Part 39 (1/2)

”You found her.”

”No sir, found her gone--done gone entirely--key in old place where I knew where to find him--everything all here--no word for old Plato--what I give to see her once more--to see little Sissee--Oh that I knew where she was. Oh, oh, oh.”

”And would to Heaven we could tell what has become of her.”

”Who?” said the lady who had been listening with intense interest to my narrative.

”True, I had forgotten to tell you that we stood in the chamber where little Katy died. Where that last sweet kiss of an angel was given--where the candle seemed to the dying innocent to go out--where she said, 'Good bye--mother--don't drink--any more--good b--' but before the word was finished, there was another angel added to the heavenly host around the throne of G.o.d.”

It was here that the scene, which the artist has so touchingly ill.u.s.trated upon the opposite page, transpired. Turn your thoughts a moment from this page to that and look upon the picture. Turn back to Chapter VI., ”The Home of Little Katy,” and read over the story of the death of that poor innocent, and you will better appreciate the description and ill.u.s.tration of that home and that dying scene.

'Twas then and there that that fallen mother was touched by a power greater than human strength--'twas then as she knelt over her dead child, she had said, ”never, never, never, will I touch that accursed poison cup. Oh, G.o.d,” she prayed, ”take my child, my wronged and murdered child, and I will not repine; I will thank thee; I will praise thy name as my mother taught me to praise thee; as she loved and blessed, and prayed for me all her life, even after my fall, although hastened to her grave by my sin. Oh, my mother, forgive me; oh, my child, forgive me; oh, my G.o.d, forgive me, but let me live to repent, and be a mother and a blessing to my living child. Oh, my sister, where are you, cold and unforgiving sister, but for you I had not been here--why could you not forgive. Oh, G.o.d, canst thou?”

What was that still small voice that seemed to say in our ears, as she ceased speaking, and lay sobbing upon the breast of little Katy?

”Yes, sister, he can, he will, he has; rise, thy sins are forgiven thee.”

Did she hear it too? Else, why did she instantly rise up, with dry eyes and calm, almost happy features?

It was then that I gained from her the secret of her sister's name, upon a promise that I did not keep--I could not keep--it was not my duty to keep it. But where has she gone? Has her sister got my letter?--has her heart at last been touched?--has she taken her away? If so, why has she not told me where? Long days and nights of anxiety have come and gone, and she comes not back to her home. Has despair worked its wonted result, and does the ocean wave roll over the mother and her child, in a suicide's watery grave?

”What would I give to know?”

”You must wait,” said our sympathizing friend.

Yes, we must wait. Yet ”Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.”

”Have you been to see the woman who sent for you to-day?”

”No! It is n.o.body that I know. Some mistake.”

Yes, it was some mistake.

”But she sent her name by the black woman, when she came the second time.”

”I know it, but it is no one that I know. The name is utterly unknown to me. It is a French name. Some mistake.” There was a mistake.

What prompted me to look again at the name? I knew it as well as I should if I looked at that paper a hundred times. Yet I was prompted to look at it once more. The desire was irresistible. Who has ever felt a longing after something unseen, unknown, unheard, undefined, something that he feels as though he must have or die, yet knows not how to obtain, may realize the intensity of my desire to see that paper once more. Where is it? This pocket, and that is searched, turned wrong side out, and turned back again; the table, floor, books, papers, hunted over, but nowhere can it be found. What has spirited it away? It could not blow out of the window, for there is no air stirring.

”It must,” said the lady, ”have gone down on the tea-tray--I will call Bridget.”

A woman is worth a dozen men for thought, and this time she thought truly. It had gone down that way, and gone into the slop-bucket, and into the street.

”Bridget, will you take a lamp and go out and see if you can find it.”

”Yes, sir, certainly, and I think I can.”

Blessed hope. My friend was curious to know, what in the world I wanted of that piece of paper? ”You say, you remember the name and number perfectly, and yet you act as though it was of the utmost value. I recollect seeing you once when you had lost a twenty dollar bill, as cool and careless as though it had been as worthless as this little sc.r.a.p of paper. Now you act strangely, what can it mean?”

”I don't know--I know I want to see that paper. I cannot tell why.”