and cries because she is hungry."
"She is pretty, I believe?" said Mrs. Campbell, and Rosa Pond, who sat by the window, and had not spoken before, immediately answered, "Oh, yes, she is perfectly beautiful; and do you know, Mrs. Campbell, that when she is dressed clean and nice, I think she looks almost exactly like your little Ella!"
A haughty frown was Mrs. Campbell's only answer, and Rosa did not venture another remark, although several whispered to her that they, too, had frequently observed the strong resemblance between Ella Howard and Ella Campbell.
From what has been said, the reader will readily understand that the sick woman in whom Mrs. Johnson was so much interested, was our old acquaintance Mrs. Howard.
All inquiries for her sisters had been fruitless, and after stopping for a time in Worcester, they had removed to Chicopee, where recently Mr. Howard had died. Their only source of maintenance was thus cut off, and now they were reduced to the utmost poverty. Since we last saw them a sickly baby had been added to their number. With motherly care little Mary each day washed and dressed it, and then hour after hour carried it in her arms, trying to still its feeble moans, which fell so sadly on the ear of her invalid mother.
It was a small, low building which they inhabited, containing but one room and a bedroom, which last they had ceased to occupy, for one by one each article of furniture had been sold, until at last Mrs. Howard lay upon a rude lounge, which Frank had made from some rough boards. Until midnight the little fellow toiled, and then when his work was done crept softly to the cupboard, there lay one slice of bread, the only article of food which the house contained. Long and wistfully he looked at it, thinking how good it would taste; but a glance at the pale faces near decided him. "They need it more than I," said he, and turning resolutely away, he prayed that he "might sleep pretty soon and forget how hungry he was."
Day after day he worked on, and though his cheek occasionally flushed with anger when of his ragged clothes and naked feet the village boys made fun, he never returned them any answer, but sometimes when alone the memory of their thoughtless jeers would cause the tears to start, and then wiping them away, he would wonder if it was wicked to be poor and ragged. One morning when he attempted to rise, he felt oppressed with a languor he had never before experienced, and turning on his trundlebed, and adjusting his blue cotton jacket, his only pillow, he again slept so soundly that Mary was obliged to call him twice ere she aroused him.
That night he came home wild with delight—he had earned a whole dollar, and knew how he could earn another half dollar to-morrow. "Oh, I wish it would come quick," said he, as he related his success to his mother.
But, alas, the morrow found him burning with fever and when he attempted to stand, he found it impossible to do so. A case of scarlet fever had appeared in the village and it soon became evident that the disease had fastened upon Frank. The morning following the sewing society Ella Campbell and several other children showed symptoms of the same disease, and in the season of general sickness which followed, few were left to care for the poor widow. Daily little Frank grew worse. The dollar he had earned was gone, the basket of provisions Mrs. Johnson had sent was gone, and when for milk the baby Alice cried, there was none to give her.
At last Frank, pulling the old blue jacket from under his head, and passing it to Mary, said, "Take it to Bill Bender—he offered me a shilling for it, and a shilling will buy milk for Allie and crackers for mother—take it."
"No, Franky," answered Mary, "you would have no pillow, besides, I've got something more valuable, which I can sell. I've kept it long, but it must go to keep us from starving;"—and she held to view the golden locket, which George Moreland had thrown around her neck.
"You shan't sell that," said Frank. "You must keep it to remember George, and then, too, you may want it more some other time."
Mary finally yielded the point, and gathering up the crumpled jacket, started in quest of Billy Bender. He was a kind-hearted boy, two years older than Frank, whom he had often befriended, and shielded from the jeers of their companions. He did not want the jacket, for it was a vast deal too small; and it was only in reply to a proposal from Frank that he should buy it that he had casually offered him a shilling. But now, when he saw the garment, and learned why it was sent he immediately drew from his old leather wallet a quarter, all the money he had in the world and giving it to Mary bade her keep it, as she would need it all.
Half an hour after a cooling orange was held to Frank's parched lips, and Mary said, "Drink it, brother, I've got two more, besides some milk and bread," but the ear she addressed was deaf and the eye dim with the fast falling shadow of death. "Mother, mother!" cried the little girl, "Franky won't drink and his forehead is all sweat. Can't I hold you up while you come to him?"
Mrs. Howard had been much worse that day, but she did not need the support of those feeble arms. She felt, rather than saw that her darling boy was dying, and agony made her strong. Springing to his side she wiped from his brow the cold moisture which had so alarmed her daughter chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his head, until he seemed better and fell asleep.
"Now, if the doctor would only come," said Mary; but the doctor was hurrying from house to house, for more than one that night lay dying in Chicopee. But on no hearthstone fell the gloom of death so darkly as upon that low, brown house, where a trembling woman and a frail young child watched and wept over the dying Frank. Fast the shades of night came on, and when all was dark in the sick room, Mary sobbed out, "We have no candle, mother, and if I go for one, and he should die—"
The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister's hand, he said, "Don't go, Mary:—don't leave me—the moon is shining bright, and I guess I can find my way to God just as well."
Nine;—ten;—eleven;—and then through the dingy windows the silvery moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to heaven. Mary had drawn her mother's lounge to the side of the trundlebed, and in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard lay gasping for breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread reality about to occur, knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her pale cheek and asking if she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her hands on Mary's head, and prayed that she might be preserved and kept from harm by the God of the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience resting upon her own head might not be visited upon her child.
After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until roused by a low sob. Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards her children. The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of Frank, who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing back from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard to smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.
"Does he sleep?" asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her hands the face of him who slept, answered, "Turn away, mother;—don't look at him. Franky is dead. He died with his arms around my neck, and told me not to wake you."
Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back half fainting upon her pillow. Towards daylight a violent coughing fit ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was dying. Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, "I am leaving you alone, in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie, and go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless my precious children—and reward you as you deserve, my darling—"
The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of death, and then weeping to think she was alone.
CHAPTER III.
