CHAPTER Lx.x.xIV.

Days and weeks flew by. Katy and Nettie were never weary of comparing notes, and relating experiences. Nettie thought gloomy attics, scant fare and cross landladies, the climax of misery; and Katy considered a score of mile-stones, with Nettie and a loving mother at one end, and herself and a cross grandmother at the other, infinitely worse.

"Why, you can't tell anything about it," said Katy. "Grandma took away a little kitty because I loved it, and burned up a story-book mamma brought me, and tore up a letter which mamma printed in big capitals on a piece of paper for me to read when I was lonesome; and she wouldn't let me feed the little snow-birds when they came shivering round the door; and she made me eat turnips when they made me sick; and she said I must not run when I went to school, for fear it would wear my shoes out; and she put me to bed _so_ early; and I used to lie and count the stars (I liked the seven little stars all cuddled up together best); and sometimes I looked at the moon and thought I saw faces and mountains in it, and I wondered if it was shining into mamma's window; and then I thought of you all snug in mamma's bed; and then I cried and cried, and got up and looked out into the road, and wondered if I could not run away in the night, when grandmother was asleep. Oh, Nettie, she was a _dreadful_ grandmother! She tried to make me stop loving mother. She told me that she loved you better than she did me; and then I wanted to die. I thought of it every night. I knew it was not true, but it kept troubling me. And then she said that very likely mamma would go off somewhere without letting me know anything about it, and never see me again. And she always said such things just as I was going to bed; and then you know I could not get to sleep till almost morning, and when I did, I dreamed such dreadful dreams."

"You poor little thing!" exclaimed Nettie, with patronizing sympathy, to her elder sister, and laying her cheek against hers, "you poor little thing! Well, mamma and I had a horrid time, too. You can't imagine! The wind blew into the cracks of the room _so_ cold; and the stove smoked; and I was afraid to eat when we _had_ any supper, for fear mamma would not have enough. She always said 'I am not hungry, dear,' but I think she did it to make me eat more. And one night mamma had no money to buy candles, and she wrote by moonlight; and I often heard her cry when she thought I was asleep; and I was so afraid of mamma's landladies, they screamed so loud, and scowled at me so; and the grocer's boy made faces at me when I went in for a loaf of bread, and said 'Oh, ain't we a fine lady, aint we?' And the wheel was off my old tin cart--and--oh--dear--Katy--" and Nettie's little voice grew fainter and fainter, and the little chatterbox and her listener both fell asleep.

Ruth, as she listened in the shadow of the further corner, thanked G.o.d that they who had had so brief an acquaintance with life's joys, so early an introduction to life's cares, were again blithe, free, and joyous, as childhood ever should be. How sweet to have it in her power to hedge them in with comforts, to surround them with pleasures, to make up to them for every tear of sorrow they had shed,--to repay them for the mute glance of sympathy--the silent caress--given, they scarce knew why, (but, oh, how touching! how priceless!) when her own heart was breaking.

And there they lay, in their pretty little bed, sleeping cheek to cheek, with arms thrown around each other. Nettie--courageous, impulsive, independent, irrepressible, but loving, generous, sensitive, and n.o.ble-hearted. Katy--with veins through which the life-blood flowed more evenly, thoughtful, discriminating, diffident, reserved, (so proud of those magnetic qualities in her little sister, in which she was lacking, as to do injustice to her own solid but less showy traits;) needing ever the kind word of encouragement, and judicious praise, to stimulate into life the dormant seeds of self-reliance. Ruth kissed them both, and left their future with Him who doeth all things well.

Twelve o'clock at night! Ruth lies dreaming by the side of her children.

She dreams that she roves with them through lovely gardens, odorous with sweets; she plucks for their parched lips the luscious fruits; she garlands them with flowers, and smiles in her sleep, as their beaming eyes sparkle, and the rosy flush of happiness mantles their cheeks. But look! there are three of them! Another has joined the band--a little shadowy form, with lambent eyes, and the smile of a seraph. Blessed little trio. Follows another! He has the same shadowy outline--the same sweet, holy, yet familiar eyes. Ruth's face grows radiant. The broken links are gathered up; the family circle is complete!

With the sudden revulsion of dream-land, the scene changes. She dreams that the cry of "fire! fire!" resounds through the streets; bells ring--dogs howl--watchmen spring their rattles--boys shout--men whoop, and halloo, as they drag the engine over the stony pavements. "Fire!

fire!" through street after street, she dreams the watch-word flies!

