The Young Trawler | Page 5

Ruth would never be convinced.
She was so far right, in that her daughter could not change her mind on
the strength of mere dogmatic assertion, even although she was a pliant
and teachable little creature. So, at least, Mr Lewis, her pastor, had
found her when he tried to impress on her a few important
lessons--such as, that it is better to give than to receive; that man is his
brother's keeper; that we are commanded to walk in the footsteps of
Jesus, who came to save the lost, 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