—Henry G. Sutton.
{Drawing of girl writing.} A FEW days before school closed saw the Home filled for the summer.
The gathering in was achieved principally by Jim, Mrs. Hetterman, and Vincenzo Amati.
Vincenzo was an Italian of the better sort. He had lived in America long enough to acquire some of our ways of life. He earned a fairly good salary as cook, and he had kept his little family in comparative comfort in the best apartment which Rickett's Court had to offer, until the death of his pretty wife Giovanina. Since then the three little girls had done their best, but there was a woeful change. They became slatternly in appearance, and the two rooms grew dirty and cheerless. Worse than this, the girls affiliated with a lower class of their own nationality, the children of the rag-pickers in the basement, already referred to, who lived upon the chances of garbage barrels and beggary, and who spent much of their time in picking over and assorting the old bones, rags, paper, and other refuse dumped each night upon the floor of their sleeping and living room, as the result of their father's daily toil. These children were sickly and miserable, tainted morally as well as physically; and their parents, who were contented with their disgusting lives, were laying up money, in fact, for a return to Italy. But Vincenzo was not contented that his children should live in such fashion or have contaminating associates. He was one of the first applicants to place his children in the Home, paying cheerfully the highest sum asked for board, it having been early decided that the rates for each child should be proportioned to the wages of the parent.
Then several children previously "farmed out" to Mrs. Grogan, whose mothers were servants in good families, were received on similar terms.
A German woman, a Mrs. Rumple, brought her two children, saying that she was going West, but, as she knew not what fortune awaited her there, wished to place her children in the Home until she could send for them. She paid their board in advance for the summer, taking the money in coin from her petticoat pocket.
"Why do you leave New York?" asked Emma Jane Anton.
"It ish not de guntry. De guntry ish a very goot guntry. It ish de beeples," said Mrs. Rumple.
"What is the matter with the people?" asked Emma Jane.
"I comes de seas over a pride, mit my man Heinrich Rumple; dat is ten years aco alreaty. Heinrich is one very goot man; he trinks only one mug of lager every days; he comes every Saturday home mit his moneys, and oh, mine fraulein, how he luf me! Pretty soon py und py de peer ish not coot, and he takes one leetle glass of schnapps instead. Den de leetle babies come, one, tree, four, six, and it cost all de time more to live, and he pring all de time less moneys mit de Saturdays. But he trinks all de time more schnapps—one, two, tree, four glass de every days, and I know not how much de Sundays, and I tink he not luf me now so much as sometimes. Den de sickness comes, de shills and de fevers, and we all de time shake, shake, and first one little children die, and den anudder, all but Carl and de little Gracie; and mine man not haf any moneys to py medicines, put he haf blenty to py schnapps, and he all de time trink more as is goot for him, and one night he comes home and he knows not vat he does, and he sthrikes de leetle Gracie, and she is long time very sick. Mine soul! I tinks she vill die, and Heinrich Rumple—dot ish my man—he puts his name mit de bledge, and says he vill not any times trink any more, und de Gracie gets vell, und ve are all wery happy, but he all de same trinks again shust so pad as ever. Py und py pretty soon I says, 'Heinrich Rumple, I cannot sthand dis nonsense any more ain't it. I cannot haf dose childer all their bones broke any more; I put dem in one 'sylum avay from you, and I goes in dot Western land seek my fortune.'"
"And so you left your husband?" asked Miss Anton.
"Ya. I left mine man," replied the woman.
"And don't you suppose he will ever reform, and send you money to come back to him?"
"No, I s'pose so. He said to me dat day: 'Barbara, it is de beeples. I haf too many friends, and I trinks mit dem all de time, too often; I tinks if I am in de West, where I know nobodys, I would be a petter husband to you alretty.' And so he goed away mit me."
"Do you mean to say that you and your husband are leaving New York for the West together?"
"Ya. I left him, and he say, 'Barbara, you has right; I leaf myself, too.' But I cannot trust him alretty mit de chillern. I leaf dem one six month, to try what come of it all."
"I hope your husband has indeed left his worst self behind him," said Emma Jane; and on suitable security being provided, the Rumple children were admitted.
In almost all cases it was not the desperately and hopelessly pauperized and vicious—who were provided for by reformatories and the city charities—whom they helped, but the class just above them, who were slipping over the brink, and would surely have fallen and contributed to swell the dangerous classes, if not reached by this timely assistance.
