The Letter of Credit. Warner Susan

at the place they sought.

      The region was not one of miserable poverty and tenant houses. Better than that; and the buildings being low and small did not darken the streets, as Mrs. Carpenter had found in some parts of the city. A decent woman, a mantua-maker, had the house and offered Mrs. Carpenter the second floor; two little rooms and a closet off them. The rooms were furnished after a sort; but Mrs. Marble could give no board with them; only lodging. She was a bright, sharp little woman.

      "Yes, I couldn't," she said. "It wouldn't pay. I couldn't mind my business. I take my meals in a corner; for I couldn't have grease and crumbs round; but where one person can stand, three can't sit. You'll have to manage that part yourself. It'll be cheaper for you, too."

      "Is anything cheap here?" Mrs. Carpenter asked wearily. She had sat down to rest and consider.

      "That's how you manage it," said the other, shewing a full and rather arch smile. She was a little woman, quick and alert in all her ways and looks. "My rooms aint dear, to begin with; and you needn't ruin yourself eating; if you know how."

      "I knew how in the country," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Here it is different."

      "Aint it! I guess it is. Rents, you see; and folks must live, landlords and all. Some of 'em do a good deal more; but that aint my lookout. I'd eat bread and salt sooner than I'd be in debt; and I never do be that. Is it only you two?"

      "That is all."

      "Then you needn't to worry. I guess you'll get along."

      For Mrs. Marble noticed the quiet respectability of her caller, and honestly thought what she said. Mrs. Carpenter reflected. The rooms were not high; she could save a good deal by the extra trouble of providing herself; she would be more private, and probably have things better to her liking. Besides, her very soul sickened at the thought of looking for any more rooms. She decided, and took these. Then she asked about the possibilities of getting work. Mrs. Marble's countenance grew more doubtful.

      "Plain sewing?" she said. "Well, there's a good many folks doing that, you see."

      "I thought, perhaps, you could put me in the way of some."

      "Well, perhaps I can. I'll see what I can think of. But there's a many doing that sort o' thing. They're in every other house, almost. Now, when will you come?"

      "To-morrow. I suppose I cannot tell what I want to get till I do come."

      "I can tell you some things right off. You'd better do part of it to-day, or you'll want everything at once. First of all, you'd better order in some coal. You can get that just a block or two off; Jones & Sanford; they have a coal yard. It is very convenient."

      "Where can it be put?"

      "In the cellar. There's room enough. And if I was you, I wouldn't get less than half a ton. They make awful profits when they sell by the basket. You will want a little kindling too. Hadn't you better get a little bit of a stove? one with two places for cooking; or one place. It will save itself six times over in the course of the winter."

      "Where can I get it?"

      "I guess you're pretty much of a stranger here, aint you?"

      "Entirely a stranger."

      "I thought so. Folks get a look according to the place they live. You aint bad enough for New York," she added with a merry and acute smile.

      "I hope there are some good people here," said Mrs. Carpenter.

      "I hope so. I haven't passed 'em all through my sieve; got something else to do; and it aint my business neither. Well – only don't you think there aint some bad ones in the lot, that's all. There's plenty of places where you can get your stove, if you want to. Elwall's in Abingdon Square, is a very good place. Some things goes with the stove. I guess you know what you want as well as I do," she said, breaking off and smiling again.

      "I shall need bedding too," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a look at the empty bedstead.

      "You can't do everything at once, if you're to come in to-morrow. I'll tell you – I've a bed you can have, that I aint using. It'll cost you less, and do just as well. I aint one of the bad ones," she said, again with a gleam of a smile. "I shan't cheat you."

      The arrangement was made at last, and Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha set out on their way back. They stopped in Abingdon Square and bought a stove, a little tea-kettle, a saucepan and frying pan; half a dozen knives and forks, spoons, etc., a lamp, and sundry other little indispensable conveniences for people who would set up housekeeping. Rotha was glad to be quit of the hotel, and yet in a divided state of mind. Too tired to talk, however, that night; which was a happiness for her mother.

      The next day was one of delightful bustle; all filled with efforts to get in order in the new quarters. And by evening a great deal was done. The bed was made; the washstand garnished; the little stove put up, fire made in it, and the kettle boiled; and at night mother and daughter sat down to supper together, taking breath for the first time that day. Mrs. Carpenter had been to a neighbouring grocery and bought a ham and bread; eggs were so dear that they scared her; she had cooked a slice and made tea, and Rotha declared that it tasted good.

      "But this is funny bread, mother."

      "It is baker's bread."

      "It is nice, a little, but it isn't sweet."

      "Let us be thankful we have got it, Rotha."

      "Yes; but, mother, I think I should be more thankful for better bread."

      "I will try and make you some better," Mrs. Carpenter said laughing.

      "This is not economical, I am sure."

      "Mother," said Rotha, "do you suppose aunt Serena takes in sewing?"

      "She? no. She gives it out."

      "You would not like to do her sewing?"

      "I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly.

      "Does she do her own cooking, as you do?"

      "No, my child. She has no need."

      "Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?"

      "That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to her eyes.

      "Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "if she isn't, I should say that things are queer."

      "That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him."

      "And weren't they?" asked Rotha.

      "No. He did not understand; that was all."

      "I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me uneasy."

      "You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy."

      "Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly.

      "Trust God. He knows."

      "Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted.

      "For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and in the best way."

      "Mother, that is trusting a good deal."

      "The Lord likes to have us trust him."

      "But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?"

      "You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his children."

      "I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly.

      "Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always do that."

      "And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?"

      "Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days."

      Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true.

      "Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?"

      "Not now."

      "When?"

      "I