The Letter of Credit

the May sunshine was streaming in; the scents and sounds of the spring were all around; and they brought with them inevitably a little bit of hope and cheer into Rotha's heart. Without stopping to let herself think, she set about putting the place in order; brushed and dusted everything; washed up the furniture of the washstand; made up the bed, and hung towels on the rack. Then she drew an old easy chair to a convenient place by one of the windows; put a small table before it; got out and arranged in order her writing materials, her Bible and Scripture Treasury; put her bonnet and wrappings away in a closet; and at last sat down to consider the situation.

  She had got a corner of comfort up there, private to herself. The room was large and bright; one window looked out into the top of a great tulip tree, the other commanded a bit of meadow near the house, and through the branches and over the summits of firs and larches near at hand and apple trees further off, looked along a distant stretch of level country. No extended view, and nothing remarkable; but sweet, peaceful nature, green turf, and leafy tree growths; with the smell of fresh vegetation and the spiciness of the resiny evergreens, and the delicious song and chipper and warble of insects and birds. It all breathed a breath of content into Rotha's heart. But then, she was up here alone at the top of the house; there was all that wilderness of empty rooms between her and the rest of the social world; and at the end of it, what? Mrs. Purcell and her kitchen; and doubtless, Mr. Purcell. And what was Rotha to do, in the midst of such surroundings? The girl grew almost desperate by the time she had followed this train of thought a little way. It seemed to her that her pleasant room was a prison and Mr. and Mrs. Purcell her jailers; and her term of confinement one of unknown duration. If she had only a little money, then she would not be so utterly helpless and dependent; even money to buy Mrs. Purcell's civility and good-will; or if she had a little more than that, she might get away. Without any money, she was simply a prisoner, and at the mercy of her jailers. O what had become of her friends! Where was Mr. Southwode, and how could he have forgotten her? and how was it that Mrs. Mowbray had been taken from her just now, just at this point when she was needed so dreadfully? Rotha could have made all right with a few minutes' talk to Mrs. Mowbray; to write and state her grievances, she justly felt, was a different thing, not so easy nor so manifestly proper. She did not like to do what would be in effect asking Mrs. Mowbray to send for her and keep her during her aunt's absence. No, it was impossible to do that. Rotha could not Better bear anything. But then,--here she was with no help!

  It all ended in some bitter weeping. Rotha was too young yet not to find tears a relief. She cried herself tired; and then found she was very much in need of sleep. She gave herself up to it, and to forgetfulness.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  THE PURCELLS.

  Rotha's sleep had not lasted two hours when it was interrupted. There came a pounding at her door. She jumped up and unlocked it.

  "Joseph said, he guessed you'd want some dinner. I told him, I didn't know as you'd care for the victuals us has; but it's ready, if you like to come and try."

  The extreme rudeness of the woman acted by way of a counter irritant on Rotha, and gave her self-command and composure. She answered civilly; waited to put her hair and dress in order, wisely resolving to lose no means of influence and self-assertion that were within her reach; and went down.

  A small table was set in the kitchen, coarsely but neatly, as Rotha saw at a glance. It was set for three; and the third at the table was the hitherto unseen Mr. Purcell. He was a white man; not so good-looking as his wife, but with a certain aspect of sense and shrewdness that was at least not unkindly. He nodded, did not trouble himself to rise as Rotha came in; indeed he was busily occupied in supplying himself with such strength and refreshment as viands can give; and to judge by his manner he needed a great deal of such strength and was in a hurry to get it. He nodded, and indicated with a second nod the place at table which Rotha was expected to take.

  "It's an unexpected pleasure," he said. "Prissy and me doesn't often have company. Hope you left Mis' Busby well?"

  Rotha had an instant's hesitation, whether she should accept the place in the household thus offered her, or claim a different one. It was an instant only; her sense and her sense of self-respect equally counselled her not to try for what she could not accomplish; and she quietly took the indicated seat, and answered that Mrs. Busby was well.

  "Now, what'll you eat?" Mr. Purcell went on. "We're plain folks--plainer 'n you're accustomed to, I guess; and we eat what we've got; sometimes it's one thing and sometimes it's another. Prissy, she gen'lly fixes it up somehow so's it'll do, for me, anyhow; but I don' know how it'll be with you. Now to-day, you see, we've got pork and greens; it's sweet pork, for I fed it myself and I know all about it; and the greens is first-rate. I don' know what they be; Prissy picked 'em; but now, will you try 'em? If you're hungry, they'll go pretty good."

  "They's dandelions--" said Mrs. Purcell.

  Pork and dandelions! Rotha was at first dumb with a sort of perplexed dismay; then she reflected, that to carry out her propitiating policy it would be best not to shew either scorn or disgust. She accepted some of the greens and the pork; found the potatoes good, and the bread of capital quality, and the butter sweet; and next made the discovery that Mr. Purcell had not overrated his wife's abilities in the cooking line; the dinner was really, of its kind, excellent. She eat bread and butter, then conscious that two pair of eyes were covertly watching her, nibbled at her greens and pork; found them very passable, and ended by making a good meal.

  "You was never in these parts before?" Mr. Purcell asked meanwhile.

  "No," said Rotha. "Never."

  "Mis' Busby comin' along, some o' these days?"

  "No, I think not. I have not heard anything about her coming here."

  "'Spect she likes grand doings. Does she live very fine, down to New York?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "All the folks does, in the City o' Pride," remarked Mrs. Purcell.

  "Do Mis' Busby?" persisted her husband. "Be they all highflyers, to her house?"

  "I do not know what you mean by 'highflyers.'"

  "Folks that wears heels to their shoes," put in Mrs. Purcell. "They can't set foot to the ground, like common folks. And they puts their hair up in a bunch on the top."

  "Anybody can do that," said Mr. Purcell, sticking his knife in the butter to detach a portion of it.

  "Anybody can't, Joe! that's where you're out. It takes one o' them highflyers. And then they thinks, when their heels and their heads is all right, they've got up above the rest of we."

  "You can put your hair any way you've a mind to," returned her husband. "There can't none of 'em get ahead o' you there."

  Both parties glanced at Rotha. Her long hair was twisted up in a loose knot on the top of her head; very becoming and very graceful; for without being in the least disorderly it was careless, and without being in the least complicated or artificial it was inimitable, by one not initiated. Husband and wife looked at her, looked at each other, and laughed.

  "Mis' Busby writ me about you," said Joe, slightly changing the subject. "She said, you was one o' her family."

  "She is my aunt."

  "She is! I didn't know Mis' Busby never had no brother, nor sister', nor nothin'."

  "She had a sister once."

  "She aint livin' then. And you live with Mis' Busby?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, 'taint none o' my business, but Mis' Busby didn't say, and I didn't know what to think. She said you was comin', but she didn't say how long you was goin' to stay; and we'd like to know that, Prissy and me; 'cause o' course it makes a difference."

  "In what?" said Rotha, growing desperate.

  "Well, in our feelin's," said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head in a suave manner, indicating his good disposition. "You see, we don' know how to take care of you, 'thout we knowed if it was to be for a week, or a month, or that. Mis' Busby only said you was com
in'; and she didn't say why nor whether."

  "I do not know," said Rotha. "You must manage as well as you can without knowing; for I cannot tell you."

  "Very good!" said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head blandly again; "then that's one point. You don' know yourself."

  "No."

  "That means she aint a goin' in a hurry," said Mrs. Purcell. "There's her