“You ought to drop her, my dear. You really ought not to burden yourself with other people’s affairs as you do,” said I inconsistently.
“How can I drop her? Can I help knowing that she is poor and suffering? And if I drop her, who will take her up?”
Now there is a way of getting rid of cases of this kind, spoken of in a quaint old book, which occurred strongly to me at this moment:—
“If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, ‘Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled,’ notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body, what doth it profit?”
I must confess, notwithstanding the strong point of the closing question, I looked with an evil eye of longing on this very easy way of disposing of such cases. A few sympathizing words, a few expressions of hope that I did not feel, a line written to turn the case into somebody else’s hands,—any expedient, in fact, to hide the longing eyes and imploring hands from my sight,—was what my carnal nature at this moment greatly craved.
“Besides,” said my wife, resuming the thread of her thoughts in regard to the subject just now before us, “as to marriage, it’s out of the question at present for this poor 235 child; for the man she loved and would have married lies low in one of the graves before Richmond. It’s a sad story,—one of a thousand like it. She brightened for a few moments, and looked almost handsome, when she spoke of his bravery and goodness. Her father and lover have both died in this war. Her only brother has returned from it a broken-down cripple, and she has him and her poor old mother to care for, and so she seeks work. I told her to come again to-morrow, and I would look about for her a little to-day.”
“Let me see, how many are now down on your list to be looked about for, Mrs. Crowfield?—some twelve or thirteen, are there not? You’ve got Tom’s sister disposed of finally, I hope,—that’s a comfort!”
“Well, I’m sorry to say she came back on my hands yesterday,” said my wife patiently. “She is a foolish young thing, and said she didn’t like living out in the country. I’m sorry, because the Morrises are an excellent family, and she might have had a life home there, if she had only been steady, and chosen to behave herself properly. But yesterday I found her back on her mother’s hands again; and the poor woman told me that the dear child never could bear to be separated from her, and that she hadn’t the heart to send her back.”
“And in short,” said I, “she gave you notice that you must provide for Miss O’Connor in some more agreeable way. Cross that name off your list, at any rate. That woman and girl need a few hard raps in the school of experience before you can do anything for them.”
“I think I shall,” said my long-suffering wife; “but it’s a pity to see a young thing put in the direct road to ruin.”