hastily—the soft light of a setting star drifted across the pillow,
and in its pale splendor he laid the hands together, and
smoothed the death-dampened curls.