CHAPTER II

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BETSEY.

LITTLE Emma Gaylord had been sitting very still for almost half an hour: a very long while for her, for she was a very lively talkative little girl, and was not often quiet long at a time.

"What are you thinking about, Emma?" asked her mother.

"About stepmothers, mamma," said Emma slowly.

"And what about them? What set you to thinking about stepmothers?"

"The girls in school were talking this afternoon about Sophie Kennedy having a stepmother, and they seemed—some of them at least—to think that it would be very hard for her, but Harry Reed said she thought it would be a good thing."

"Very good, my dear," said her mother. "I am glad Harry is so sensible."

"Who is Harry Reed, Emma?" asked Miss Tilden. "I did not know you had any boys in your school."

"Harry Reed is not a boy, aunt Eliza," said Emma laughing; "she is a very nice girl indeed. Her name is Harriet, but she has a cousin Harriet who is called Hatty, and Harriet Howe is always called Haly; so the girls, and her father too I believe, call Harriet Reed, Harry."

"Did Sophie say any thing about her new mamma, Emma?" asked Mrs. Gaylord.

"No, mamma, she did not have a chance. I do not think she knew of it until she heard the girls talking about it. Then she turned pale and almost fainted away, and when she got better, Harry and Greta took her home. And when Miss Warner heard of it, she scolded Laura Bartlett for talking about it at all. Why do people think that stepmothers are always unkind, mamma?"

"I hardly know, my love. It is an old prejudice."

"Do you think stepmothers unkind, mamma?"

"No, Emma, I have known several who were very kind. But they have to govern their children sometimes like other people, and as children do not like to be governed, they are apt to think themselves cruelly treated."

"There are people, however," remarked Miss Tilden, "who can never be just to other people's children."

"Such persons are not very often just to their own children," said Mrs. Gaylord.

"I do not know," answered Miss Tilden. "There was cousin Louisa. She never could allow that any one else's children were either good or pretty; nay, she was often really offended at hearing them praised, and I do not know that she was unjust to her own."

"Unless you call it injustice to make them useless to themselves and torments to all around them. Between misgovernment and no government I never saw a family of children more thoroughly spoiled."

"Then, mamma," said Emma, "you do not think Sophie's mother will be unkind to her?"

"No, Emma, I presume not. I think perhaps it will be rather hard for Sophie to come into regular habits of obedience and industry, and that her mother will have to be rather peremptory with her sometimes, but that will be the greatest kindness."

"To be sure," said Emma, "Sophie does just as she pleases now, and Nancy does every thing for her. She does not know how to sew as much as I do, I know, for I can mend my own stockings, and I heard Sophie say that Nancy always made and mended all her clothes."

"And I suppose," said Miss Tilden, "you would like to have a Nancy to make and mend all your clothes, would you not?"

"No, aunty, I like to sew very well, when I do not go to school."

"Some one is knocking at the side door, Emma," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I think Jane has gone out. Run and see who it is."

"It is two poor women, mamma, that want to see you very much," said Emma re-entering. "Jane has taken them into the kitchen to sit down."

Mrs. Gaylord went out to see the people who had called, and Emma busied herself with her favorite Hans Andersen's storybook. Presently her mother returned.

"There is a woman in Front-street in great distress, Eliza. She has two children sick—one badly burned, and they are strangers in the city. I think I will take Jane and go round immediately to see what can be done."

"Are you not afraid to go there in the evening, sister?"

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Gaylord smiling. "I know all the people in the block where they live. Nothing has ever yet happened to me, though my visiting duties have led me into some strange places. They may be suffering very much, and I shall not feel easy to wait till morning. There is not the least danger I assure you, my dear," she added, seeing that her sister looked uneasy. "I know both the women well who have come for me. So good night, my daughter: you must be in bed before I return."

"You have no school to-day, have you, Emma?" said Mrs. Gaylord next morning at breakfast.

"No, mamma: why?"

"I should like to have you go with me and see the poor little girl in Front-street. She is just about your age, and you can perhaps do something for her. I wish you would run over directly and see if Mr. Kennedy is willing to let Sophie go with me; I have a particular reason for wishing it. If she will accompany us, I will call for her about ten."

Sophie was at home, and pleased with the idea of going, and they set out together, Emma carrying a little basket full of old linen and other such matters. When they reached the common stair which led up to the room, Sophie shrunk back as if she were rather afraid.

Mrs. Gaylord observed the motion and said, "There is nothing to fear, Sophie. I believe none but respectable people live in this block."

