XXVI.
A Scrap of News.
Heavy and joyless, Sophy on the following morning arose from her bed, which was little better than a heap of rags, in a kind of cupboard off the kitchen. Heavy and joyless she groped her way into the room where Isaacs and his son were waiting for her coming to offer their daily morning sacrifice of prayer and of praise. Sophy joined them in the former, but when she attempted to sing
"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,"
her voice faltered, and she broke down; tears came instead of music.
The remains of the loaf were shared for breakfast, and taken with some almost colorless tea. Then Isaacs and Benoni quitted the kitchen, the one to seek again for work, the other,—with the basket on his arm,—to try to sell Sophy's knitting. When they had left her, the poor girl seated herself on the box. She had no materials for work, even if she had had the spirit to labor. She gave herself up to sad thought, with her elbow on her knee, and her brow on her hand. "I wonder where Norah is now, and whether she ever thinks of me! When she and I were merry young girls together, singing, and laughing, and building all kinds of castles in the air, how we used to promise each other that our friendship should last as long as our lives! She will have new friends now,—better friends than I ever was, who will not fill her head with follies and her spirit with pride. If she ever thinks of me, it will be with—— But I do not believe that she ever does think of me," continued Sophy, in bitterness of soul; "she is happy, earning her living honestly and cheerfully; she is not dependent, despised, despairing,—a poor, blind wretch, like me!"
Surely the ice of mistrust was growing very thick around Sophy, making her doubt, not only the care of her heavenly Father, but the love of her earthly friend!
And on that very day, Norah Peele was not only thinking of Sophy, but thinking of scarcely anything else. One of those strange little incidents which sometimes occur, small in themselves, but hinges on which great events may turn, had brought poor Sophy on that morning forcibly before the mind of her friend.
Norah was on her knees, lighting the kitchen fire at the vicarage, with a bit of the advertisement sheet of the Times, which was used as waste paper in her master's house, when her eye chanced to fall on the following notice:—
"Next of Kin. If the nearest relative of the late Tabitha Turtle apply to Messrs. Grant, Bold, & Co., —— Lincoln's Inn, he will hear of something to his advantage."
"Tabitha Turtle! surely I know that name!" exclaimed Norah, pausing with the lighted match in her hand. "Yes, to be sure, that is the name of poor Sophy's aunt, who lived somewhere near Portman Square. I remember how we two silly young things used to laugh and joke at the name, and wonder whether she who had it was like a turtle-dove or a tortoise! Something to his advantage—nearest of kin! Why, what if Sophy herself should be nearest of kin,—if there should be money waiting for her,—she who is living now upon the charity of the Jew who has adopted her, and who, I fear, has but little for himself! Oh, that would be delightful, delightful!" and Norah threw down the match, and tore off the little scrap from the paper, as eagerly as if it had contained the greatest piece of good news for herself. She could hardly settle to her work, so impatient was she to go and ask her mistress's leave to run over to the school-house, to consult her uncle Ned Franks as to what could be done for Sophy. However, it was clear that the harder Norah worked, the sooner her business would be over. She therefore plied her fingers so diligently, that, before eleven o'clock had struck, she received leave to go, "just for a quarter of an hour," to speak to her uncle on something of great importance.