Windows are thrown up, and many a night-capped head is thrust hastily out, and as hastily withdrawn, when satisfied of the distant danger.

Still, on rush the crowd; the heavens are one broad glare, and still the wreathed smoke curls over the distant houses. From the doors and windows of the doomed building, the forked flame, fanned by the fury of the wind, darts out its thousand fiery tongues. Women with dishevelled locks, and snow-white vestments, rush franticly out, bearing, in their tightened clasp, the sick, maimed, and helpless; while the n.o.ble firemen, heedless of risk and danger, plunge fearlessly into the heated air of the burning building.

Now Ruth moves uneasily on her pillow; she becomes conscious of a stifling, choking sensation; she slowly opens her eyes. G.o.d in heaven!

it is not all a dream! With a wild shriek she springs from the bed, and s.n.a.t.c.hing from it her bewildered children, flies to the stairway. It has fallen in! She rushes to the window, her long hair floating out on the night-breeze.

A smothered groan from the crowd below. "They are lost!" The showering cinders, and falling rafters, have shut out the dreadful tableau!

No--the smoke clears away! That portion of the building still remains, and Ruth and her children are clinging to it with the energy of despair.

Who shall save them? for it were death to mount that tottering wall.

Men hold their breath, and women shriek in terror. See! a ladder is raised; a gallant fireman scales it. Katy and Nettie are dropped into the outstretched arms of the crowd below; the strong, brave arm of Johnny Galt is thrown around Ruth, and in an instant she lies fainting in the arms of a by-stander.

The butchering, ambitious conqueror, impudently issues his bulletins of killed and wounded, quenching the sunlight in many a happy home. The world shouts bravo! bravo! Telegraph wires and printing-presses are put in requisition to do him honor. Men unharness the steeds from his triumphal car, and draw him in triumph through the flower-garlanded streets. Woman--gentle woman, tosses the slaughtering hero wreaths and chaplets; but who turned twice to look at brave Johnny Galt, as, with pallid face, and smoky, discolored garments, he crawled to his obscure home, and stretched his weary limbs on his miserable couch? And yet the clinging grasp of rescued helplessness was still warm about his neck, the thrilling cry, "save us!" yet rang in the ears of the heedless crowd. G.o.d bless our gallant, n.o.ble, but _unhonored_ firemen.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xV.

"Strange we do not hear from John," said Mrs. Millet to her wooden husband, as he sat leisurely sipping his last cup of tea, and chewing the cud of his reflections; "I want to hear how he gets on; whether he is likely to get any practice, and if his office is located to suit him.

I hope Hyacinth will speak a good word for him; it is very hard for a young man in a strange place to get employment. I really pity John; it must be so disagreeable to put up with the initiatory humiliations of a young physician without fortune in a great city."

"Can't he go round and ask people to give him work, just like cousin Ruth?" asked a sharp little Millet, who was playing marbles in the corner.

"It is time you were in bed, w.i.l.l.y," said his disconcerted mother, as she pointed to the door; "go tell Nancy to put you to bed.

"As I was saying, Mr. Millet, it is very hard for poor John--he is so sensitive. I hope he has a nice boarding-house among refined people, and a pleasant room with everything comfortable and convenient about it; he is so fastidious, so easily disgusted with disagreeable surroundings. I hope he will not get low-spirited. If he gets practice I hope he will not have to _walk_ to see his patients; he ought to have a nice chaise, and a fine horse, and some trusty little boy to sit in the chaise and hold the reins, while he makes his calls. I hope he has curtains to his sleeping-room windows, and a nice carpet on the floor, and plenty of bed-clothes, and gas-light to read by, and a soft lounge to throw himself on when he is weary. Poor John--I wonder why we do not hear from him. Suppose you write to-day, Mr. Millet?"

Mr. Millet wiped his mouth on his napkin, stroked his chin, pushed back his cup two degrees, crossed his knife and fork transversely over his plate, moved back his chair two feet and a half, hemmed six consecutive times, and was then safely delivered of the following remark:

"My--over-coat."

The overcoat was brought in from its peg in the entry; the left pocket was disembowelled, and from it was ferreted out a letter from "John,"

(warranted to keep!) which had lain there unopened three days. Mrs.

