“Goodness me, Ferris, how very pathetic you are,” said Alicia, slightly coloring, with shame we hope, “but I am not so easily melted, and the roses I must have—fairly purchased of the girl if she will sell them, if not, by some other means, for obtain them I must; and if with your aid, Ferris, a rich reward shall be yours—if you refuse it, there are those to whom I have shown far less kindness than to you who would not so willingly disoblige me.”
“Indeed, Miss,” said Ferris, half-crying and alarmed by the dread of losing a good place, “there is nobody in the whole world that I would do so much for as you—any thing that was right, Miss, I could never disobey you in—but to rob the dead! who could do that and hope ever to have a quiet night again?”
“Nonsense!” ejaculated Alicia, with a contemptuous curl of her pretty lip, “what have you to do with the dead in this matter? I ask you to go to the living, to the girl herself once more, and tempt her with gold, which she must need, to give you these precious flowers. I do not care what you offer her, sovereigns, guineas, any thing you please, if so you win from her the roses—I am no goddess without them—but crowned with such a lovely garland, I shall rival Flora herself—walk a divinity among the men, and cause all the women to expire with envy.”
And at the bare thought of such a triumph, the spoiled little beauty crossed the room with as regal a step as though she really trod the cloudy heights of Olympus, and casting off her veil and robe of changeful hue, she wrapped her fairy form in a luxurious dressing-gown, and sunk quite exhausted into the arms of a capacious fauteuil, from beneath the downy cushions of which she drew forth the last new novel, and soon seemingly abandoned herself to its absorbing interest.
“I will try, Miss, once more for the roses,” said Ferris, as she turned to leave the room, “unless you are willing Grayson should go—she knows the place, for she went there with me, Miss, and would, I think, be much more likely to get them than I should.”
“I care not a pin who goes, Ferris,” said Alicia, looking up from beneath the mass of silk and down in which she sat half-buried—“only let me have the roses and I will not even ask how they were got, or by whom.” And again she sunk listlessly down into what might have seemed a little bundle of embroidered silk, but for the crown of shining ringlets just visible in its midst.
——
CHAPTER II.
The scene of our tale changes from the abode of wealth and fashion to the humble dwelling of poverty, with its trials and privations—from the exhibition of a spoiled and petted beauty’s vain and idle caprices, to the manifestations of a pure and noble spirit, oppressed by misfortune, yet true to its own high convictions of duty, gently submissive to the Divine hand which guided and sustained it, and ever shedding around its lowly sphere the light and peace of its own heavenly faith and love.
In a narrow cross-street of one of the most obscure suburbs of the city, stood a dilapidated house, the small attic of which was tenanted by an elderly man and his daughter, the former of whom was now lying motionless upon his bed, either insensible or asleep; and to judge from his wasted and ghastly appearance, approaching near the confines of that world where the weary spirit finds release and rest. Beside him, at a small table, sat a young girl of singularly sweet and interesting appearance, without what a common observer would designate beauty, and yet with “something than beauty dearer,” irradiating her calm, pure face; a soul-light from within, shining and giving to it that heavenly expression which reminded one of the angelic faces which beam from the breathing canvas of Raphael. Her soft, brown hair fell back in wavy curls from her smooth brow, and in her dark hazel-eyes, with their long-fringed drooping lids, there was a depth of unrevealed and gentle sensibilities, and a lurking tenderness around her mouth, which indicated timidity and sweetness—some might have thought it weakness, had not the slight and graceful curve of the upper lip rescued it from that suspicion—denoting a firm, if a gentle soul, and a courage strong to dare and endure in the path of woman’s duty, thorny and rugged though that path might chance to be.