Seamstress.
For some weeks Christie rested and refreshed
herself by making her room gay and comfortable with
the gifts lavished on her by the Carrols, and by sharing
with others the money which Harry had smuggled into
her possession after she had steadily refused to take
one penny more than the sum agreed upon when she first
went to them.
She took infinite satisfaction in sending one hundred
dollars to Uncle Enos, for she had accepted what he
gave her as a loan, and set her heart on repaying
every fraction of it. Another hundred she gave
to Hepsey, who found her out and came to report her
trials and tribulations. The good soul had ventured
South and tried to buy her mother. But “ole
missis” would not let her go at any price, and
the faithful chattel would not run away. Sorely
disappointed, Hepsey had been obliged to submit; but
her trip was not a failure, for she liberated several
brothers and sent them triumphantly to Canada.
“You must take it, Hepsey, for I could not rest
happy if I put it away to lie idle while you can save
men and women from torment with it. I’d
give it if it was my last penny, for I can help in
no other way; and if I need money, I can always earn
it, thank God!” said Christie, as Hepsey hesitated
to take so much from a fellow-worker.
The thought of that investment lay warm at Christie’s
heart, and never woke a regret, for well she knew
that every dollar of it would be blessed, since shares
in the Underground Railroad pay splendid dividends
that never fail.
Another portion of her fortune, as she called Harry’s
gift, was bestowed in wedding presents upon Lucy,
who at length succeeded in winning the heart of the
owner of the “heavenly eyes” and “distracting
legs;” and, having gained her point, married
him with dramatic celerity, and went West to follow
the fortunes of her lord.
The old theatre was to be demolished and the company
scattered, so a farewell festival was held, and Christie
went to it, feeling more solitary than ever as she
bade her old friends a long good-bye.
The rest of the money burned in her pocket, but she
prudently put it by for a rainy day, and fell to work
again when her brief vacation was over.
Hearing of a chance for a good needle-woman in a large
and well-conducted mantua-making establishment, she
secured it as a temporary thing, for she wanted to
divert her mind from that last sad experience by entirely
different employment and surroundings. She liked
to return at night to her own little home, solitary
and simple as it was, and felt a great repugnance
to accept any place where she would be mixed up with
family affairs again.
So day after day she went to her seat in the workroom
where a dozen other young women sat sewing busily
on gay garments, with as much lively gossip to beguile
the time as Miss Cotton, the forewoman, would allow.