"How many more stairs are there, mamma?" inquired Emma laughing, as they reached the top of the second long flight. "Do your people live in the moon?"

"Not quite, Emma; there is only one flight more. What would you do if you were obliged to carry every drop of water you used up all these stairs?"

"Then why do people live here, mamma?"

"Because the rents are low, and the rooms when you are once in them are warm and light. But here we are at last. I will knock at the door."

At the second knock, a faint voice said "Come in."

Mrs. Gaylord opened the door, and they entered the apartment. It was a small room with an old cooking-stove in it, and two or three equally old chairs. A rickety table made of rough boards and a broken cradle were all the furniture. Some attempt had evidently been made to clean up the floor, but without much success, and the windows were darkened with dirt. On a bed made up on the floor in the corner lay a little girl about Sophie's age, but rather smaller. Her face was bound with an old handkerchief, and one of her hands was also tied up in a bundle of rags. A baby about eight months old lay in the cradle fast asleep. The poor child seemed pleased at the sight of Mrs. Gaylord, and held out her left hand to shake hands with her. Mrs. Gaylord took one of the old chairs, and sat down beside her.

"How do you do, to-day, Betsey?"

"I had a bad night, ma'am," said Betsey in a soft, pleasant voice. "And this morning I was so bad that mother went for a doctor, but I feel better now. The baby slept all night, and mother thinks she is better."

"This is my daughter, Emma, that I have brought to see you," said Mrs. Gaylord; "and the other little girl is Sophie Kennedy. Is there any thing I can do for you before your mother comes in?"

"If you will undo this cloth on my hand, ma'am," answered Betsey. "It is tied too tight, I think, or else my hand gets worse, for it hurts me very much."

Mrs. Gaylord gently undid the dirty rag of a handkerchief, and both the girls shrunk from the sight it revealed. The whole hand was perfectly raw, and very much swelled and inflamed. Mrs. Gaylord cut some soft linen and wrapped it up, separating the fingers from each other as she did so. She then took the bandage from her face and dressed it anew. The operation was evidently painful, but Betsey bore it with great fortitude, though the girls could not bear to witness it.

"Don't it hurt you very much to have it touched?" asked Sophie.

"Very much, miss. But I am glad to have it done before mother comes in, it makes her feel so bad."

Just as she finished speaking, a poorly dressed woman entered, accompanied by the city physician, a great stout German, as kind-hearted and skilful as he was eccentric.

"It shmells meeshrable in here," said he, stopping on the threshold. "What for do you not clean up?"

"I've been trying to do a little," answered the poor woman, "but we only got here last night, and the children were so bad I could not do much."

"Well, well," said the doctor, "that will all be in good time." Then, after speaking to Mrs. Gaylord and nodding to the girls, he sat down on a box by Betsey's side.

"Now, my leetle girl, what is the matter with you?"

"I have got a burn on my face and hand, sir," said Betsey, "and I have a bad cough besides."

"That is bad, indeed; and how did you get burned?"

"Well, sir," said the mother, "I must say, it was partly my fault."

"Now, mother," said Betsey imploringly.

"Hush, little girl," said the doctor gently. "I shall first hear your mother. Tell me now, good woman; how was it?"

"Night before last, sir, at the place where we stopped, it was done. You see, the child has coughed very bad these six weeks, and I own I was fairly beat out watching her, the baby too being worrysome on account of its teeth. So we stayed at a sort of tavern there was there; and the woman of the house was very good to us, I must say, and gave Betsey something that seemed to ease her cough, and said she would sit up all night with her, if I would go to bed.

"So I being so tired, and Betsey too, poor child, saying, 'Do, please, mother,' they over-persuaded me, and I went. But, oh, doctor, see what happened. In the middle of the night, the man of the house came home as drunk as a beast, and stumbled up stairs into the room. Betsey had dropped asleep, and the woman having stepped out a moment, what does he do but take the candle off the table and go to look at the child, and he being drunk dropped the candle on the bed.

"And so," said the poor woman sobbing, "when the child screamed, we both ran in together, and there was the bed all on fire, and before we could put it out, she was burned as you see."

"Now, doctor—now, ma'am," said Betsey eagerly, "was it her fault? How could she know that the man would come home drunk?"

"No, my little child," said the good doctor kindly; "I cannot say I think it was any one's fault, except the drunken toad of a man."

"There, mother," said Betsey triumphantly; "didn't I tell you so?"

"You look very young to be this girl's mother," remarked the doctor. "Is she your own child?"

