Fashion and Famine. Ann S. Stephens
don't want to mention his name, I didn't mean to do it, then," answered the wife with a shudder.
"You see," rejoined Father Warren, with a grave, sweet smile, "You see, wife, how long the Lord has been chastening us before he would drive the fiend from my heart. How could I expect God to make me the instrument to save our child while this hate of her husband lay coiled up like a viper in my bosom?"
"And did you hate him so terribly?" she asked, not able to comprehend the strength of a nature like his.
"Hate!" exclaimed the old man, "did you not see how I toiled and wrestled to cast that hate out from my soul?"
"Yes, I saw," answered the wife, timidly, and they sunk into silence. Thus minutes stole on; the rain came down more furiously; the winds shook the loose window panes, and the fire grew fainter and fainter, only shedding a smoky gloom over those two pale faces.
All at once there came a faint noise in the area—the moist plash of a footstep mingled with the sound of falling rain. Then the outer door opened, admitting a gush of damp wind into the hall that forced back the door of the basement, and there stood little Julia Warren, panting for breath, but full of wild and beautiful animation. The rain was dripping from her hood, and down the heavy braids of her hair, and her little feet left a wet print on the floor at every step.
The old man started up, and flung some fresh fuel on the fire, which instantly filled the basement with a brilliant but transitory light. There she stood, that brave little girl, dripping with wet, and deluged with sudden light. Her cheeks were all in a glow, warm and wet, like roses in a storm. Her eyes were absolutely star-like in their brilliancy, and her voice broke through the room in a joyful gush that made everything cheerful again.
"Did you think I was lost, grandpa, or drowned in the rain—don't it pour, though? Here, grandma, come help me with the basket. Stop, till I light a candle, though."
The child knelt down in her dripping garments to ignite the candle, which she had taken somewhere from the depths of her basket. But her little hands shook, and the flame seemed to dance before her; she really could not hold the candle still enough for her purpose, that little form thrilled and shook so with her innocent joy.
"Here, grandpa, you try," she said, surrendering the candle, while her laugh filled the room like the carol of birds, when all the trees are in blossom, "I never shall make it out; but don't think, now, that I am shivering with the wet, or tired out—don't think anything till I have told you all about it. There, now, we have a light; come, come!"
The little girl dragged her basket to the hearth, and no fairy, telling down gold and rubies to a favorite, ever looked more lovely. Down by the basket the old grandparents fell upon their knees—one holding the light—the other crying like a child.
"See, grandpa, see; a beef-steak—a great, thick beef-steak, and pickles, and bread, and—and—do look, grandmother, this paper—what do you think is in it? oh! ha! I thought you would brighten up! tea, green tea, and sugar, and—why grandfather, is that you crying so? Dear, dear, how can you? Don't you see how happy I am? Why, as true as I live, if I ain't crying myself all the time! Now, ain't it strange; every one of us crying, and all for what? I—I believe I shall die, I'm so happy!"
The excited little creature dropped the paper of tea from her hands, as she uttered these broken words, and flinging herself on the old woman's bosom, clung to her, bathed in tears, and shaking like an aspen leaf, literally strengthless with the joy that her coming had brought to that desolate place.
While her arms were around the poor woman's neck, the grandmother kept her eyes fixed upon the basket, and she contrived to break a fragment from one of the loaves it contained, and greedily devour it amid those warm caresses.
Joy is often more restless than grief; Julia was soon on her feet again.
"There, there, grandmother! just let the bread alone, what is that to the supper we will have by-and-bye. I'll get three cents' worth of charcoal, and borrow a gridiron, and—and—now don't eat any more till I come back, because of the supper!"
The little girl darted out of the room as she uttered this last injunction, and her step was heard like the leap of a fawn, as she bounded through the passage. When she returned, the larger portion of a loaf had disappeared, and the old couple were in each other's arms, while fragments of prayer and thanksgiving fell from their lips. It was a beautiful picture of the human heart, when its holiest and deepest feelings are aroused. Gratitude to God and to his creatures shed a touching loveliness over it all.
Julia, with her bright eyes and eager little hands, bustled about, quite too happy for a thought of the fatigue she had endured all the day. She drew forth the little table. She furbished and brightened up the cups and saucers, and gave an extra rub to the iron candlestick, which was, for the first time in many a day, warmed up by a tall and snowy candle. The scent of the beef-steak as it felt the heat, the warm hiss of the tea-kettle, the crackling of the fire, made a cheerful accompaniment to her quick and joyous movements. The cold rain pattering without—the light gusts of wind that shook the windows, only served to render the comfort within more delightful.
"There now," said Julia, wiping the bottom of her broken-spouted tea-pot, and placing it upon the table, "there now, all is ready! I'm to pour out the tea, grandpa must cut the steak, and you, grandma—oh, you are company to-night. Come, every thing is warm and nice."
The old people drew up to the humble board. A moment their gray heads were bent, while the girl bowed her forehead gently downward, and veiled her eyes with their silken lashes, as if the joy sparkling there were suddenly clouded by a thought of her own forgetfulness in taking a seat before the half-breathed blessing was asked.
But her heart was only subdued for a moment. Directly her hands began to flutter about the tea-pot, like a pair of humming birds, busy with some great, uncouth flower. She poured the rich amber stream forth with a dash, and as each lump of sugar fell into the cups, her mouth dimpled into fresh smiles. It was quite like a fairy feast to her. Too happy for thoughts of her own hunger, she was constantly dropping her knife and fork to push the bread to her grandfather, or heap the old grandma's plate afresh, and it seemed as if the broken tea-pot was perfectly inexhaustible, so constantly did she keep it circulating around the table.
"Isn't it nice, grandma, green tea, and such sugar. What, grandpa! you haven't got through yet?" she was constantly saying, if either of the old people paused in the enjoyment of their meal, for it seemed to her as if such unusual happiness ought to last a long, long time.
"Yes," said the old man at length, pushing back his plate with a pleasant sigh, and more pleasant smile; "yes, Julia; now let us see you eat something, then tell us how all these things came about. You must have been very lucky to have earned a meal like this with one day's work."
"A meal!" cried the child; "oh, the supper. You relished the supper, grandpa?"
"Yes; you couldn't have guessed how hungry we were, or how keenly we should have relished anything."
"But—but, you are wondering where the next will come from. You think me like a child in having spent so much in this one famous supper."
"Yes, like a child, a good, warm-hearted child—who could blame you?"
"Blame!" cried the grandmother, with tears in her eyes;—"blame! God bless her!"
"But then," said the child, shaking her head and forcing back a tear that broke through the sunshine in her eyes, "one should not spend everything at once; grandpa means that, I suppose?"
"No, no!" answered the old woman, eagerly, "he does not mean to find the least fault. How should he?"
"It would have been childish, though; but perhaps I should have done it, who knows?—one don't stop to think with a bright half dollar in one's hand, and a poor old grandfather and grandmother, hungry at home. But then look here!"
The child drew a coin from her bosom, and held it up in the candle-light.
"Gold!" cried the astonished grandfather, absolutely turning pale with