“I have to leave her all the forenoon, for the purpose of attending the rehearsals, and then, before it is time for her to go to bed, I have to leave her, alone, and go to the theatre, and be absent till a late hour of the night. And then the fear of fire, or of accident, while I am gone from her, wears me out. Worse than that, all day and night, while away from her, is the dread of her getting in the street, and into evil company.” And the eyes of the woman assumed an anxious, haggard, querulous look, as she dropped them upon her book.
“Give your little girl into my care. I am never absent from home except early in the morning—as to-day—and at that hour you are here.”
The dark eyes flew up and fastened themselves upon the face of Zuleime, and the deep voice inquired—
“Would you really take charge of her for me? Oh, it is too much for you, and too good in you. I don’t understand it.”
“Indeed I shall be very glad to do so. The presence of a lovely child is a great pleasure to me. Leave Ida with me this evening while you are gone, and I will put her to bed when the time comes.”
“For this evening I will gratefully accept your kindness, but you may find her more inconvenient than you anticipate,” said Mrs. Knight. And then she dropped her eyes again upon her book, and Zuleime went on silently with her sewing. About sunset the work was nearly completed, and the costume, with the exception of the coiffure, upon which Zuleime was still engaged, was packed in bandboxes, to be conveyed to the theatre. Then Mrs. Knight rang a little hand bell, and when it was answered by the entrance of Bertha Erhmientraut, she said,—“Please send me a lad to carry these boxes for me, and ask your mother to make me a very strong cup of coffee.”
Bertha disappeared, and Mrs. Knight put on her bonnet and shawl. And soon a ragged boy appeared at the door, who agreed to carry the boxes for a sixpence. Mrs. Knight loaded and dispatched him at the same moment that Bertha re-appeared with a huge cup of strong coffee, which she took and drank off, standing. Then, as she handed back the empty cup to the German girl, and received from Zuleime the finished coiffure pinned up in a paper, she said—
“That cup of coffee will give me strength to go through my heavy part to-night, but will leave me at its close more exhausted than ever; thus I discount future health and life for present bread.” And so she went off, her eyes gleaming under the excitement of a stimulant narcotic, as fatal, if not as disreputable, as opium or alcohol. Zuleime went up to her own room, and prepared the frugal supper for herself and the two children, that were still playing on the carpet. She got a double portion of milk from the German people, on account of her little guest, Ida declaring that she liked milk with corn cake crumbled in it better than anything, it was so sweet. And then when the babe was undressed and put to bed, the little girl’s eyes waxed heavy and dim, and Zuleime took her down stairs into her mother’s room, and disrobed and washed and prepared her for bed. And when the child was about to kiss her friend and spring into bed, Zuleime said—
“Stop, Ida. Don’t you say your prayers?”
“No, ma’am.”