"Prevention is better than cure," and it was the hope of the "King's Daughters" to rescue the innocent children of decent and struggling parents before they should need reformation.
Rosaria Ricos, the Cuban heiress, endowed a bed to be used for some child whose parents could do nothing whatever toward its support. She wished to have more free beds, but Miss Prillwitz showed her how much better it was for the parents to do something, however little it might be, for their children, and not be pauperized by having every feeling of independence and ability to care for their own taken from them. Exceptional circumstances might arise, when a mother out of employment, could wisely be helped over a great exigency, but she advised that Miss Ricos's "Emergency Bed" be given for short periods only. It was first occupied by Lovell Trimble, familiarly, but most inappropriately, nicknamed by the other children, Lovey Dimple. He was a homely, unprepossessing boy, with a pug nose and a disproportionately large head. His father was the unsuccessful inventor of Rickett's Court, with whom we are already acquainted. He spent all his former earnings in securing patents for various great inventions which were to make all their fortunes. His mother had been a shop-girl in a large dry-goods store, and had supported the family until long-continued standing had sent her to the hospital. Lovey had tried to take her place in supporting his father by wheeling "the machine" of a hot-flap-jack seller, while the flap-jack man devoted his attention to frying the cakes, flipping them on to a plate, and serving them up with a dab of butter and a lake of molasses. They did their best business winter nights after the theatres were out—sheltered from the snow by an awning or a convenient door-way, and they knew which places of amusement were out first, and would race at ambulance speed from Harrigan and Hart's to the Bowery, to secure the custom of each. Lovey liked the business, for, besides the pay, after the day's trade was over the flap-jack man let him eat whatever was left, for the batter would not keep, and he had always a few cakes to carry home to his father of the full brain and empty stomach.
But one night a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, who had had his eye on the flap-jack man as employing too young a child for labor involving so much privation, descended upon the cart with a policeman; and the flap-jack man having discreetly absconded, they arrested Lovey in default of his employer. Miss Prillwitz appeared in court at Jim's request, for in some way Jim had heard of his friend's apprehension, and having ascertained that Mr. Trimble had gone upon a spree, she rashly, but not unnaturally, decided that nothing was to be expected from such a father, and next paid a visit to Mrs. Trimble, at the hospital. Learning there that there was a prospect of her cure, she offered Lovey the hospitality of the Emergency Bed until his mother should be able to work once more. This case established relations between the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and the new Home; and a little girl—who had been forced to sell lead-pencils on the street at night by a drunken mother, though her father was a brakeman, who could well afford to support her—was committed to the Home through the agency of the Society; and the father, on being notified, approved the action, and paid her board regularly.
One desirable result of the Home was its effect on Emma Jane's character. From being, as she had truly said of herself, an unlovely and unloving girl who disliked children, her nature sweetened by contact with them; and taking them one by one into her heart, it broadened and softened, till an expression which was almost madonna-like trembled in a face which had been grim and repellent. Lovey Dimple was the first to scale the fortress of Emma Jane's affections. He inherited his father's aptitude for mechanics. Among the old books and papers contributed to the Home were, strangely enough, some bound volumes of the Scientific American and a few stray Patent Office reports, and over these he pored until his head seemed full of revolving cog-wheels and pulleys, and pistons, and his heart beat like a stationary engine. He was certain that he would be an inventor some day, like Ericsson or Edison; indeed, he was an inventor already, for had he not constructed unnumbered mill-wheels and windmills, weathercocks and whirligigs, besides taking to pieces the clock (which he could not get together again), and adapting his mother's sewing-machine to fret-saw purposes? He had studied every machine which he had seen in the stores, from the corn-sheller to the great patent mower, and believed that he understood the action of each. "Patent" was a word that stirred his soul, though he had but a dim conception of its meaning. It was something, his father had said, that the Government would give him if he invented a really useful, labor-saving machine, one which would "supply a felt want."
Lovey knew what a felt hat was, but it was several days before he really knew what his father meant by a felt want. As soon as he had grasped the idea he began in earnest. "Mother Halsey," he asked, "what part of your work bothers you most?"
