yard. It is very convenient."
"Where can it be put?"
"In the cellar. There's room enough. And if I was you, I wouldn't get less than half a ton. They make awful profits when they sell by the basket. You will want a little kindling too. Hadn't you better get a little bit of a stove? one with two places for cooking; or one place. It will save itself six times over in the course of the winter."
"Where can I get it?"
"I guess you're pretty much of a stranger here, aint you?"
"Entirely a stranger."
"I thought so. Folks get a look according to the place they live. You aint bad enough for New York," she added with a merry and acute smile.
"I hope there are some good people here," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"I hope so. I haven't passed 'em all through my sieve; got something else to do; and it aint my business neither. Well – only don't you think there aint some bad ones in the lot, that's all. There's plenty of places where you can get your stove, if you want to. Elwall's in Abingdon Square, is a very good place. Some things goes with the stove. I guess you know what you want as well as I do," she said, breaking off and smiling again.
"I shall need bedding too," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a look at the empty bedstead.
"You can't do everything at once, if you're to come in to-morrow. I'll tell you – I've a bed you can have, that I aint using. It'll cost you less, and do just as well. I aint one of the bad ones," she said, again with a gleam of a smile. "I shan't cheat you."
The arrangement was made at last, and Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha set out on their way back. They stopped in Abingdon Square and bought a stove, a little tea-kettle, a saucepan and frying pan; half a dozen knives and forks, spoons, etc., a lamp, and sundry other little indispensable conveniences for people who would set up housekeeping. Rotha was glad to be quit of the hotel, and yet in a divided state of mind. Too tired to talk, however, that night; which was a happiness for her mother.
The next day was one of delightful bustle; all filled with efforts to get in order in the new quarters. And by evening a great deal was done. The bed was made; the washstand garnished; the little stove put up, fire made in it, and the kettle boiled; and at night mother and daughter sat down to supper together, taking breath for the first time that day. Mrs. Carpenter had been to a neighbouring grocery and bought a ham and bread; eggs were so dear that they scared her; she had cooked a slice and made tea, and Rotha declared that it tasted good.
"But this is funny bread, mother."
"It is baker's bread."
"It is nice, a little, but it isn't sweet."
"Let us be thankful we have got it, Rotha."
"Yes; but, mother, I think I should be more thankful for better bread."
"I will try and make you some better," Mrs. Carpenter said laughing.
"This is not economical, I am sure."
"Mother," said Rotha, "do you suppose aunt Serena takes in sewing?"
"She? no. She gives it out."
"You would not like to do her sewing?"
"I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly.
"Does she do her own cooking, as you do?"
"No, my child. She has no need."
"Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?"
"That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to her eyes.
"Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "if she isn't, I should say that things are queer."
"That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him."
"And weren't they?" asked Rotha.
"No. He did not understand; that was all."
"I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me uneasy."
"You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy."
"Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly.
"Trust God. He knows."
"Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted.
"For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and in the best way."
"Mother, that is trusting a good deal."
"The Lord likes to have us trust him."
"But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?"
"You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his children."
"I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly.
"Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always do that."
"And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days."
Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true.
"Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?"
"Not now."
"When?"
"I do not know."
"Where does she live?"
"Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to rights in the other room."
The next day Mrs. Carpenter set about finding some work. Alas, if there were many that had it to give, there seemed to be many more that wanted it. It was worse than looking for rooms. At last some tailoring was procured from a master tailor; and Mrs. Carpenter sat all day over her sewing, giving directions to Rotha about the affairs of the small housekeeping. Rotha swept and dusted and washed dishes and set the table, and prepared vegetables. Not much of that, for their meals were simple and small; however, with one thing and another the time was partly filled up. Mrs. Carpenter stitched. It was a new thing, and disagreeable to the one looker-on, to see her mother from morning to night bent over work which was not for herself. At home, though life was busy it was not slaving. There were intervals, and often, of rest and pleasure taking. She and Rotha used to go into the garden to gather vegetables and to pick fruit; and at other times to weed and dress the beds and sow flower seeds. And at evening the whole little family were wont to enjoy the air and the sunsets and the roses from the hall door; and to have sweet and various discourse together about a great variety of subjects. Those delights, it is true, ceased a good while ago; the talks especially. Mrs. Carpenter was not much of a talker even then, though her words were good when they came. Now she said little indeed; and Rotha missed her father. An uneasy feeling of want and longing took possession of the child's mind. I suppose she felt mentally what people feel physically when they are slowly starving to death. It had not come to that yet with Rotha;
