Miscellany

It was Snturday evening, about eight o'olock. Mary Gray had finished mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a snucepan of Water. She had brought out the bag of oatmea!, a basin and o spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, althoughscantily furnished, looked nltogether very neat nnd comforlable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle. She was a palé, delicate looking woman, of about five and thirty. She looked likeone who had a veryanxious, care-worn expression. Her dress showed signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew later, she seemed to be listening atlentively for the approach of some one; she was ready to start up every time a strp carne near the door. At length a light step approached and did not go by ; it stopped and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary 's pnllid face brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whotn she welcomed with evident delight. 'You are later than usual to-nignt, Stephen,' shesaid. Stephen did not rcply ; but he threw offhiscap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had quitted. 'ïou do not look well to-night, dear,' said Mary, anxiously ; 'is any ihing the matter V 'I am quilo well, mother,' replied the boy, 'Iet me have my supper; I am quite ready for il.' As he spoke he turned his eyes from Mnry's inquiring look. Mary, without anotlier word, set herselfabout preparing the supper of oat-meal porridgf. Shesaw that something was wrong with Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned so she remained silent. In t!ie ineantime títephen liad placed his feet on the fender, rested his elbows on bis knees, and his hcad upon his hands. His hands cfivered his face, and bye and bye a few large tears began to trickle down his fiiigers. Then suddenly dashing off his toars as if he were ashamed of ihem, he shov.ed his palo agitatet! f.;co, and said, in a tone of indignation and rrsolve. 'Mother, I am determined that I will bcar it no longer.' AIaryasnot surpri3ed ; she finished j pouring out the porridge, then, taking a ! stool, she seated herself beside him. 'YVhy, Stephen,' she said, trying lo spoak cheerfully, 'how many hundred limes bpfore have you made that rseolution ! Dut ulnt's tlie matter now ? - Hare yon any new trouble to teil me of?' Stephen answered bv silently removing wit!) hishaiidsome ofhis tbick curly hair, anJ showing beneath it an e.ir bearing the too evident mrks of cruel uage. '?.Iy poor boy !' exclaimed Mary, her tears starting fortli, 'coulii he be so cruel?' 'It is notliing mother,' replied the boy, sorry to have called forth his mother's tears. 'I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, and he was sorry for it, after.' 'But what could you have done, Stephen, to mnke him so angry with you V 'I was selling half a quire of wriling paper to a lady ; he counted the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of twelve - they had siuck together sothat I took two for one. I tried to explain, but he was in a pasaion, and gave me a blow. The lady said somethingto his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a careless litth rascal that he lost all patience with me. That hurí me a great deal more than the blow. Itwas a falsehood, and ho knew it - but he wanted to excuse himself. I feit that Í was going into a passion too, but I thought of what you are ahvays telling me about pa:nce and forbearance, and I kept down Tly passion - I know he was sorry fo:% it pfter, from the way he spoke to me,though ha didn't say so.' 'I have no doubt he sufiered more than you, Stephen,' said Mary ; 'he would be vexed that he had shown his temper before the lady, vexed that he had told a lie, and vexed that he hurt you when you bore it so patienily. ' 'Yes, Mother, butthat doesn't make t easier for me to bear his ill temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do- Vm sturdy and healthy, and willing to doany kind of work.' Mary shook her head, and for á long lime remained silent and thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner.thatalmost made poor Stephen cry - 'You say that, for tny sake, you have borne your mastor's unkind treatment for more than a year ; fot my sake bear t longer, Stephen. Your patience must and will be rewarded In the end. You know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father died, when you were only u litlle infant in the eradlo, to feed and clotlie you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined tliat you should have schooling ; you know how I have been cheered in all my toi! by the hope of you, one day, getting on n the world. And 1 know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are a good honest lad; and are kind lo your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if you are hasty - not ifyou are impntient; you know how hard it was for me to get you this situation - you might not get another - you must not leave- - you must not break your indentures - you must be patiënt and industrious still - you have a hard master; God knows it costs me many a heart-ache to know what you have to suffer ; but bear with him, Stephen, bear with him, for my sake, a few years longer.' Stephen was now fairly