Mrs. Halsey looked hot and flustered. Half an hour before this she had put her room and the nursery in order, had dressed the twenty-five children; from combing their hair and scrubbing the little ones, and introducing them into each separate garment, to merely tying apron-strings and buttoning the "behind buttons" of the older ones, and giving them a final dress review before starting them to the public school.
In view of this state of affairs, it is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Halsey said that dressing the children gave her more bother than anything else. Lovey, with a pencil and paper, sat down to invent a machine which should do this for her. He reflected that such a machine would be hailed with delight in nearly every family, and if he could manage to sell them at a dollar apiece his fortune was assured. He took as his models the washing-machine, a cross-cut saw, and a corn-sheller, and in a few moments had made his drawing of a combination of the three machines. The motive power, he decided, should be furnished by the father of the family, who could turn the crank; and on days when this was not convenient the smoke from the cooking-stove could be utilized, the stove pipe being turned so that the smoke should strike the paddles of the main wheel, and the continuous stream passing across the edge of the wheel and up the chimney, he felt certain, would turn it. Just back of the machine, and above it, there was to be a great hopper into which the naked children could climb by means of a ladder, and where the clothing could be tossed promiscuously, the machine sorting it and robing each child properly. The cross-cut saw near the mouth would shingle each child's hair, and save the trouble of curling, while the children, completely dressed, would be poured through this spout into their mother's arms.
Lovey exhibited this drawing to Mrs. Halsey and to Miss Anton, and begged them to show it to President Harrison and obtain a patent for him as soon as possible; but, somehow, though the invention was received with applause and approbation by the entire family, nothing was ever done about it.
The droll conceit attracted Emma Jane to the boy. "Perhaps some day he may become an inventor of something more practical," she said, and ever after watched him with increasing interest.
Lovey had had great trouble with his arithmetic, and he had decided that a grand labor-saving machine would be one which would save a boy the trouble of studying. He thought that it would be a good idea to bore a hole in a boy's head when he was asleep, introduce the end of a funnel into the opening, and then with a coffee-mill grind up the usual text-books and stuff his brains. He made a drawing of this machine also, and Merry Twinkle and he came very near trying it practically, but they never could quite agree as to who should be the operator and who should be operated upon. Lovey had another brilliant inspiration. He noticed that his rubber ball, which had a hole in it, had a remarkable power of suction, and that if he held the orifice to his cheek and squeezed the ball, when he let go it would pucker his cheek in a way to remind one distantly of a kiss. He imagined that if the ball were drawn out into a tube, and that tube continued indefinitely the action would still be the same. Here was a discovery. How many separated friends and lovers would be glad to patronize a kissaphone, an instrument by which kisses could be sent and actually felt. He imagined the establishment of offices on both sides of the Atlantic, and the laying of a submarine tube.
A young physician, a friend of Mrs. Roseveldt's, was visiting the Home just as Lovey completed this triumph. "Another invention of Lovey Dimple's," Emma Jane explained, as the child handed her the drawing. Dr. Curtiss came oftener than the sanitary condition of the Home really demanded, and he was well acquainted with Lovey's genius in this direction.
"Yes, sir," promptly replied Lovey, "and I have met a felt want now, sure," and then he explained the kissaphone.
"Try it on me, Lovey, and let me see how it feels," asked the doctor.
Lovey did so, and Dr. Curtiss made a wry face. "It strikes me that is a very poor substitute for the genuine article," he said, "but perhaps I am not qualified to judge.
"Now if you could have a nice looking lady operator, and could attach your tubing to the back of her head, and have her transmit the kiss as the mouthpiece of the machine, I should think your invention might be very popular."
Lovey received this suggestion with entire good faith. "Miss Anton," he said, beseechingly, "won't you act as mouthpiece and let me send a kiss to Dr. Curtiss?" And he could never quite decide why Emma Jane, who was usually so kind, declined in great confusion to render him this trifling service.
There was another little boy in the Home who made remarkable drawings—the one already referred to as Merry Twinkle. All of his family, even the female portion, were sea-faring people; his grandfather had been a sailor, and was now an inmate of the Sailors' Snug Harbor. His mother sometimes took Merry to visit him when she was back from a voyage, for she was stewardess on an ocean steamer. His father had been engineer on the same boat, but had been killed by a boiler explosion, and Merry had been boarded hitherto with Mrs. Grogan.
