The Young Trawler | Page 5

to rescue the perishing, and who fed the hungry.
"But, mother," resumed Ruth, "I want you to go with me to-day to visit some poor people who are not troublesome, who are perfectly clean, are never ill-natured, suspect nothing, and envy nobody."
"They must indeed be wonderful people," said Mrs Dotropy, with a laugh at Ruth's enthusiasm, "quite angelic."
"They are as nearly so as mortals ever become, I think," returned Ruth, putting on her hat; "won't you come, mother?"
Now, Mrs Dotropy had the faculty of giving in gracefully, although she could not argue. Rising with an amused smile, she kissed Ruth's forehead and went to prepare for a visit to the poor.
Let us now turn to a small street scarcely ten minutes' walk from the mansion where the above conversation took place.
It was what may be styled a Lilliputian street. Almost everything in it was small. The houses were small; the shops were small; the rents-- well, they were certainly not so small as they should have been, the doors and windows were small; and the very children that played in the gutter, with an exceedingly small amount of clothing on them, were rather diminutive. Some of the doors stood open, revealing the fact that it had been thought wise by the builders of the houses to waste no space in lobbies or entrance halls. One or two, however, displayed entries, or passages--dark and narrow--the doors to which were blistered and severely battered, because, being the public property of several families, they had no particular owner to protect them.
There was a small flat over a green-grocer's shop to which one of the cleanest of those entries led. It consisted of two rooms, a light-closet and a kitchen, and was low-ceilinged and poorly furnished, but there was a distinct air of cleanliness about it, with a consequent tendency to comfort. The carpet of the chief room was very old, but it had been miraculously darned and patched. The table was little larger than that of a gigantic doll's-house, but it was covered with a clean, though threadbare, cloth, that had seen better days, and on it lay several old and well-thumbed books, besides two work-baskets.
In an old--a very old--easy-chair at one side of the fire sat a lady rather beyond middle age, with her hands clasped on her lap, and her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire. Perhaps she was speculating on the question how long two small lumps of coal and a little dross would last. The grate in which that amount of fuel burned was a miniature specimen of simplicity,--a mere hollow in the wall with two bars across. The fire itself was so small that nothing but constant solicitude saved it from extinction.
There was much of grey mingled with the fair tresses of the lady, and the remains of beauty were very distinct on a countenance, the lines of which suggested suffering, gentleness, submission, and humility. Perchance the little sigh that escaped her as she gazed at the preposterously small fire had reference to days gone by when health revelled in her veins; when wealth was lavished in her father's house; when food and fun were plentiful; when grief and care were scarce. Whatever her thoughts might have been, they were interrupted by the entrance of another lady, who sat down beside her, laid a penny on the table, and looked at the lady in the easy-chair with a peculiar, half-comical expression.
"It is our last, Jessie," she said, and as she said it the expression intensified, yet it seemed a little forced.
There needed no magician to tell that these two were sisters. The indescribable similarity was strong, yet the difference was great. Jessie was evidently, though not much, the elder.
"It's almost absurd, Kate," she said, "to think that we should actually have--come--at last--to--"
She stopped, and Kate looked earnestly at her. There was a tremulous motion about the corners of both their mouths. Jessie laid her head on Kate's shoulder, and both wept--gently. They did not "burst into tears," for they were not by nature demonstrative. Their position made it easy to slide down on their knees and bury their heads side by side in the great old easy-chair that had been carefully kept when all the rest was sold, because it had belonged to their father.
We may not record the scarce audible prayer. Those who have suffered know what it was. Those who have not suffered could not understand it. After the prayer they sat down in a somewhat tranquil mood to "talk it over." Poor things--they had often talked it over, without much result, except that blessed one of evolving mutual sympathy.
"If I were only a little younger and stronger," said Kate, who had been, and still was of a lively disposition, "I would offer myself as a housemaid,