The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 4.

Next Part The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 4+1.

"Here, Jim, run to Mrs. Webster's with these 'uppers,' and tell her I want them closed and bound as quickly as possible," said Mr. Hardamer, handing a bundle to his smallest work-boy, who took it, and ran off at full speed.

"Mr. Hardamer wants these" — began little Jim, as he was always called in the shop, on entering Mrs. Webster's room; but he stopped short on perceiving her daughter, Anne, seated in a chair weeping violently.

"What's the matter, Miss Anne?" he asked, after a moment's pause, going up to her side. Anne had always been kind to him, and he liked her very much. For a few moments, the weeping girl made no answer to the inquiry of her little friend.

"O, Miss Anne, what is the matter?" again asked the boy, his own eyes filling with tears. "Where is your mother?"

"She is dead!" murmured the girl, sobbing more violently.

"O no, Miss Anne!" — But his eye turned involuntarily towards the bed, and perceived the pale, death-stricken face of Mrs. Webster. Bursting into tears, he leaned his head against the chair, on which Anne was sitting, and wept with her. He, too, had lost a friend in Mrs. Webster. For, since the death of his mother, she was the only one he had met, who seemed to care for him with something like a maternal regard.

Mrs. Webster had long been in feeble health, and had been wasting away for years in a slow decline. But death came more suddenly than had been expected. Her husband, a physician, who had not succeeded in obtaining a very large practice, had been dead for many years. In dying, he had left his intelligent and interesting wife, with one daughter, about six years old. The little that he had been able to accumulate, did not last the widow long, and Mrs. Webster was soon thrown upon her own resources, for support for herself and child. By careful economy, and constant industry, she had contrived to keep her head above water, and, at the same time, to send her child to school until she was eleven or twelve years of age. About this time, she began to feel seriously, the inroads of a concealed but fatal disease, and it became necessary to tax Anne's young strength and patience in daily toil with her needle.

The little girl, who had a deep affection for her mother, and had often been led to notice the weariness and evident pain with which she toiled on from day to day, gladly entered upon the task allotted her, and, though often fatigued and restless from long application, she never complained.

Year after year passed away, and, from one kind of work to another, they had changed, until, at last, they confined themselves to closing and binding shoes, as requiring less of wearisome application than ordinary sewing. At this they managed to support themselves comfortably, for their needs were few.

"I must go, Miss Anne," said the little boy, lifting his head from the chair against which he had leaned it. "Mr. Hardamer will beat me if I stay long."

"Poor child!" ejaculated Anne, forgetting, for the moment, her own sad condition. "I'm afraid you have a hard time of it, Jimmy."

"O no, Miss Anne, not very. Only, I'm beat so, sometimes. But I must run back. I'll come again tonight."

"Do come, I shall want to see you" — and as the pale, sorrow-stricken face of the child disappeared, her own thoughts went back again to the keen affliction she had been called to endure. But a few minutes before the little boy came in, her mother had heaved her last sigh, and she was, now, friendless, and alone with the dead. For nearly an hour she sat in almost perfect abandonment of feeling, but a sense of the duty yet left to her to perform towards all that remained of her mother, roused her from her stupor, and she called in a kind neighbor, who, with others, assisted in the last sad offices of preparing the dead for burial.

On the evening after the funeral, Anne found herself all alone, in the room where for years she had been used to see the dear face, and hear the kind words of her mother. And she was not only alone, but friendless. There were none to whom she could look for protection, and no place to which she could go, and call it her home. While busy with sad thoughts, and painful forebodings, the boy who had brought the work the day before, came in. He was but a little boy, and she was in the early bloom of womanhood, but his face was, to her, a welcome one.

"Good evening, Miss Anne," he said, entering without ceremony.

"How do you do, Jimmy? I'm glad to see you, for I feel very lonesome."

"I thought you would be lonesome, and so I came," replied the little fellow, in simplicity of heart.

"You're a very good boy, Jimmy, to remember me, now that I'm in trouble."

