The city, picturesque and novel, in the first distant view, grew stranger still as they came nearer and nearer, and cast anchor at last in the far-famed harbor of Rio Janeiro.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST LETTER.
“Where do you suppose they are now, mother?” Hannah Gilman kept her finger on the map, as she looked up to ask the question. She was tracing out for the twentieth time, the track of the vessel, by the aid of an Olney’s Atlas.
“Let me see,” answered the mother musingly, waxing the linen thread more slowly, as she dwelt on the thought of her absent ones. It was almost the only pleasure Mrs. Gilman allowed herself, a stolen respite from her never-ending daily labor. “What day of the month is it, Abby?”
“Twenty-ninth—Hannah, you won’t get your hat done—Mother, just see Hannah’s short straws scattered all ’round.”
“Perhaps it would be just as well if you would attend to your own work, Abby,—how often must I tell you, that I don’t like to see children, sisters especially, interfering with each other. Yes, it’s April 29th, Hannah, and they expected to get into San Francisco the middle of May, or first of June. You must look in the Pacific for them now, near Valparaiso, I hope. It will be a long, long time before we hear.”
Four months, a long New Hampshire winter, had gone slowly by. How slowly, only those who count days, and weeks, and months of absence can tell. At night Mrs. Gilman’s last thought was one of thankfulness, that another day was gone. In the morning she woke with a wish that it was night again. They were living in a small house near the end of the village, to which they removed the week after New-Years. Squire Merrill had begged Mrs. Gilman to stay in the homestead all winter at least, but this she could not consent to. Since she must leave it, it was best to go at once, and she could warm the hired house, the only empty one in the village, much more economically. It was one of those so often seen on a country road-side, standing in a little door-yard, low and unpainted. There were but two rooms on the ground floor, and an unfinished attic above; but it was all they would really need, and the rent was very low. Abby’s pride was greatly hurt when she first heard of the arrangement, and she declared very plainly, that she “never would, never go to that little mean place, where old Lyman had lived.” Abby’s threats were generally the extent of her disobedience, and after all, she proved the greatest help in moving, and getting settled again. The two girls divided the house-work between them now, even the baking; for which Abby began to show a decided genius, and Mrs. Gilman sat at her needle from morning till night. It was all she had to depend upon, but the first year’s house rent which she put aside.
She had a plan for the girls, which she expected Abby would rebel at, that might in the end be a great deal of assistance to her. When at the store she had seen piles of coarse palm-leaf hats brought in and exchanged for dry goods or groceries. She did not see why Abby’s nimble fingers could not braid these as well as knit stockings, for which there was little sale. The young lady for once proved reasonable, and even Hannah’s emulation was excited, when her sister entered into a precise calculation of what their gains might be before the end of the winter.
The palm-leaf came home, looking so fair and even in the long bundles, and the two sisters plunged into the mysteries of “setting up,” and “adding in,”—“double turns,” “binding off”—and “closing up.” While the fever lasted, Abby could scarcely be persuaded to take time for eating and sleeping; and when the novelty began to wear off, she had acquired a mechanical skill and dexterity that made her new profession quite as easy as knitting. It was harder for Hannah, until she discovered that she could read while she braided down the crown, so in her hurry to get to this favorite part of the work, her hat was completed almost as soon as her sister’s.