crying, and his mother kissed off his tears, while her own flowcd freelv. lier appeal to his affftction was not in vain; he soon smiled through his tears as lie said - 'Wel!, mother, you nhvays know how to talk me over. When I came in tonight, I didthink that I would ncver go to the shop agnin. But I will promise you tobe patiënt and industrious still. Considering all you have dono for me, this is little enough for me to do for you. - When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. l'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to got on, though I don't see how ii's ío be. It's notso very bnd to bear, after all ; and, bad as my master is', there's one comfort, he Iets me have my Saturdny niglits and blessed Sundays wiih you. Wel!, I feel happier now, and think I can ent my supper. We forgot that my porridge was gelting cold all this time.' Stephen kept his word - day after day, and month afier month, his industry and patience never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fel!ow,he had for his fortitude. [lis master, a small stationer in a small country town, with a salary barely sufïicient lo keep him in clolhes, was a liltle, spare, slmrp-fiicoij man, who secmed to have worn him?elf away willi continual frettulness and vexation. He was perpetually fretting, perpetually finding fault with somelhing or other, perpetually thinking that something was going wrong. Tbough lie did cease to go into a passion with and to strike Stephen, yet the poor lad was an object always near on which to vent h is ill humor. Many, many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper: bui he was able to control himself by thinking of his mother. And, as he sa;d, there vas always comfort in those Saturday nights and blessed Sundnys, nnd his Testament readings to his motl er would always strenglhen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him wiih fresh resolution for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would result from this painful bondage 1 She did not know - she only had faith in her doctrine - that industry would one day be rewarded. Haw the reward was to come in her son's cass, she could not sce. It snemed likely indeed, from all circumstances, Jhat the doctrine would in this case prove false. But still she had faith. It was now nearly four years since the conversation detailed between molher and son. They were together ngain on the Saturday evening. Stephen had JjOW grown into a tall, manly youlh, with a kir and thoughtful expression of countt .anee. Mary looked much older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Bot'i were at this moment looking very downcast. 'I do not seo that any thing can be hoped from him,' said Stephen wiih a sigh. 'I have now served him faithfully for five years - l have borne patiently all his i 11- humor, I have never been absent a moment from my post, and during all that time, notwithstanding this, he has never so much asthanked me, he has never given me a single kind word or even a kind look. He must know ihat my apprenticeship will bc out on Tucsday, yet he never says a word to me about it, and 1 suppose I must go without a word.' 'You must speak,'said Mary - 'you cannot go without saying something - and te!l him exactly how aro situited ; he cannot refuse to do something :o help you-' 'It is easy enough to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to do it. I have oficn before thought of speaking to him, and begging a little moresalary. - But now I seemed to feel that he woul'd refuse me, and I feit too proud to ask a favor that most likely woul'd be refused But it shall be done now, mother ; I wil not be a buiden upon you f I can help it. I'd sooner do any thing ihan that. - He ought to do something for me, anc there's no one else that I know of who can. I tcill speak to him on Monday.' Monday was come - all da y Stephen had been screwing up his cournge for the task he had to do; of course, it could not be done when he and his master were in the shop together, for the}' were liable at any moment to be nterrupted. At dinner time they separated, for they took the meal nlternalely, that the post in the shop mightnever be deserted. But now the day's work was over ; every thing was put nway, and the masier and apprentice hac retired into the litlle back parlor to take their tea. As usual, they were alone, for the stationer was a single rmn, (which mny account for the sourness of his temper) and the meal was usunlly taken in silence. Stephon's masier had poured out for him his ñrst cup of tea, hamled it to him without looking at him and began to swaHow his own portion. Stephen allovved his cup to remain unlouched before him ; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep breath, colored slightly and then began - 'If you please, sir I wish to speak with you.' His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed hls keen grey eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at al! surprised, and said sharply, ('and he had a very sharp voice) - 'Well, sir, speak on.' Stephen was determined not to bediscouraged, so he began to teil his liitle tale. His voice faltered at first, bilt as he went on he became quite cloquent,and epoke with a boldness that aslonished himself. Ile forgot his master, and tho't only of his mother. He told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt strongly but modestly on his own conduct during his npprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help liim to do something, for he had notliing in the world to turn to, no money, no friends, no influence. His master heard him to the end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes Trom Stephen's agitated face, - then partially averted his face, then left his seat, and advanced to a sido tebJe, wjjee he began to nimmage amoog some papers, wilh his back to Stephen. Stephen bad ceased speaking for some lime before he made any reply. Then, stil! without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of grunting speculation. 