Part 19 (1/2)

The next morning Mrs. Farrell went about her work in a more hopeful mood.

Bernard started for the office in better spirits than usual, humming s.n.a.t.c.hes of a song, a few words of which kept running in his mind all day:

”G.o.d rules, and thou shall have more sun When clouds their perfect work have done.”

That afternoon Mr. Crosswell, the head of the firm, who seemed suddenly to have become aware that something was wrong, said to him:

”My lad, how is it that your mother has not been doing the extra type-writing lately? I find a great deal of it has been given to some one else.”

”She has been sick with rheumatism, sir,” answered the boy; ”and her fingers are so stiff that she cannot work the machine.”

”Tut! tut!” cried the lawyer, half annoyed. ”You should have told me this before. If she is ill, she must need many little luxuries” (he refrained from saying _necessaries_). ”She must let me pay her in advance. Here are twenty-five dollars. Tell her not to hesitate to use the money, for she can make up for it in work later. I was, you know, a martyr to rheumatism last winter, but young Dr. Sullivan cured me. I'll send him round to see her; and, remember, there will be no expense to you about it.”

”I don't know how to thank you, sir!” stammered Bernard, gratefully.

Then he hurried home to tell his mother all that had happened, and to put into her hands the bank-notes, for which she could find such ready use.

Doctor Sullivan called to see Mrs. Farrell the following day,

”Why,” said he, ”this is a very simple case! You would not have been troubled so long but for want of the proper remedies.”

He left her a prescription, which wrought such wonders that in a fortnight she was able to resume her occupation.

From this time also Mr. Crosswell gave Bernard many opportunities by which he earned a small sum in addition to his weekly salary, and soon the Farrells were in comfortable circ.u.mstances again.

By degrees they became better acquainted with old Willis; but it was not till he began to be regarded, and to consider himself, as an intimate friend of the family that Bernard's mother ventured to tell him they knew of his kind deed done in secret,--a revelation which caused him much confusion. Bernard had discovered long before that their eccentric neighbor, far from being a parsimonious h.o.a.rder of untold wealth, was, in fact, almost a poor man. He possessed a life-interest in the house in which he dwelt, and the income of a certain investment left to him by the will of a former employer in acknowledgment of faithful service. It was a small amount, intended merely to insure his support; but, in spite of his age, he still worked for a livelihood, distributing the annuity in charity. The n.o.ble-hearted old man stinted himself that he might be generous to the sick, the suffering, the needy; for the ”miser's gold”

was only a treasure of golden deeds.

THAT RED SILK FROCK.

I.

You could not help liking little Annie Conwell; she was so gentle, and had a half shy, half roguish manner, which was very winning. And, then, she was so pretty to look at, with her pink cheeks, soft blue eyes, and light, wavy hair. Though held up as a model child, like most people, including even good little girls, she was fond of her own way; and if she set her heart upon having anything, she wanted it without delay--right then and there. And she usually got it as soon as possible; for Mr. Conwell was one of the kindest of fathers, and if Annie had cried for the moon he would have been distressed because he could not obtain it for her; while, as the two older children, Walter and Josephine, were away at boarding-school, Mrs. Conwell, in her loneliness at their absence, was perhaps more indulgent toward her little daughter than she would otherwise have been.

Annie's great friend was Lucy Caryl. Lucy lived upon the next block; and every day when going to school Annie called for her, or Lucy ran down to see if Annie was ready. Regularly Mrs. Conwell said: ”Remember, Annie, I want you to come straight from school, and not stop at the Caryls'. If you want to go and play with Lucy afterward, I have no objection, but you _must_ come home first.”

”Yes, um,” was the docile answer she invariably made.

But, strange as it may seem, although Annie Conwell was considered clever and bright enough in general, and often stood head of her cla.s.s, she seemed to have a wretched memory in regard to this parting injunction of her mother, or else there were ostensibly many good reasons for making exceptions to the rule. When, as sometimes happened, she entered the house some two hours after school was dismissed, and threw down her books upon the sitting-room table, Mrs.

Conwell reproachfully looked up from her sewing and asked: ”What time is it, dear?”

And Annie, after a startled glance at the clock, either stammered, ”O mother, I forgot!” or else rattled off an unsatisfactory excuse.

”Very well!” was the frequent warning. ”If you stay at Lucy Caryl's without permission, you must remain indoors on Sat.u.r.day as a punishment for your disobedience.”

Nevertheless, when the end of the week came, Annie usually managed to escape the threatened penalty. For Sat.u.r.day is a busy day in the domestic world; and Mrs. Conwell was one of the fine, old-fas.h.i.+oned housekeepers--now, unfortunately, somewhat out of date--who looked well after the ways of her household, which was in consequence pervaded by an atmosphere of comfort and prosperity.

One especial holiday, however, she surprised the little maid by saying,

”Annie, I have told you over and over again that you must come directly home from school, and yet for several days you have not made your appearance until nearly dusk. I am going down town now, and I forbid you to go out to play until I return. For a great girl, going on ten years of age, you are too heedless. Something must be done about it.”