The Letter of Credit. Warner Susan

be wiser than asking useless questions."

      "But why didn't you have it, mother? Did aunt Serena – did your sister – get it all?"

      "Get your book, Rotha."

      "Mother, please tell me. I shall know the answer if you do not tell me."

      "Your aunt had it all," Mrs. Carpenter said very quietly.

      "Why?"

      "Your grandfather thought there were good reasons."

      "Were there, mother?"

      "I do not think so. But let it be, Rotha, and never mention this subject to me again. Different people have different ways of looking at the same thing; and people are often very honestly mistaken. You must not judge others by yourself."

      "Mother, I think that was very unjust," said Rotha, in immediate disregard of this precept.

      "You must not think it was meant so."

      "But, mother, if a wrong thing is honestly meant, does that make it right?"

      "There is but one rule of right and wrong; it is God's rule."

      "Then what difference does it make, whether it was 'honestly meant' or no?"

      "A good deal, I should say. Don't you think it does?"

      "I do not believe aunt Serena means it honestly, though. If she was a good woman, she wouldn't keep what belongs to you. She must know it is wrong!"

      "Rotha, you are paining me," said Mrs. Carpenter, the tears springing to her eyes. "This is very foolish talk, and very improper. Get your book."

      "I don't wonder you don't want to go and see her!" said Rotha indignantly as she obeyed the order. "O mother! if I could just once roll in the grass again!"

      At this moment came a cry from the street – "Straw – berr_ees!_"

      "What's that?" exclaimed Rotha springing to the window. "Mother, it's a woman with a basket full of something red. Strawberries! it's strawberries!"

      The accent of this word went to the mother's heart.

      "It's early yet," she said. "They will be very dear. By and by they will be plenty and cheaper."

      "Strawberries!" repeated Rotha, following the woman with her eyes. "Mother, I think I do hate New York. The sight of those strawberries makes me wild. I want Carlo, and the ducks, and my old pussy cat, and the garden; and – Oh, I want father!"

      The natural conclusion to this burst was a passion of weeping. Mrs. Carpenter was fain to lay down her work, and put her arms round the child, and shed some tears with her; though even as they fell she was trying to soothe Rotha into patience and self-command. Two virtues of which as yet the girl knew nothing, except that her mother was a very lovely and constant exemplification of them. Nobody ever expected either from Rotha; although this was the first violent expression of grief and longing that her mother had seen since their removal to New York, and it took her by surprise. Rotha had seemed to acquiesce with tolerable ease in the new conditions of things; and this was Mrs. Carpenter's first notification that under all the outside calm there lay a power of wish and pain. They wept together for a while, the mother and child, which was a sort of relief to both of them.

      "Mother," said Rotha, as she dried her tears and struggled to prevent more coming, – "I could bear it, only that I don't see any end to it."

      "Well, my child? what then?" said the mother tenderly.

      "I don't feel as if I could bear this always."

      "There might be much worse, Rotha."

      "That don't make this one bit better, mother. It makes it harder."

      "We must trust God."

      "For what? I don't see."

      "Trust him, that he will keep his promises. I do."

      "What promises?"

      "He has said, that none of them that trust in him shall be desolate."

      "But 'not desolate'! That is not enough," said. Rotha. "I want more than that. I want to be happy; and I want to be comfortable."

      "Are you not comfortable, my child?"

      "No, mother," Rotha said with a sob.

      "What do you want?" Mrs. Carpenter spoke with a gentle soft accent, which half soothed, half reproached Rotha, though she did not mean any reproach. Rotha, nevertheless went on.

      "I want nearly everything, mother! everything that we haven't got."

      "It would not make you happy, if you had it."

      "Why not? Why wouldn't it?"

      "Because nothing of that sort can. There is only one thing that makes people happy."

      "I know; you mean religion. But I am not religious. And if I was happy, mother, I should want those other things too."

      "If you were happy – you would be happy," Mrs. Carpenter said with a slight smile.

      "That would not hinder my wanting other things. I should want, as I do now, nice dresses, and a nice house, and books, and not to have to cook and wash dishes, and to take a ride sometimes and a walk sometimes – not a walk to market – I want all that, mother."

      "I would give it you if I could, Rotha. If I had it and did not give it to you, you would know that I had some very good reason."

      "I might think you were mistaken," said Rotha.

      "We cannot think that of the only wise God," Mrs. Carpenter said with that same faint, sweet smile again; "so we must fall back upon the other alternative."

      Rotha was silenced.

      "We know that he loves us, dear; and 'they that trust in the Lord shall not want any good thing.' As soon as it would be good for us, if that time ever comes, we shall have it. As for me, if you were only one of those that trust in him, I should hardly have a wish left."

      Rotha dried her tears and went at her work. But the summer, as the days passed, was a trial to both of them. Accustomed to sweet country air and free motion about the farm, the closeness, the heat, the impurities, and the confinement of the city were extremely hard to bear. They made it also very difficult to work. Often it seemed to Mrs. Carpenter, unused to such a sedentary life and close bending over her needle, that she must stop and wait till it grew cooler, or till she herself felt a little refreshed. But the necessities of living drove her on, as they drive so many, pitilessly. She could not intermit her work. Rents were due just the same in summer as in winter, and meat and bread were no cheaper. She grew very thin and pale; and Rotha too, though in a far less degree, shewed the wilting and withering effect of the life they led. Rarely a walk could be had; the streets were hot and disagreeable; and Mrs. Carpenter could but now and then dare to spend twenty cents for car hire to take her and Rotha to the Park and back again. The heats of July were very hard to bear; the heats of August were more oppressive still; and when September came with its enervating moist, muggy, warm days, Mrs. Carpenter could scarcely keep her place and her work at her window. All day she could not. She was obliged to stop and lie by. Appetite failed, meals were not enticing; and on the whole, Mrs. Marble was not at all satisfied with the condition of either of her lodgers.

      The cooler weather and then the frosts wrought some amendment. Yet all the autumn did not put them back where the spring had found them; and late in November Mrs. Carpenter took a cold which she could not immediately get rid of. A bad cough set in; strength rather failed than grew; and the thin hands which were so unceasingly busy with their work, became more and more transparently thin. Mrs. Carpenter needed rest; she knew it; and the thought came to her that it might be duty, and even it might be necessity, to apply to her sister for help. Surely it could not be refused?

      She was often busy with this thought.

      One day she had undertaken a longer walk than usual, to carry home some articles of fine sewing that she had finished. She would not send Rotha so far alone, but she took her along for company and for the air and exercise. Her way led her into the finer built part of the city. Coming down Broadway, she was stopped a minute by a little crowd on the sidewalk, just as a carriage drew up and