"I can never forget you, Miss Anne, for when everybody beat me, or made fun of me — you were always good to me, and just like my sister, who's been dead, O, so long." And the boy stood before her, with the tears streaming down his cheeks, as he thought of those who, while living, loved him and cared for him.

"You had a sister, then, Jimmy," said Anne, forgetful of her own affliction, in sympathy for the sorrow of the child.

"O, yes. And she was so good to me! But she was sick a long time, and when mother died, there was no one to take care of her. I was a little, little boy, and couldn't do nothing. And so the people put us into a cart, and sent us out to the poor-house. There they took sister, and put her in a room full of sick people, and wouldn't let me stay with her. I cried and cried to stay with her, and then they beat me so hard with a stick; and the man said he'd kill me, if I didn't hush. I was afraid to cry loud after that, but I used to lay awake most all night long, sometimes, thinking of sister, and crying all to myself. 'May I see sister? O, please let me see sister!' I said to the man, after I'd been there eight or nine days. He looked at me cross for a while, and then he said, a little easy, and didn't look so cross, that if I'd be a good boy, and not cry anymore, for the tears were running down my cheeks, that I could see her the next day. All that night I slept but little, thinking about seeing sister; and I tried not to cry, but I cried all the while.

"Next morning I was up so early — it was hardly daylight, and I waited and waited for the man to come and take me to see sister. But hour after hour passed away, after breakfast, until dinner time came; and I hadn't seen her yet. Two or three times the man came into the room, but I was afraid to say anything to him, for fear he'd be angry. But I looked him in the face as wishfully as I could, though he didn't take any notice of me. It was almost night when he came in again, and he walked about the room as unconcerned as if nobody's heart was almost breaking, like mine was. Every minute I expected him to call me to go and see sister; but he didn't seem to remember his promise. When he turned to go out, I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, and so I went right up to him, and putting up my hands, as if I was going to say my prayers, said — 'O sir, do let me see my sister!' He turned around so cross on me for a moment, and then looking towards the woman who took care of our room, said, 'Here, take this brat in to see his sister,' and whirled around quick, and went out of the room.

"The woman looked at me as if she didn't care whether she did or not — then she caught hold of my arm and said — 'Come along, and be quick too!' She almost dragged me along the passages, and upstairs to the sick room where sister was. But I didn't mind that. All I cared about was seeing sister; and in a moment or two, I was by her side. O how much paler and thinner she was! And her big bright eyes looked into my face strangely. But she was so glad to see me; and took me in her arms and held me tight to her bosom, and kissed my face all over. And then the tears rolled down her cheeks, and she shut her eyes, and was still for a good many minutes, but her lips moved all the while. 'Come, that'll do!' said the woman, 'I've no time to be fooling here,' and she took hold of me to pull me away. Sister, she looked so anxiously into the woman's face, but it didn't do no good, for her heart was cold and hard. 'Let him come again, won't you?' said sister, in a low voice. 'I don't know that I will, you make such a fuss over him,' said the woman, and lifting me down from the bed, she dragged me away.

"I didn't do nothing but cry all that night, and all the next day, too, and the man said, if I didn't hush, he'd half kill me, and said I wouldn't see my sister any more, if that was the way I acted. I stopped crying all at once; that is, outside, but I seemed to be crying inside all the while. In about two weeks more, I got so impatient to see sister, that I made bold to ask the man again. 'What's that?' said the woman, who heard me. 'Jim wants to see his sister again' said the man. 'He's a fool' said the woman, 'his sister's been dead for ten days!'

"I didn't cry nor say nothing, Miss Anne; but I can't tell you how I felt. I wanted to die too. O, it would have seemed so good, if I could have died. I stayed there a good while, when Mr. Hardamer came one day, and said he wanted a boy; and then they bound me to him. He and Mrs. Hardamer scolded me, and beat me so much, that I sometimes wish I was dead, and then I would be with mother and sister."

