"That tells the whole story," said the doctor, as he started up and boxed Katy's ears; "now go up and stay in your room till I send for you, for being disrespectful to your grandmother."

"Like mother--like child," said the old lady, as Katy half shorn, moved like a culprit out of the room; then gathering up in her ap.r.o.n the shining curls, she looked on with a malicious smile, while they crisped and blackened in the glowing Lehigh fire.

But miserable as were the week-days--Sunday, after all, was the dreadful day for Katy; the long--long--long Sunday, when every book in the house was put under lock and key; when even religious newspapers, tracts, and memoirs, were tabooed; when the old people, who fancied they could not go to church, sat from sunrise to sunset in their best clothes, with their hands folded, looking speechlessly into the fire; when there was no dinner; when the Irish girl and the cat, equally lawless and heretical, went to see their friends; when not a sound was heard in the house, save the ticking of the old claw-footed-clock, that stood in the entry; when Katy crept up to her little room, and crouching in a corner, wondered if G.o.d _was_ good--why he let her papa _die_, and why he did not help her mamma, who tried so hard to earn money to bring her home.

The last bright golden beam of the Sabbath sun had slowly faded away. One by one the stars came gliding out. He who held them all in their places, listening ever to the ceaseless music of their motion, yet bent a pitying ear to the stifled sob of a troubled child.

Softly--sweetly--fell the gentle dew of slumber on weary eyelids, while angels came to minister. Tears glittered still on Katy's long lashes, but the little lips parted with a smile, murmuring "Papa." Sleep on--dream on--little Katy. He who noteth the sparrow's fall, hath given his angels charge to keep thee.

CHAPTER LXVII.

In one of the thousand business offices, in one of the thousand crowded streets of a neighboring city, sat Mr. John Walter, with his legs crossed, his right finger pressed against the right lobe of his organ of causality, his right elbow resting on his right knee, and the fingers of his left hand beating a sort of tattoo on a fresh copy of The Standard, which lay upon the table by his side. His att.i.tude was one of profound meditation.

"Who _can_ she be?" exclaimed Mr. Walter, in a tone of blended interest and vexation; "who can she be?" Mr. Walter raised his head, uncrossed his legs, took up The Standard, and re-read 'Floy's' last article slowly; often pausing to a.n.a.lyze the sentences, as though he would extort from them some hidden meaning, to serve as a clue to the ident.i.ty of the author. After he had perused the article thus searchingly, he laid down The Standard, and again exclaimed, "Who _can_ she be? she is a genius certainly, whoever she is," continued he, soliloquizingly; "a bitter life experience she has had too; she did not draw upon her imagination for this article. Like the very first production of her pen that I read, it is a wail from her inmost soul; so are many of her pieces. A few dozen of them taken consecutively, would form a whole history of wrong, and suffering, and bitter sorrow. What a singular being she must be, if I have formed a correct opinion of her; what powers of endurance! What an elastic, strong, brave, loving, fiery, yet soft and winning nature! A bundle of contradictions! and how famously she has got on too! it is only a little more than a year since her first piece was published, and now her articles flood the whole country; I seldom take up an exchange, which does not contain one or more of them.

That first piece of hers was a stroke of genius--a real gem, although not very smoothly polished; ever since I read it, I have been trying to find out the author's name, and have watched her career with eager interest; _her_ career, I say, for I suppose 'Floy' to be a woman, notwithstanding the rumors to the contrary. At any rate, my wife says so, and women have an instinct about such things. I wish I knew whether she gets well paid for her writings. Probably not. Inexperienced writers seldom get more than a mere pittance. There are so many ready to write (poor fools!) for the honor and glory of the thing, and there are so many ready to take advantage of this fact, and withhold from needy talent the moral right to a deserved remuneration. Thank heaven, I have never practiced this. The 'Household Messenger' does not yield me a very large income, but what it does yield is fairly earned. Why, bless me!"

