CHAPTER I. A FRIEND IN NEED.

God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally, giving forth a sudden rush of sound now 22and then like broken-winged birds making wild efforts to fly.

This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light, bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it, praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple, pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble drapery sculptured around a statue.

The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her 23lap, sighed heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient composure.

Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began to sort over the shells with eager haste.

“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small either. Get me a knife.”

The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth, and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it. The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away with it to his grandmother’s side.

“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried, breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a strong man.

The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile crept around her lips.

24“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”

“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”

“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all. That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw them in, I’ll be bound.”

Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot haste.

“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”

With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by anticipation.

“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day that we get a treat like this.”

Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.

“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a railroad, or something worth while.”

“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired, I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, 25Robert, for she hasn’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”

Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of utter despair seemed upon her.

“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect one cent. What shall we do?”

The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”

The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the weeping girl.

“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”

“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised the boys such a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare feet, how cold they look!”

“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”

Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single 26disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew it.

“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”

Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.

“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!” cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.

“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry up.”

“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister is breaking her heart to know——”

“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”

“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”

“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you get out. Business is business, and sogers is sogers; a fellow can’t let his heart wear holes in his jacket.”

27“But I want it so—I want it so.”

The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp, and went on shouting lustily for new customers, leaving the soldier’s son shivering in the street, his eyes full of tears, and his heart aching with pain. Robert stood a moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting away from him, and in his disappointment formed a new resolution.

When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned the name and address of a lady, celebrated for her energy in all charitable associations, and who was now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the benefit of the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable attention.

This lady might be at home. She owed his sister money for fancy articles made up for this fair. He would go and ask for enough to give them food; at any rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his father’s regiment had fought.

Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his course lay toward that part of the city which seems so far lifted above all the cares and privations of life that it is little wonder the poor are filled with envy when they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches may be found even in this favored quarter; and it is not remarkable that the outward contrast presented to them should often engender bitter feelings, and even intense hatred.

The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only eager to get food for those he loved, and hear news that might bring smiles back to the lovely face of his sister. 28He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his father had been among the most prosperous and respectable of the working classes. At another time his naked feet and worn cap, which but half concealed the bright waves of his hair, might have checked his ardor, and sent him cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home. Now he forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from the cold pavement, and went on his way, resolute to save his sister from the sorrow that had wounded him to the heart.

“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,” he thought. “I will do it for her. It is a man’s place to take the brunt; and when father is fighting for his country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”

With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps of a spacious white mansion, whose walls were like petrified snow, and whose windows were each a broad sheet of crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left their tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and his little hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror when he rang the bell.

A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering outside the vestibule, and drew back in a fit of sublime indignation.

“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed, eyeing the lad with august scorn. “This is no place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”

“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am the other thing. If you please, I want to see the lady,” said the boy, resolutely.

“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to do with?” demanded the servant.

29“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”

“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs. Savage?”

“I want some money.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you; and next time you come to a gentleman’s house, learn to go to the back gate.”

“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister has done work for the lady, and——”

“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe money to any one. My young friend your story is getting richer and richer. She owe you money, indeed!”

“Indeed—indeed she does.”

“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the young gentleman coming up the steps? Make off with yourself!”

Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring out of one of those light wagons sometimes used for riding, in which was a pair of fiery young horses, black as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of foam. He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement and mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if his drive had been a pleasant one.

“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the young man, as Robert passed him on the steps with angry shame burning in his face. “Did you want any thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”

The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting a bank-note from its contents, handed it to the boy.

30“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he says I did,” cried the boy, with tears in his eyes.

“Then what did you come for, my boy?”

“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work for a fair, and it is that I come about. We need the money so much; and Anna is ashamed to ask for it. She would rather go hungry.”

“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl, who hesitates to ask for it!—that must be from mistake or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home, Jared?”

“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the committee, and will be till late.”

The young man turned to Robert again. The boy was watching him with wistful attention. Tears stood in those large blue eyes, and under its glow of new-born hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy, immortalized by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage had a kind heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious; and it is doubtful if a common boy, with bare feet and poverty-stricken clothes, could have kept him so long on those marble steps.

“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad, “if your home is not far from here, I will go with you and settle this matter.”

The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was ashamed to take this elegant gentleman into his home, or that his beautiful sister should be found in that place. Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less worthy feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself. “He has seen my mother go out, and hopes to obtain something by this ridiculous claim. I will unearth the little fox!”

31“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me the way.”

Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the truth in that handsome face. He turned at once and went down the steps. Savage followed him, interested in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting out a deception. Robert did not speak, but looked back, now and then, as he turned a corner, to be sure that the gentleman was following him. The face of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he passed deeper into the neighborhood where low shanties, and high, barren-looking tenement-houses were crowded together. He passed whole families huddled together in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was, craving the fresh air that could not be found within. Groups of reckless children, happy in spite of their visible destitution, were playing in the twilight, which filled the poverty of the street with a golden haze, such as heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him, and he grew thoughtful.

“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the door of a tall, bleak building, crowded full of windows that turned coldly to the north. “If you please, I will run up first and tell them you are coming.”

“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I shall lose my way along this railway of stairs.”

Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly under the roof.

“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening 32a door, and revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young Savage where he stood. This was the picture.

A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child, who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window, goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure, delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre brown of the grandmother’s dress.

Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.

“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so, I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the street, only do not look at me so.”

“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.

33“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?”

She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously.

Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing by a shrine.

“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.”

Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion. She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously, smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her grief had thrown it.

“My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s account. Pray tell me how much it is?”

“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much. Indeed——”

“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke in Robert, who came forward with a glow on his face. “She considers it begging to ask for her own, but I don’t.”

“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage. “Business should be left to men. You and I can settle this little affair.”

“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling. “It is so small a sum that a word settles it. Only I 34should like your mother to know how thankful I am to her for giving us something to do.”

“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing a ten dollar note upon the window-sill.

“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no change.”

The young man blushed.

“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”