“My dear Mr. Rossitur!” said Fleda,—“you
don’t understand quelquechoses. How do
you know but I may have to get my living by making
them, some day.”
“By making what?” said Hugh.
“Quelquechoses,—anglice, kickshaws,—alias,
sweet trifles denominated merrings.”
“Pshaw, Fleda!”
“Miss Fleda is more likely to get her living
by eating them, Mr. Hugh, isn’t she?”
said the housekeeper.
“I hope to decline both lines of life,”
said Fleda laughingly as she followed Hugh out of
the room. But her chance remark had grazed the
truth sufficiently near.
Those years in New York were a happy time for little
Fleda, a time when mind and body flourished under
the sun of prosperity. Luxury did not spoil her;
and any one that saw her in the soft furs of her winter
wrappings would have said that delicate cheek and
frame were never made to know the unkindliness of
harsher things.
Whereunto is money good?
Who has it not wants hardihood,
Who has it has much trouble and care,
Who once has had it has despair.
Longfellow. From the German.
It was the middle of winter. One day Hugh and
Fleda had come home from their walk. They dashed
into the parlour, complaining that it was bitterly
cold, and began unrobing before the glowing grate,
which was a mass of living fire from end to end.
Mrs. Rossitur was there in an easy chair, alone and
doing nothing. That was not a thing absolutely
unheard of, but Fleda had not pulled off her second
glove before she bent down towards her and in a changed
tone tenderly asked if she did not feel well?
Mrs. Rossitur looked up in her face a minute, and
then drawing her down kissed the blooming cheeks one
and the other several times. But as she looked
off to the fire again Fleda saw that it was through
watering eyes. She dropped on her knees by the
side of the easy chair that she might have a better
sight of that face, and tried to read it as she asked
again what was the matter; and Hugh coming to the
other side repeated her question. His mother
passed an arm round each, looking wistfully from one
to the other and kissing them earnestly, but she said
only, with a very heart-felt emphasis, “Poor
children!”
Fleda was now afraid to speak, but Hugh pressed his
inquiry.
“Why ‘poor’ mamma? what makes you
say so?”
“Because you are poor really, dear Hugh.
We have lost everything we have in the world.”
“Mamma! What do you mean?”
“Your father has failed.”
“Failed!—But, mamma, I thought he
wasn’t in business?”
“So I thought,” said Mrs. Rossitur;—“I
didn’t know people could fail that were not
in business; but it seems they can. He was a partner
in some concern or other, and it’s all broken
to pieces, and your father with it, he says.”
Mrs. Rossitur’s face was distressful. They
were all silent for a little; Hugh kissing his mother’s
wet cheeks. Fleda had softly nestled her head
in her bosom. But Mrs. Rossitur soon recovered
herself.
