England, but it won’t work here,” said Fanny, who had begun,
lately, to think a good deal of some one beside herself, and so
found her interest in her fellow-beings increasing daily.
“We can’t do much, perhaps, just yet; but still there are things left
undone that naturally fall to us. I know a house,” said Polly,
sewing busily as she talked, “where every servant who enters it
becomes an object of interest to the mistress and her daughters.
These women are taught good habits, books are put where they can
get them, sensible amusements are planned for them sometimes,
and they soon feel that they are not considered mere scrubs, to do
as much work as possible, for as little money as possible, but
helpers in the family, who are loved and respected in proportion to
their faithfulness. This lady feels her duty to them, owns it, and
does it, as conscientiously as she wants them to do theirs by her;
and that is the way it ought to be, I think.”
As Polly paused, several keen eyes discovered that Emma’s cheeks
were very red, and saw a smile lurking in the corners of the mouth
that tried to look demure, which told them who Polly meant.
“Do the Biddies all turn out saints in that well regulated family?”
asked the irrepressible Trix.
“No; few of us do that, even in the parlor; but every one of the
Biddies is better for being there, whether they are grateful or not. I
ought not to have mentioned this, perhaps, but I wanted to show
you one thing that we girls can do. We all complain about bad
servants, most as much as if we were house-keepers ourselves; but
it never occurs to us to try and mend the matter, by getting up a
better spirit between mistress and maid. Then there ‘s another thing
we can do,” added Polly, warming up. “Most of us find money
enough for our little vanities and pleasures, but feel dreadfully
poor when we come to pay for work, sewing especially. Could n’t
we give up a few of the vanities, and pay the seamstresses better?”
“I declare I will!” cried Belle, whose conscience suddenly woke,
and smote her for beating down the woman who did her plain
sewing, in order that she might have an extra flounce on a new
dress. “Belle has got a virtuous fit; pity it won’t last a week,” said
Trix.
“Wait and see,” retorted Belle, resolving that it should last, just to
disappoint “that spiteful minx;” as she sweetly called her old
school-mate.
“Now we shall behold Belle galloping away at a great pace, on her
new hobby. I should n’t be surprised to hear of her preaching in the
jail, adopting a nice dirty little orphan, or passing round tracts at a
Woman’s Rights meeting,” said Trix, who never could forgive
Belle for having a lovely complexion, and so much hair of her own
that she never patronized either rats, mice, waterfalls, switches, or
puff-combs.
“Well, I might do worse; and I think, of the two, I ‘d rather amuse
myself so, than as some young ladies do, who get into the papers
for their pranks,” returned Belle, with a moral air.
“Suppose we have a little recess, and rest while Polly plays to us.
Will you, Polly? It will do us good; they all want to hear you, and
begged I ‘d ask.”
“Then I will, with pleasure”; and Polly went to the piano with such
obliging readiness, that several reproachful glances fell upon Trix,
who did n’t need her glass to see them.
Polly was never too sad, perturbed, or lazy to sing, for it was
almost as easy to her as breathing, and seemed the most natural
outlet for her emotions. For a minute her hands wandered over the
keys, as if uncertain what to play; then, falling into a sad, sweet
strain, she sang “The Bridge of Sighs.” Polly did n’t know why she
chose it, but the instinct seemed to have been a true one, for, old as
the song was, it went straight to the hearts of the hearers, and Polly
sung it better than she ever had before, for now the memory of