One evening, after a visit to his grandfather, Merry handed Emma Jane a series of wonderful marines.
"Grandfather sang me a very old song to-day," he said. "It went this way:
"This is a picture of the Princess Charlotte," handing Emma Jane his drawing.
"It is night, and the captain is pacing the lonely deck; he has set his lantern on a small stand, and has put his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. The second verse goes this way:
"This is the picture of the pirate ship and the fight. Captain Kidd has cut off the head of one of the men who boarded his ship. One of his men is firing a cannon, the rest of his crew may be seen between-decks.
"Grandfather called it the story of Captain Kidd, because he thought he must have been the pirate whose ship the Princess Charlotte sunk. Captain Kidd was taken to London and hanged in chains, and I've made a picture of that too."
Emma Jane hardly approved of the sanguinary spirit displayed by these drawings, but she could not expect that the boy's antecedents and surroundings would produce an angel. She endeavored to draw his attention to gentler subjects for his pencil, recited tender and loving ballads, and changed the current of the boy's thought and aspiration, realizing that here was material which, in the fostering atmosphere of Rickett's Court, might easily develop into an anarchist—a menace to the state.
The Sandy girls were the last to be received from the court. The father had been a truckman, but a heavy box had fallen upon him, and he had lived in pain and misery for a year and had then died. Mrs. Sandy, by making men's clothing, managed to keep the wolf from the door—no, only snarling at the door with fierce, hungry eyes. All of her six children helped her. The oldest girl did the ironing and finishing; the next child, a boy, carried the great bundles back and forth in the intervals of his profession as a bootblack; the second girl did all of their poor housework; the twins sewed on buttons and pulled out basting threads, and the youngest boy sold newspapers, while Mrs. Sandy herself ran the sewing-machine ten or twelve hours in the day.
When Mrs. Hetterman asked her why she did not give up this desperate battle with the point of the needle, and leave her vile surroundings to take service in some good family, she replied that she had often thought of this, but she must keep a home, however poor, for the children. "The two boys could live at the Newsboys' Lodging-House, for they earn enough to support themselves, but what would I do with my four girls?"
When Mrs. Hetterman assured her that there was a Home where they could all be cared for in cleanliness, health, and comfort, and have time for study and schooling and industrial education, which would fit them to earn their own living in future, and all for a sum quite within the means of any domestic, she brought her cramped hand down with a heavy blow upon the sewing-machine.
"I don't mind if I break every bone in yer body, ye Satan's grindstone!" she said to the machine; "it's the last time that Mary Sandy'll grind soul and body thin at ye, praise be to a delivering Providence!"
Mrs. Hastings, one of the managers of the Home, had had great trouble with incompetent and ungrateful servants, and she gladly took the faithful Scotch woman into her family.
These, then, were the guests of the Elder Brother, for that first summer, from Rickett's Court:
In all, nineteen children transplanted from the filth and vice, hunger and ignorance, of the court, and six more from other localities as bad, to sweet, wholesome surroundings. It was thought best that those children of school age should attend a public school to avoid "institutionizing" them; and for this end they wore no uniform, and mingled freely with other well-behaved children in the park under Mrs. Halsey's motherly supervision. Their birthdays were celebrated with a little party, with cake and candles, and everything was done to cultivate a home-like feeling. They drew their books like other children from the children's new free circulating library, and were taught to guard them carefully. They had a sewing society—in reality a sewing-class—where boys and girls were alike taught to mend and darn, to sew on buttons, and to make button-holes—all but the Sandy children, who, it was judged, had served a long enough apprenticeship in this department, and were sent to Mrs. Hetterman to learn how to cook.
Miss Prillwitz was anxious that the boys should have industrial training, and brought the matter before the board of managers, who entirely agreed with her, and voted that a subscription sent them by Mr. Armstrong be used to secure a suitable teacher.
It was just at this time that a letter was received from Adelaide announcing that she had fitted up the cottage which her father had placed at her disposal, and would like to have Mrs. Halsey occupy it with the youngest children for the heated term. Miss Prillwitz was delighted. Jim was already at the Pier with the Roseveldts, and it would be pleasant for his mother to be near him, and a fine thing for the little girls and the babies. This would leave the nursery vacant, and it could be fitted up as a workshop for the boys. She had a chat with Mrs. Halsey the day before she left, and asked her if she knew of anyone who could teach the boys carpentry.