"All the same as my own, sir. I married her father when she was six years old and never was an own child better, or easier to rule. It's now going on eight months since the father died, and left me with this little one, the first I had, about five weeks old. I did what I could to support them and myself decently, and Betsey worked like a little woman. Somehow she took cold about eight or nine weeks ago, and she has never got over it, but grew worse and worse all the time. The winters in that part of the country are very hard, and having something beforehand, I thought I would come over here, and try to get some quiet country place where I could work for a living, for I've no great love for the city. But when we got here last night, the poor things were so bad, I was glad to get the first corner I could to put my head in. But I hope she will get well, for it would go near to break my heart to lose her."

"I tink you are one very good woman." said the doctor emphatically. "I shall do what I can for your girl, you may depend. What do you say, little child, will you have me for your doctor?"

"Oh yes, sir, that I will thankfully," answered Betsey smiling.

"Dat is good," said the doctor, "now let us see the burned hand."

Mrs. Gaylord again removed the wrappings, and the doctor after examining the burns, with a fresh burst of indignation against "the drunken toad" who had caused the mischief, took his leave, promising to call again in an hour. Mrs. Gaylord rose to go at the same time, being desirous to learn his opinion of the case.

"We must make her as comfortable as we can, madam, but I fear there is no cure possible. She may linger a long time, but she will never be well."

"They seem very destitute of clothes, but those they have are very decent," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I wonder how it happened!"

"The woman has told me that her goods were lost overboard in the storm on the lakes," said Dr. Werner. "Good day, madam, I shall see you again soon."

"I wish I could do something for Betsey, mamma," said little Emma as they walked homeward.

"You can, my love. I shall get some cotton cloth for nightgowns as we go home, and you may help make them. We must get them done as soon as possible."

"May I come and help you, Mrs. Gaylord," asked Sophie. "I cannot sew very fast, but I will try my best."

"Certainly, Sophie, we shall be very glad of your help. Ask your father to let you come over this afternoon."

"I was going out with Laura Bartlett this afternoon," said Sophie hesitating, "but I don't care much about it. I would rather come and sew with you and Emma."

"Did you make an engagement to go out with Laura?" inquired Mrs. Gaylord.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then excuse me, my dear, but I think you should keep your engagement. Promises are not to be trifled with, you know. Laura no doubt will depend upon you, and you should not disappoint her."

"I know very well," said Sophie, "how disagreeable that is. The other day Carry Woodford promised to call for me just after dinner, to go and see Anne Weston before she went away. But she did not come, and I waited and waited till night for her, and so I did not see Anne after all, and Carry had no very good reason either. But this would be different."

"True," said Mrs. Gaylord "but I would do as I had agreed, if I were you."

"I might stop and see Laura, and ask her if she cares about going," said Sophie; "and if she does not, I will come."

"That would do very well," replied Mrs. Gaylord. "If Laura will excuse you, I shall be happy to see you."

When Sophie got home, she related to her father the story of her morning's visit, dwelling particularly on the affection of Betsey and her mother for each other, for Sophie had fine perceptions, and the beautiful in any shape made a great impression on her. Mr. Kennedy listened with great interest, and when she had finished, said quietly,—

"And yet Mrs. Hand is Betsey's stepmother."

"Oh, papa!" said Sophie imploringly, and with crimson blushes. "Please don't talk about that. I am so sorry. I will never be so foolish again."

"I hope not, my pet. But Sophie, if your mamma should be obliged to restrain you or reprove you, how will it be then? You have almost run wild for the last three years. Do you think you can submit cheerfully to be brought into regular orderly habits like other little girls?"

"I don't know, papa, but I think I could. After all, it is pleasanter to be told what to do, than it is to do things and then be sorry afterwards. Nancy has been telling me about mamma, and I think I shall like her very much indeed."

"I hope so, Sophie. Are you going to Mrs. Gaylord's again to-day?"

"Yes, papa, to help make some nightgowns for Betsey. Laura did not care about going out."

"What about Laura?" inquired Mr. Kennedy.

And Sophie repeated the conversation relative to her engagement.

Mr. Kennedy was much pleased. "I am always glad to have you with Mrs. Gaylord, Sophie, and with Margaret Carroll and her cousins. As for Laura, she chatters rather too much."

"Laura does not mean any harm, papa. She likes to hear herself talk, but she is very good-natured after all."

"These very good-natured people often do a deal of mischief," said her father. "You may give this three-dollar bill to Mrs. Gaylord, if you please, Sophie, and ask her to lay it out for Betsey and her mother as she thinks best."

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