Millet made no remark;--that day had gone by;--she had ate, drank, and slept, with that petrifaction too long to be guilty of any such nonsense. She sat down with a resignation worthy of Socrates, and perused the following epistle:

"DEAR MOTHER:

"Well, my sign hangs out my office-door, 'Doctor John Millet,' and here I sit day after day, waiting for patients--I should spell it _patience_. This is a great city, and there are plenty of accidents happening every hour in the twenty-four, but unluckily for me there are more than plenty of doctors to attend to them, as every other door has one of their signs swinging out. Hyacinth has been sick, and I ran up there the other day, thinking, as he is a public man, it might be some professional advantage to me to have my name mentioned in connection with his sickness; he has a splendid place, six or eight servants, and everything on a corresponding scale.

"To think of Ruth's astonishing success! I was in hopes it might help me a little in the way of business, to say that she was my cousin; but she has cut me dead. How could _I_ tell she was going to be so famous, when I requested her not to allow her children to call me 'cousin John' in the street? I tell you, mother, we all missed a figure in turning the cold shoulder to her; and how much money she has made! I might sit in my office a month, and not earn so much as she can by her pen in one forenoon. Yes--there's no denying it, we've all made a great mistake. Brother Tom writes me from college, that at a party the other night, he happened to mention (incidentally, of course) that 'Floy' was his cousin, when some one near him remarked, 'I should think the less said about that, by 'Floy's' relatives, the better.' It frets Hyacinth to a frenzy to have her poverty alluded to. He told me that he had taken the most incredible pains to conciliate editors whom he despised, merely to prevent any allusion to it in their columns. I, myself, have sent several anonymous paragraphs to the papers for insertion, contradicting the current reports, and saying that '"Floy" lost her self-respect before she lost her friends.' I don't suppose that was quite right, but I must have an eye to my practice, you know, and it might injure me if the truth were known. I find it very difficult, too, to get any adverse paragraph in, she is getting to be such a favorite (_i. e._ anywhere where it will _tell_;) the little scurrilous papers, you know, have no influence.

"It is very expensive living here; I am quite out of pocket. If you can get anything from father, I wish you would. Hyacinth says I must marry a rich wife as he did, when I get cornered by duns.

Perhaps I may, but your rich girls are invariably homely, and I have an eye for beauty. Still there's no knowing what gilded pill I may be tempted to swallow if I don't get into practice pretty soon.

Hyacinth's wife makes too many allusions to 'her family' to suit me (or Hyacinth either if the truth must be told, but he hates a dun worse, so that squares it, I suppose). Love to Leila.

"Your affectionate son, JOHN MILLET."

CHAPTER Lx.x.xVI.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hall," said one of the old lady's neighbors; "here is the book you lent me. I am much obliged to you for it. I like it better than any book I have read for a long while. You said truly that if I once began it, I should not lay it down till I had finished it."

"Yes," said the old lady, "I don't often read a book now-a-days; my eyes are not very strong, (blue eyes seldom are, I believe," said she, fearing lest her visitor should suspect old Time had been blurring them;) "but that book, now, just suits me; there is common-sense in it.

Whoever wrote that book is a good writer, and hope she will give us another just like it. 'Floy' is a queer name; I don't recollect ever hearing it before. I wonder who she is."

"So do I," said the visitor; "and what is more, I mean to find out. Oh, here comes Squire Dana's son; he knows everything. I'll ask _him_. Yes, there he comes into the gate; fine young man Mr. Dana. They _do_ say he's making up to Sarah Jilson, the lawyer's daughter; good match, too."

"Good afternoon," said both the ladies in a breath; "glad to see you, Mr. Dana; folks well? That's right. We have just been saying that you could tell us who 'Floy,' the author of that charming book, 'Life Sketches,' really is."

"You are inclined to quiz me," said Mr. Dana. "I think it should be _you_ who should give _me_ that information."

"Us?" exclaimed both the old ladies; "us? we have not the slightest idea who she is; we only admire her book."

"Well, then, I have an unexpected pleasure to bestow," said Mr. Dana, rubbing his hands in great glee. "Allow me to inform you, Mrs. Hall, that 'Floy' is no more, nor less, than your daughter-in-law,--Ruth."

"_Im_possible!" screamed the old lady, growing very red in the face, and clearing her throat most vigorously.

"I a.s.sure you it is true. My informant is quite reliable. I am glad you admire your daughter-in-law's book, Mrs. Hall; I quite share the feeling with you."