"Mr. Trimble, Lovey's father, is a perfect jack-of-all-trades," replied Mrs. Halsey.
Miss Prillwitz was doubtful. "Mr. Trimble is a drunkard," she said.
"Not irreclaimable, I am sure," said Mrs. Halsey. "He was a sober man when I knew him. Despair alone could have driven him to drink. I wish you would send and ask him to call and see you."
So a letter was sent, and none too soon, for affairs were now at their worst with Stephen Trimble.
—Anon.
{Drawing of the anarchist of Rickett's Court.} THE anarchist of Rickett's Court, under whose influence the inventor had fallen, was a thoroughly bad man, and the writer has no sympathy to waste upon him or his methods, but with his deluded and desperate victim we should all sympathize.
Stephen Trimble had brooded over his troubles and wrongs until he was half crazed, and the men for whom he worked added fuel to the flame.
"Why should you be so precious careful of the rich?" his employer said. "What have the rich ever done for you? They've murdered your wife, as I make out, insisting on her standing all day long, when she was not able to do so, and might have done her work just as well sitting. They've sent your innocent little boy to jail along with common pickpockets. They've robbed you of your money—"
"Stop!" cried Stephen Trimble; "you've said that over and over, until I believe it, though I don't know why I should take your word any quicker than that of anyone else. You've made much of your kindness in telling me, though I don't see what good it does me, unless you are willing to go into court and testify for me as to what you've seen."
The men shook their heads. "No going into court for us! We want to keep as far away from the law as possible."
"Then I don't see but you are as much against me as the rest. I've worked with you long enough to know what your aims are; your machine is now in working order, ready to blow up the finest house, the largest audience, in New York, church or armory, bank-vault or prison; and if all you say is true, you may blow away, for all I care, and blow yourselves up with the rest, and me too. If the world is the Sodom and Gomorrah it seems to me, we have Bible warrant for its destruction. My work for you is done; give me my money, and we are through with each other."
"See here, Trimble," said the anarchist, "we have already paid you fifteen dollars, and you ought not to be too close with us."
"You promised me a hundred; do you mean to say—"
"Don't be so touchy; what I mean to say is this: We cannot help you by testifying in court, as you suggested; it wouldn't do you any good if we did; but find out the man who has wronged you, and we will help you to your revenge. In a few days our society will begin its operations. We are out of funds now, but there will be a new deal soon. We begin with the banking-house of Roseveldt, Gold & Co., and as soon as the fireworks are over we will be rich enough, and you shall have a fair share."
Stephen Trimble sprang to his feet. "I thought you were anarchists! do you acknowledge that you are common burglars?"
"No, my friend, we acknowledge nothing of the kind. Be good enough to attend to your own business."
"It is time that I did," replied the inventor; "I have neglected it long enough."
Stephen Trimble walked out of the building. He had three things to do—to discover the landlord of Rickett's Court; to see his wife for the last time; and to free his little son, whom he believed to be still in prison.
There was quite a commotion in the court; some men were putting up a fire-escape. "What ever put it into Solomon Meyer's head to do that?" he asked.
"'Tain't Solomon Meyer," a workman replied; "it's the landlord himself. He ordered it done some time ago, and was mad as a hornet because Meyer hadn't attended to it."
"See here, my friend," said Stephen Trimble, "if you know who the landlord of this tenement is, you will do me a favor by directing me to him."
"Armstrong's the man—Alexander Armstrong, President of the —— R. R. Co.; his office is over the banking-house of Roseveldt & Gold, No. —— Broadway. He rooms there too, when he's in town—back of his office."
Stephen Trimble stood very still for a moment. The information which he thought would be so difficult to obtain had come to his door. The vengeance which he had fancied might take long days and nights of plotting, hung now over the man who had wronged him. He need do absolutely nothing, and Alexander Armstrong was doomed. He must inevitably be killed in the explosion and conflagration which was planned to cover the robbery of the bank beneath him.
They had changed places, and the landlord of Rickett's Court was his victim. One-third of his task was accomplished. He walked now in the direction of the hospital, and asked to see his wife. He hardly expected to be admitted, but he would at least make the attempt. To his surprise he was shown into a cheerful parlor, and Mrs. Trimble was sent for. She came down, looking pale, but happy.