The poor little fellow now covered his face with his hands, and sobbed violently, while the tears trickled fast through his fingers. For some time, Anne's affliction was all absorbed in her sympathy for her little friend; but this gradually subsided, and she felt keenly her desolate condition.

"What are you going to do, Miss Anne?" said the boy to her, after his own feelings had revived a little from their great depression.

"Indeed, Jimmy, I don't know what I shall do."

"I heard Gertrude say this morning, that they wanted somebody to come there and sew; I wish you'd come; I know they'd like you."

"I will think about it, Jimmy;" she replied.

"But, maybe, Miss Anne, they'll get somebody else if you don't speak quick. Won't you come tomorrow, and see about it."

"I don't know, indeed, Jimmy; I can tell best after I have thought about it."

"O, I wish you would come!" said the little boy, as he thought more seriously of the matter. "I would be so happy."

The earnest desire expressed by her humble friend, and the sympathy she felt for him, influenced the decision of Anne in a good degree. On the next day, she called on Mrs. Hardamer, and an arrangement was soon entered into for her to come and sew for a dollar and a half a week.

This happened about the time of Genevieve's abandonment by her husband. The circumstances of her marriage and desertion were noised about among that particular class of individuals who are interested in such matters; and, as it was very well known that the girls held their heads a little too high, it afforded a subject for no little ill-natured gossip. Some few pitied, while others secretly rejoiced at the bad fortune of Genevieve. As soon as her parents ascertained that Anderson had fairly gone off, they took her home, but evinced little sympathy for her condition. Mrs. Hardamer, Genevra, and Gertrude, were too deeply mortified to regard her feelings. All hope of an elevation of the family by her marriage, was cut off. She was irrevocably tied to a worthless fellow, from whom they had only to expect disgrace and annoyance. Any scarcity of young gallants, was sure to be charged, by the girls, upon Genevieve.

"It's all owing to your miserable connection with that fellow!" said Genevra to her, one evening, after having sat up for company, all furbelowed off, in vain. "No man that thinks anything of himself, is going to marry either Gertrude or me — now that you've brought such disgrace upon the family."

"I wish that scoundrel had been at the North Pole, before he came about here," added Gertrude. "I always knew he was an impostor."

"Yes, and Genevieve might have known it too," resumed Genevra, "if she hadn't been so eager for a husband. But I reckon she's got enough of it; and I can't say that I'm much sorry, either, if it wasn't for the disgrace to the family."

Genevieve made no reply to these cruel remarks; but they entered her heart. She was too deeply afflicted to feel resentment, and she knew it would be of no use to complain. Anne was present when the remarks were made, and she at once retired to her chamber. There she was soon followed by Genevieve, who had been assigned a portion of Anne's room. She was not considered worthy to occupy the same room with her two grown-up sisters; and she, by no means, regretted the banishment.

Anne was seated at a small table, reading, when Genevieve came in; and, as the latter at once sat down by the window, and leaned her head upon her arms, she read on. In a few minutes, she was conscious that Genevieve was weeping bitterly. Closing the volume, which was none other than the Holy Word, she drew near to Genevieve, and, with a tender concern, which could not be misunderstood, took her hand, and said —

"When all our friends forsake us — there is One who still looks kindly upon us, and loves us."

Genevieve made no answer; but the tears fell faster, and she sobbed more convulsively.

"It is only through affliction, Mrs. Anderson," continued Anne, "that we can know ourselves. And this knowledge, if we make the right use of it, is worth all that we suffer. In all our sorrows, there is One who stands very near, and permits the sorrow to come upon us. But, although the floods prevail, He will not let them overwhelm us. Our Heavenly Father loves us with a deeper and a wiser love, than our earthly parents possibly can love us; and, surely, He will let nothing harm us, if we will look up to Him in child-like confidence and submission."

