The Letter of Credit

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 do not know."

  "Where does she live?"

  "Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to rights in the other room."

  The next day Mrs. Carpenter set about finding some work. Alas, if there were many that had it to give, there seemed to be many more that wanted it. It was worse than looking for rooms. At last some tailoring was procured from a master tailor; and Mrs. Carpenter sat all day over her sewing, giving directions to Rotha about the affairs of the small housekeeping. Rotha swept and dusted and washed dishes and set the table, and prepared vegetables. Not much of that, for their meals were simple and small; however, with one thing and another the time was partly filled up. Mrs. Carpenter stitched. It was a new thing, and disagreeable to the one looker-on, to see her mother from morning to night bent over work which was not for herself. At home, though life was busy it was not slaving. There were intervals, and often, of rest and pleasure taking. She and Rotha used to go into the garden to gather vegetables and to pick fruit; and at other times to weed and dress the beds and sow flower seeds. And at evening the whole little family were wont to enjoy the air and the sunsets and the roses from the hall door; and to have sweet and various discourse together about a great variety of subjects. Those delights, it is true, ceased a good while ago; the talks especially. Mrs. Carpenter was not much of a talker even then, though her words were good when they came. Now she said little indeed; and Rotha missed her father. An uneasy feeling of want and longing took possession of the child's mind. I suppose she felt mentally what people feel physically when they are slowly starving to death. It had not come to that yet with Rotha; but the initial fret and irritation began to be strong. Her mother seemed to be turned into a sewing machine; a thinking one, she had no doubt, nevertheless the thoughts that were never spoken did not practically exist for her. She was left to her own; and Rotha's thoughts began to seethe and boil. Another child would have found food enough and amusement enough in the varied sights and experiences of life in the great city. They made Rotha draw in to herself.

  CHAPTER III.

  JANE STREET.

  Mrs. Carpenter's patient face, as she sat by the window from morning till night, and her restless busy hands, by degrees became a burden to Rotha.

  "Mother," she said one day, when her own work for the time was done up and she had leisure to make trouble,--"I do not like to see you doing other people's sewing."

  "It is my sewing," Mrs. Carpenter said.

  "It oughtn't to be."

  "I am very thankful to have it."

  "It takes very little to make you thankful, seems to me. It makes _me_ feel angry."

  "I am sorry for that."

  "Well, if you would be angry, I wouldn't be; but you take it so quietly. Mother, it's wrong!"

  "What?"

  "For you to be doing that work, which somebody else ought to do."

  "If somebody else did it, somebody else would get the pay; and what would become of us then?"

  "I don't see what's to become of us now. Mother, you said I was to go to school."

  "Yes,"--and Mrs. Carpenter sighed here. "I have not had time yet to find the right school for you."

  "When will you find time? Mother, I think it was a great deal better at Medwayville."

  Mrs. Carpenter sighed again, her patient sigh, which aggravated Rotha.

  "I don't like New York!" the latter went on, emphasizing every word. "There is not one single thing here I do like."

  "I am sorry, my child. It is not our choice that has brought us here."

  "Couldn't our choice take us away again, mother?"

  "I am afraid not."

  Rotha looked on at the busy needle for a few minutes, and then burst out again.

  "I think things are queer! That you should be working so, and other people have nothing to do."

  "Hush, Rotha. Nobody in this world has nothing to do."

  "Nothing they need do, then. You are better than they are."

  "You speak foolishly. God gives everybody something to do, and his hands full; and the work that God gives we need to do, Rotha. He has given me this; and as long as he gives me his love with it, I think it is good. He has given you your work too; and complaining is not a part of it. I hope to send you to school, as soon as ever I can."

  Before Rotha had got up her ammunition for another attack, there was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Marble came in. She always seemed to bring life with her.
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  "What do you get for that?" she asked, after she had chatted awhile, watching her lodger. Mrs. Carpenter was making buttonholes.

  "A shilling a dozen."

  Mrs. Marble inspected the work.

  "And how many can you make in that style in a day? I should like to know."

  "I cannot do this all day," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I get blind, and I get nervous. I can make about two dozen and a half in five hours."

  "Twenty five cents' worth: I declare!" said the little woman. "I wonder if such folks will get to