"O Stephen," she cried, "it has been so long since I have seen you! but never mind, I am almost well now, and we shall soon be together again. The doctor tells me I may leave next week. They have been so very kind to me here, it has been like Heaven. The rich are thoughtful and generous to provide such places for the poor. I am so grateful; and I have rested so that I shall be able to take hold with new courage."
He listened in a stupefied way, and seeing that he was not inclined to speak, she ran on, "And isn't it beautiful about Lovey?"
This stung him to speech. "Beautiful? To be arrested and sent to prison?"
"Why, no, dear. Haven't you heard? A sweet, kind woman—Miss Prillwitz—called, and told me that he is being cared for at a little Home, for nothing, Stephen; and they will keep him there until we are on our feet again. If that isn't brotherly love, I don't know what is. It makes me believe that there is such a thing as Christianity, after all."
Still Stephen Trimble was silent. She was happy, and he would not dispel her illusion, at least not now. Evidently there were some good people in New York, and she had experienced their kindness. He had expected to find her suffering from neglect and cruelty. He would not have been surprised if she had died. He could hardly believe that a charity patient had received such attention. That their little son had been also tenderly cared for passed his belief, but he would see for himself, and he took the address of the Home. He bade his wife good-bye gently. "I shall come back to you very soon, Stephen," she said, "and things will go better then." He could not tell her of his deep despair. He tried to smile, but only succeeded in giving her a pitiful, longing look. He walked on toward the Home of the Elder Brother, sure that its name was a lie, and that he would find Lovey abused. But he was met at the door by Mrs. Halsey, whom he had known at Rickett's Court, who called his little son to come down and see his papa, and who told him of the plan of which she had just been speaking to Miss Prillwitz. And a moment later Lovey, well dressed, clean, fat, and jolly, tumbled into his arms with a cry of rapture.
"Do you want to come home, Lovey?" he asked.
"No, daddy, I want you to come here. Please, Mrs. Halsey, mayn't he come?"
"We would like to have him very much to teach our boys the use of tools for a few hours every day. It is just what I have been telling your father."
"A week ago," said Stephen Trimble, "your offer would have been heaven to me; now I am afraid it is too late."
"Don't say so," urged Mrs. Halsey; and she called Miss Prillwitz to talk the matter over with him. Miss Prillwitz's first argument was to ask him to luncheon. He ate the nourishing food—the first good meal that had passed his lips for many days—and he said, as he bade them farewell, "I will come to you if I can, and teach your boys mechanics; if I don't come it will be because something has happened to me, and if anything happens to me I want to ask you to lend a helping hand to my wife—and may God bless you." A new impulse stirred within his heart, gratitude, which he had not felt toward any human being for years. He was softened, and tears stood in his eyes. He could almost forgive the landlord of Rickett's Court now.
An impulse to see the man, though not with any hope of gaining anything from the interview, came over him. It was still early, and he walked down Broadway to the building designated, and looked into the bank. How wealthy and strong it looked, with the clerks busily at work calling off fabulous sums to one another, and handling the piles of bills and coin! The safe-doors stood open, and he could see the great bolts and bars, and complicated combinations; and he smiled scornfully as he thought how easily the little machine upon which he had been working would open them all.
A policeman saw him staring in at the window, and asked him his business.
"I want to find Mr. Armstrong, the R. R. president."
"Then you must go up-stairs. There is the door."
He walked up and saw another room, with gentlemen sitting in easy attitudes in comfortable chairs. He asked a clerk for Mr. Armstrong, and was told that he was in Washington, on business.
"Business connected with a patent?"
"Yes; I believe so. What did you want of him?"
"Nothing. Say only that Stephen Trimble called."
"What! is this Stephen Trimble?" exclaimed a hearty voice behind him; and, turning, the inventor saw an earnest but kindly looking man, who had just entered carrying a hand-bag.
"That is Mr. Armstrong," said the clerk, and Stephen Trimble stared fascinated.
"Step into my private office," said the financier, "I am glad you have come. It is always better to transact business at first hand, and I was sorry you could not come when Mr. Meyer asked you to do so."
"I do not know what you mean, sir."