exclaimed Mr. Walter, suddenly starting up, and as suddenly sitting down again; "why has not this idea occurred to me before? yes, why not engage 'Floy' to write for the Household Messenger? How I wish I were rich, that I might give her such a price as she really deserves. Let me see; she now writes for The Standard, and The Pilgrim, four pieces a week for each; eight pieces in all; that is too much work for her to begin with; she cannot do herself justice; she ought not to write, at the outside, more than two pieces a week; then she could polish them up, and strengthen them, and render them as nearly perfect in execution as they are in conception. One piece a week would be as much as I should wish; could I possibly afford to pay her as much, or more for that one piece, as she now gets for eight? Her name is a tower of strength, but its influence would be frittered away, were she to write for more than one paper. If I could secure her pen all to myself, the advertising that such a connection would give The Messenger would be worth something. Ah me, were my purse only commensurate with my feelings. If I only knew who 'Floy' is, and could have an interview with her, I might perhaps arrange matters so as to benefit us both; and I _will_ know," exclaimed Mr. Walter, jumping up and pacing the room rapidly; "I'll know before I'm a month older;" and the matter was settled; for when John Walter paced the floor rapidly, and said "I will," Fate folded her hands.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

"A letter for 'Floy!'" said Mr. Lescom, smiling. "Another lover, I suppose. Ah! when you get to be my age," continued the old man, stroking his silver hair, "you will treat their communications with more attention." As he finished his remark, he held the letter up playfully for a moment, and then tossed it into Ruth's lap.

Ruth thrust it unread into her ap.r.o.n pocket. She was thinking of her book, and many other things of far more interest to her than lovers, if lover the writer were. After correcting the proof of her articles for the next week's paper, and looking over a few exchanges, she asked for and received the wages due her for the last articles published, and went home.

Ruth was wearied out; her walk home tired her more than usual. Climbing to her room, she sat down without removing her bonnet, and leaning her head upon her hand, tried to look hopefully into the future. She was soon disturbed by Nettie, who exploring her mother's pockets, and finding the letter, exclaimed, pointing to the three cent stamp, "May I have this pretty picture, mamma?"

Ruth drew forth the letter, opened the envelope, cut out the stamp for Nettie, who soon suspended it around her doll's neck for a medal, and then read the epistle, which ran as follows:

"TO 'FLOY':

"Madam,--I have long wished to communicate with you, long wished to know who you are. Since the appearance of your first article, I have watched your course with deep interest, and have witnessed your success with the most unfeigned pleasure. My reasons for wishing to make your acquaintance at this particular juncture, are partly business and partly friendly reasons. As you will see by a copy of the Household Messenger, which I herewith send you, I am its Editor. I know something about the prices paid contributors for the periodical press, and have often wondered whether you were receiving anything like such a remuneration as your genius and practical newspaperial talent ent.i.tle you to. I have also often wished to write you on the subject, and tell you what I think is your market-value--to speak in business phrase--as a writer; so that in case you are _not_ receiving a just compensation, as things go, you might know it, and act accordingly. In meditating upon the subject, it has occurred to me that I might benefit you and myself at the same time, and in a perfectly legitimate manner, by engaging you to write solely for my paper. I have made a calculation as to what I can afford to give you, or rather what I _will_ give you, for writing one article a week for me, the article to be on any subject, and of any length you please. Such an arrangement would of course give you time to take more pains with your writing, and also afford you such leisure for relaxation, as every writer needs.

"Now what I wish you to do is this: I want you first to inform me what you get for writing for The Standard, and The Pilgrim, and if I find that I can afford to give you more, I will make you an offer. If I cannot give you more, I will not trouble you further on that subject; as I seek your benefit more than my own. In case you should accept any offer which I should find it proper to make, it would be necessary for you to tell me your _real_ name; as I should wish for a written contract, in order to prevent any possibility of a misunderstanding.

"In conclusion, I beg that you will permit me to say, that whether or not arrangements are made for you to write for me, I shall be most happy to serve you in any way in my power. I have some experience in literary matters, which I will gladly place at your disposal. In short, madam, I feel a warm, brotherly interest in your welfare, as well as a high admiration for your genius, and it will afford me much pleasure to aid you, whenever my services can be made profitable.

"Very truly yours, JOHN WALTER."

Ruth sat with the letter in her hand. The time _had_ been when not a doubt would have arisen in her mind as to the sincerity of the writer; but, alas! adversity is so rough a teacher! ever laying the cold finger of caution on the warm heart of trust! Ruth sighed, and tossed the letter on the table, half ashamed of herself for her cowardice, and wishing that she _could_ have faith in the writer. Then she picked up the letter again. She examined the hand-writing; it was bold and manly.

She thought it would be treating it too shabbily to throw it aside among the love-sick trash she was in the habit of receiving. She would read it again. The tone was respectful; _that won her_. The "Household Messenger"--"John Walter?"--she certainly had heard those names before.