Genevieve grew calmer, and seemed to listen with deep attention. Anne continued:

"All affliction is for good. When we fall into these deep waters, we should not despair, but look into our own hearts, and see if we cannot find some evils there, which we could not have perceived without the affliction. And, most certainly, my dear madam, we shall not look in vain. When we see that there is an evil there, which has ruled too slavishly our former life, and been, perhaps, the real cause of our present sorrow — it is for us to try and withdraw our love from that evil, and to endeavor to put it away. If we do this with a sincere effort, and at the same time ask our Heavenly Father to take it away, because it is offensive to him, it will be removed entirely, or, in a degree corresponding with the sincerity of our desire to have it removed. Do you understand me, Mrs. Anderson?"

By this time, Genevieve had ceased to weep, and was listening with earnest attention. She replied, in a low tone:

"Not altogether, Anne; but what you say sounds as if it might be true. I have never heard anybody talk so, before. But, I am very miserable — Oh, I am very miserable!" and she clasped her hands together, and again burst into tears. This time, she laid her head upon Anne's shoulder. For a few minutes, the latter made no attempt to check the current of her feelings; but, as Genevieve grew more composed, she said —

"There can no more be pain of mind — without mental disease; than there can be pain of body — without bodily disease. The pain is simply, a call for some remedy. If there were no pain, externally or internally, in either case, the individual might die suddenly, naturally, or spiritually, without having been conscious of the existence of any disease. This pain that we feel is, then, a merciful provision; and we ought always to consider, seriously, what it means, and profit by the lessons. You say you feel miserable; if all were rightwithin, you could not feel miserable."

"But who could feel happy, Anne, under all the circumstances which surround me. Forsaken by my husband, and treated most unkindly in my father's house!" And again she gave way to a flood of tears.

"That is to be expected! Mrs. Anderson," said Anne, after a pause of some moments, in which Genevieve grew calmer. "The man who suffers with a violent pain, cannot beindifferent to it, simply because it makes him conscious that he has a disease, brought on by some particular act of indiscretion; but, then, it may reveal to him, in its true light — the folly which brought on the disease, and cause him to avoid it in future. Just so, in the case of great mental agony, arising from circumstances of affliction. By it, we are enabled to see that we have acted from wrong motives — and thus blindly run into trouble; or, we have cherished in our hearts a false estimate of things, and loved them with a selfish love; and, when they have been removed, there has been nothing upon which we could lean for comfort. Such discoveries, followed by a correction of long-formed evil habits of the mind, secure for the future, a measure of true happiness."

"Anne," said Genevieve, raising her head, and looking her young adviser in the face, with something of surprise and admiration, "you are a strange girl, different from any that I have ever met. Where did you learn these things, which sound so much like truth — and yet, are to me, new, and almost incomprehensible?"

"I had a good mother," replied Anne, her voice, trembling as she named the dear maternal name, "and she had known much sorrow. In the school of affliction, she learnedwisdom. I loved that mother," again her voice trembled, "and knew that whatever she told me was truth. The nature and cause of affliction — she taught me; and, since she has been removed from me — I have found them blessed lessons.

"But, it must never be forgotten, Mrs. Anderson, while thinking of these things, that, apart from a Christian principle of obedience to the Lord — we never can be happy. The Lord is our creator and our father; and, as our father — loves us with an unspeakable love. In His Word, He has told us in what way we should act to be happy. These laws are not merely arbitrary laws, but are grounded in love and wisdom; and any departure from them, as a natural consequence, brings misery. This misery is not a punishment directly from our heavenly Father, sent in anger for our disobedience; but is, as I have said, the natural consequence of a departure from the laws of right action, founded in infinite love and wisdom."

"But what are these laws, Anne? I have never heard of any, and I have read the Bible. I am sure I would be glad to know them."

"Have you never read the Ten Commandments?"

"Certainly, I have. But I have never, habitually, broken them."

"Perhaps you have never thought much about them."

"No, I cannot say that I have."

"Do you remember what the Lord says, in the Word, about the Commandments?"

"No, I do not, at this moment."

"Don't you recollect where he says, that, upon the commandment to love the Lord with all our hearts, and our neighbor as ourselves, hangs all the law and the prophets?"

"O, yes; I remember that."