"Did not Solomon Meyer tell you that I wanted you to call, with reference to the four thousand dollars still unpaid on our patent transaction?"
"Solomon Meyer told me that I was too late, and that you did not care for my invention."
Mr. Armstrong sprang from his chair. "And he never gave you my check for a thousand dollars?"
"Never; though I heard that he had it;" and Stephen Trimble related what the anarchist had told him.
Mr. Armstrong unlocked a safe, and took from it the contract in regard to the patent. "Is not this your signature?" he asked.
"No, sir: I never saw the paper."
"Then Solomon Meyer is a swindler."
"Very likely, sir."
"Go home; say nothing, and I will have him arrested. Stop—a little money may not come amiss to you just now. Here is fifty dollars on our account. I will see you again to-morrow, but I have an important appointment now."
"I don't know how to thank you, sir, or what to say," said Stephen Trimble, utterly confounded.
"There are no thanks due; on the contrary, I owe you a small matter of five thousand dollars—perhaps more—for it seems you have not signed this paper, and perhaps may not be willing to sell your invention for so small a sum."
As he spoke, the confidential clerk tapped at the door and remarked, "Dr. Carver, sir, of —— Hospital, says you telegraphed to him from Washington to meet you here."
Instantly Stephen Trimble saw that Mr. Armstrong had forgotten his existence; his entire expression changed from kindly benevolence to intense eagerness and anxiety.
"What has he got to worry about, I wonder!" thought the inventor, as he gave place to the physician, and descended the stairs. Force of habit led his steps toward Rickett's Court, but he walked like a different man, and the workman who had seen his cringing, crouching manner as he slouched out of the court that morning, did not recognize the man who entered with buoyant, determined step. The change had begun when he left the door of the Home of the Elder Brother. There his faith in his kind had been restored. Had the good fortune of the afternoon befallen him before that experience he could not have believed it, or the stupendous change would have driven him insane. But it had come upon him, mercifully, by degrees, and he was rapturously happy, and clearer in mind than he had been for months. It was as if a great and crushing weight had been lifted from heart and brain. Suddenly, as he crossed the threshold, he remembered the infernal-machine. The anarchists would probably use it that night, and Alexander Armstrong, his benefactor, was doomed. He wondered how he could ever have been so mad as to aid them. There was only one thing to be done: he must undo his work, render the contrivance harmless, and save his friend. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the men were probably out. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He could easily have picked the lock, but people were coming and going. The new fire-escape suggested itself to his mind, and he decided to go to his room and, as it was already dark, descend by it to the workroom. This resolution was quickly accomplished. He lighted a candle and was just reaching toward the machine, when the door opened and the anarchists entered.
"What are you doing? I thought you had finished your work," said his former employer.
"No, I have not finished," replied Stephen Trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw.
"You are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily.
"Let go!" shouted Stephen Trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!"
The warning came too late—there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence.
Anon.
{Drawing of woman sitting on fence.} WHILE all these sad things were happening Winnie and I were enjoying a happy summer at my beloved home in the blessed country.
It is not to be imagined that Winnie dropped all her wild ways and became a saint at once. She had been sobered by her sad experience in plotting and scheming for the little prince; but since her full forgiveness her elastic spirits rose to the surface, and her cheerful disposition asserted itself in many playful pranks and merry, tricksy ways.
We did not forget our promise to work for the Elder Brother, but for a time we did nothing but rest fully and completely.
She was delighted with the country. The fresh air and free, wholesome life acted upon her like wine. She climbed walls and trees, leaped brooks, whistled, shouted, rode on the hay-carts, helped in the kitchen and in the garden, drove Dobbin about the country roads, went berrying, and was a prime favorite with all the boys, though I regret to say that at first, perhaps on this very account, the country girls were a little jealous and envious of her. But not a whit cared Winnie for this. She tramped over the fields and through marshes, with her botanist's can swung across her shoulder by a shawl-strap, searching for specimens. She boated and bathed, taking like a duck to the water, and learning to swim more quickly than any other person I had ever known. She loved to work in our old-fashioned garden, pulled weeds diligently, and seemed to love to feel the fresh earth with her fingers. Our flowers were all such as had grown there in my grandmother's time. It seemed to me that she must have modeled it on Mary Howitt's garden, for we had the very flowers which she describes in her poems.