'fTumph ! so your molher gets her living by mangling, does she 1 and she thought that if she got you some schooling, nnd taught you to behave yourseif, your fortune would be made. Well, you wül be free to morrow ; you may go to her and teil her she is a fooi for her pains. Ilere are your indentures, and here's tlie salary Ihat's due to you. Now you may go to bed.' As he spoke the last words, ha had taken the indentures from his desk and the money from his purse. Stephen feit a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money ; he would even liave utered the indignation he feit, but, before he coukl speak, his master had left the room. - Disappointed and heart sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favor of such a man, the poor lad roturned to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundie of clothes ; shóuld he say good-bye to his master 1 Yes; he would not be ungracious at the last. He opened llie door of the back parlor, and stood just within the doorway, his bundie in his hands. ..His master wa3 sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. '1 am going, sir- good bye,' said Stephen. 'Good bye, sir,' returned the marter, without looking at him. And so they parted. The resuh of the application told, the mother and son sat together that night in silence ; their hearts were too full for words. Ma:-y sorrowed most, . becatise she had hoped most. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, and she sat brooding over her disappointment. Stephen ed more chcerful, for bis minu was busy tryingto farm plans fur the future- bow he should go about seeking nnother bíiuation, etc. Bed-time carne - both rose to retire to rest. Slophen had pressed bis mother's hand, and was retiring, aying as he went, 'Never mind, mother, ii'll be all right yet,' when they were stanled by a loud rap at the door. 'Who's there V shouted Stephen. A letter foryou,' was the reply. Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he oponed tho door. A letter as put into his hand, and the bearer ippeared. Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to tho rushlight Mary was carrying. He became still more surprised ; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray - that was his muther - and lic thouglit he knew the hand-wriling ; t was very like h!s master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened by a flash of hope; she could not read wriling ; Stephen must read it fur her. Me oponed the letter; something líke a bank note was the first thing he saw ; he examined it ; it was actually a ten pound Bank of Englnnd note ; his heartbeat rapidly and so did his mother's; what could this mean? But there was a little note which perhops would cxplain. Stepheri's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. There wcre not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen read them himself before he read them aloud. And as he was reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn ! But what was the menning of tears, and he ïooked so pleased ? Mary could not understand it. 'Do read up, Stephen,' she exclaimed. With a voice bioken by the eflbrts he ïad to make all the time to keep from crying, Stephen read - 'Madam - Put away your mangle ; that son of yours is worth mangling for - but t is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants.; in futuro your son may supply you. I let him go to-night ; )ut I did not mran him to stay away, if ie chooses to come back. I don't see hat 1 can do well without him. But I don't want him to come back i f he would athergo any whereelse ; 1 know plenty hat would be glad to have him ; he has een seen in the shop and noticed, and uch lads are not always to be got. If hc chooses to come back to me, he won't reient. I have no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I nm : I am better ban I was, and may be better still. I lave a queer way of doing thing?, but it s my way and can't be helped. Teil lim Pil be glad to have him back to-morowifhelikes. Yours, T. W.' 'I knew it !' exclaimed Mary triumhantly ; 'I always said so ! I knew jou vould eet on !' Stephen did go back to his eccentiic maslei-, and ho never had any reason to epent. He got on even bevond his molher's most soaring hopes. The shop ventually becamr; his own, and he lived nd ílourished a respecled tradesmnn. - Vo need scarcely say that his mother i;id no furiher use for her mangle, and ïat she was a very proud and very hapy woman.