"But I expect you have never thought much about it."

"No, I cannot say that I have."

"Well, then, Mrs. Anderson, here is the law — any departure from which will make us unhappy."

"But no one, Anne, lives up to this law."

"It is a broad saying, Mrs. Anderson, but a true one, that no one in this world is perfectly happy. And here is the secret of unhappiness."

Genevieve was silent, and Anne proceeded:

"In just the degree that we love ourselves more than we love the Lord, and that we love the world more than we love our neighbor — shall we depart from the true law of love, and find misery instead of pleasantness. That we all do depart, in a greater or less degree, from this law of love, is evidenced in the unhappiness which we all feel. In some, the departure is very great, and the consequences are deeper and more painful. In others, there is a process of approximation going on, and a desire existing to conform to this law in all things; these have a more even mind, and a more contented disposition. It is true, they have their seasons of pain; but they understand its nature, and profit by their knowledge."

"I cannot say, Anne," replied Mrs. Anderson, "that I can understand all that you have spoken. It seems as if it might all be true. But I never could believe it possible to love our neighbor as ourselves. It is not natural."

"We must, in the first place," said Anne, "be willing to believe that our heavenly Father knows better than we do, as to what is right. When we establish this belief in our minds, then we shall have some degree of willingness to obey, even though we cannot understand. So soon as we, from a right principle of obedience, attempt to shun what we are told is wrong — we shall soon begin to perceive why it is wrong. In this way, we shall gradually be brought to know how it is possible to love the Lord and our neighbor, better than ourselves or the world; and, from knowing, desire to have that pure love formed within us."

"But what has this to do, Anne, with my present affliction — and how can it remedy it?"

"As a general principle, Mrs. Anderson, it has much to do with it. But you cannot, in all probability, see it in your present state of mind. Still, if you have any desire to do what is pleasing to our heavenly Father, and will begin, by doing; or trying to do, what you see to be right — then you will soon perceive how much interest you will really have in the subject."

"But how shall I begin, Anne?"

"Are you ever conscious of acting or thinking wrong?"

"Yes, almost every day!"

"And this doing or thinking wrong, always makes you feel more unhappy?"

"Always."

"Then the way is plain before you. As soon as you are conscious of wishing to do wrong, or of indulging in wrong desires and affections — then shun such thoughts and desires asevil, and, therefore, sins against the Lord; and particularly refrain, upon the same principle, from bringing into action, and thereby confirming, these evil thoughts or affections — and you will then be doing all that is required of you. Tranquility of mind, such as you have never known, will follow these efforts, if you persevere in them, looking all the while to the Lord for aid. Don't look at anything, but your present duty. Let everything else take care of itself. In so doing, you will find that every day will bring its peculiar duties; and in their performance, you will find an internal satisfaction, of which no outward circumstances can rob you."

"I will try to do right, Anne; will you help me?"

"Even as I would help my own sister."

"You are kinder to me than my own sisters!" said Genevieve, feelingly, looking with tearful eyes into the face of Anne. "And now I can perceive, in some degree, what is meant by loving our neighbor — and how much happiness must flow from it. I am nothing to you, Anne, and yet you seem to love me, and care for me more than those who are of my own blood. This cannot be a selfish love. It must be a love for my good."

And, as the true idea dawned dimly upon her, and touched her heart, by its application to herself, as an object of that love, her feelings again gave way, and she laid her head upon the bosom of her new found friend, and wept aloud.

Under the kind and constant direction and admonition of Anne Webster — Genevieve was enabled to bear, with a degree of meekness and forbearance, the neglect of her parents, and the open unkindness of her sisters. And this change in her disposition, was not long in being observed by her parents, and softened their hearts towards her. Month after month passed away, but she had no news of her husband. As the period of their separation became more and more extended, obliterating the remembrance of unkindness, and warming up the love that had been felt for him, Genevieve became more and more desirous to hear from him, and once more to be with him. But, in this, it seemed as if she were not to be gratified, for there came no glad tidings for her anxious heart.

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