The letter stated that a copy of the paper had been sent her, but she had not yet received it. She recollected now that she had seen the "Household Messenger" among the exchanges at "The Standard" office, and remembered that she always liked its appearance, and admired its editorials; they were fearless and honest, and always on the side of the weak, and on the side of truth. Ruth also had an indistinct remembrance of having heard Mr. Walter spoken of by somebody, at some time, as a most energetic young man, who had wrung success from an unwilling world, and fought his way, single-handed, from obscurity to an honorable position in society, against, what would have been to many, overwhelming odds. "Hence the reason," thought Ruth, "his heart so readily vibrates to the chord of sorrow which I have struck. His experienced heart has detected in my writings the flutterings and desolation of his own." Ruth wanted to believe in Mr. Walter. She glanced at his letter again with increased interest and attention. It seemed so frank and kind; but then it was bold and exacting, too. The writer wished to know how much she received from the "Pilgrim," and "Standard," and what was her real name. Would it be prudent to entrust so much to an entire stranger? and the very first time he asked, too?

Even granting he was actuated by the best of motives, would he not think if she told him all, without requiring some further guaranty on his part, that her confidence was too easily won? Would he not think her too indiscreet to be entrusted with his confidence? Would he not be apt to believe that she had not even sufficient discretion on which to base a business arrangement? And then, if his letter _had been_ dictated by idle curiosity only, how unfortunate such an _expose_ of her affairs might be. No--she--could--not--do--it! But then, if Mr. Walter _were_ honest, if he _really_ felt such a brotherly interest in her, how sweet it would be to have him for a brother; a--_real, warm-hearted, brotherly brother_, such as she had never known. Ruth took up her pen to write to Mr. Walter, but as quickly laid it down. "Oh--I--cannot!" she said; "no, not to a stranger!" Then, again she seized her pen, and with a quick flush, and a warm tear, said, half pettishly, half mournfully, "Away with these ungenerous doubts! Am I never again to put faith in human nature?"

Ruth answered Mr. Walter's letter. She answered it frankly and unreservedly. She stated what wages she was then receiving. She told him her name. As she went on, she felt a peace to which she had long been a stranger. She often paused to wipe the tears--tears of happiness--from her eyes. It was so sweet to believe in _somebody_ once more. She wrote a long letter--a sweet, sisterly letter--pouring out her long pent-up feelings, as though Mr. Walter had indeed been her brother, who, having been away ever since before Harry's death, had just returned, and, consequently, had known nothing about her cruel sufferings. After she had sealed and superscribed the letter, she became excessively frightened at what she had done, and thought she never could send it to Mr. Walter; but another perusal of his letter rea.s.sured her. She rose to go to the post-office, and then became conscious that she had not removed her bonnet and shawl, but had sat all this while in walking costume! "Well," said she, laughing, "this _is_ rather blue-stocking-y; however, it is all the better, as I am now ready for my walk." Ruth carried her letter to the post-office; dropping it into the letter-box with more hopeful feelings than Noah probably experienced when he sent forth the dove from the ark for the third time.

CHAPTER LXIX.

Mr. Walter sat in his office, looking over the morning mail. "I wonder is this from 'Floy'?" he said, as he examined a compact little package.

"It bears the right post-mark, and the handwriting is a lady's. A splendid hand it is, too. There's character in that hand; I hope 'tis 'Floy's.'"

Mr. Walter broke the seal, and glancing at a few sentences, turned to the signature. "Yes, it is 'Floy'! now for a revelation." He then commenced perusing the letter with the most intense interest. After reading the first page his eye began to flash, and his lip to quiver.

"Poor girl--poor girl--heartless creatures--too bad--too bad," and other exclamations rather too warm for publication; finishing the letter and refolding it, he paced the room with a short, quick step, indicative of deep interest, and determined purpose. "It is too bad," he exclaimed; "shameful! the whole of it; and how hard she has worked! and what a pitiful sum those fellows pay her! it is contemptible. She has about made The Standard; it never was heard of to any extent before she commenced writing for it. It is perfectly outrageous; she shall not write for them another day, if I can help it! I will make her an offer at once. She will accept it; and then those Jews will be brought to their senses. Ha! ha! I know them! They will want to get her back; they will write to me about it, or at least Lescom will. That will give me a chance at him; and if I don't tell him a few truths in plain English, my name is not John Walter." Then seating himself at his desk, Mr. Walter wrote the following letter to 'Floy':

"DEAR SISTER RUTH,--If you will permit me to be so brotherly. I have received, read, and digested your letter; how it has affected me I will not now tell you. I wish to say, however, that on reading that portion of it which relates to the compensation you are now receiving, my indignation exhausted the dictionary! Why, you poor, dear little genius! what you write for those two papers is worth, to the proprietors, ten times what they pay you. But I will not bore you with compliments; I wish to engage you to write for the Household Messenger, and here is my offer: you to write one article a week, length, matter and manner, to your own fancy; I to pay you ----, the engagement to continue one year, during which time you are not to write for any other periodical, without my consent. My reason for placing a limitation to our engagement is, that you may be able to take advantage at that time of better offers, which you will undoubtedly have.

"I enclose duplicates, of a contract, which, if the terms suit, you will please sign and return one copy _by the next mail_; the other copy you will keep. Unless you accept my offer by return of mail it will be withdrawn. You may think this exacting; I will explain it in my next to your satisfaction. Most truly your friend,

"JOHN WALTER."

This letter being despatched, thanks to the post-office department, arrived promptly at its destination the next morning.

Ruth sat with Mr. Walter's letter in her hand, thinking. "'If you do not accept my offer by return of mail, it will be withdrawn.' How exacting!

'the explanation of this to be given in my next letter,' ah, Mr. John Walter, I shall not have to wait till then," soliloquized Ruth; "I can jump at your reason; you think I shall mention it to Mr. Lescom, and that then he will interfere, and offer something by way of an equivalent to tempt me to reject it; that's it, Mr. John Walter! This b.u.mping round the world has at least sharpened my wits!" and Ruth sat beating a tattoo with the toe of her slipper on the carpet, and looking very profound and wise. Then she took up the contract and examined it; it was brief, plain and easily understood, _even by a woman_, as the men say. "It is a good offer," said Ruth, "he is in earnest, so am I; it's a bargain."

Ruth signed the doc.u.ment.

CHAPTER LXX.

"Good afternoon, 'Floy,'" said Mr. Lescom to Ruth, as she entered the Standard office, the day after she had signed the contract with Mr.

Walter. "I was just thinking of you, and wishing for an opportunity to have a little private chat. Your articles are not as long as they used to be; you must be more liberal."

"I was not aware," replied Ruth, "that my articles had grown any shorter. However, with me, an article is an article, some of my shorter pieces being the most valuable I have written. If you would like more matter, Mr. Lescom, I wonder you have not offered me more pay."

"There it is," said Mr. Lescom, smiling; "women are never satisfied. The more they get, the more grasping they become. I have always paid you more than you could get anywhere else."

"Perhaps so," replied Ruth. "I believe I have never troubled you with complaints; but I _have_ looked at my children sometimes, and thought that I must try somehow to get more; and I have sometimes thought that if my articles, as you have told me, were constantly bringing you new subscribers, friendship, if not justice, would induce you to raise my salary."

"_Friendship_ has nothing to do with business," replied Mr. Lescom; "a bargain is a bargain. The law of supply and demand regulates prices in all cases. In literature, at present, the supply greatly exceeds the demand, consequently the prices are low. Of course, I have to regulate my arrangements according to my own interests, and not according to the interests of others. You, of course, must regulate your arrangements according to _your_ interests; and if anybody else will give you more than I do, you are at liberty to take it. As I said before, _business_ is one thing--_friendship_ is another. Each is good in its way, but they are quite distinct."

As Mr. Lescom finished this business-like and logical speech, he looked smilingly at Ruth, with an air which might be called one of tyrannical benevolence; as if he would say, "Well, now, I'd like to know what you can find to say to that?"

"I am glad," replied Ruth, "that you think so, for I have already acted in accordance with your sentiments. I have had, and accepted, an offer of a better salary than you pay me. My object in calling this afternoon was to inform you of this; and to say, that I shall not be able to write any more for 'The Standard.'"

Mr. Lescom looked astonished, and gazed at Ruth without speaking, probably because he did not know exactly what to say. He had argued Ruth's case so well, while he supposed he was arguing his own, that nothing more could be said. Mr. Lescom, in reality, valued Ruth's services more than those of all his other contributors combined, and the loss of them was a bitter thing to him. And then, what would his subscribers say? The reason of Ruth's leaving might become known; it would not sound well to have it said that she quit writing for him because he did not, or could not, or would not pay her as much as others. Just then it occurred to him that engaging to write for another journal, did not necessarily preclude the possibility of her continuing to write for "The Standard." Catching eagerly at the idea, he said: