"I hope so. But you must not expect that things here in a big city can ever be bright and sweet like the fields at home. That can hardly be."

Rotha sighed. A vision of dandelions came up before her, and waving grass bent by summer wind. But there was hope that the morrow's search would unfold to her some less unpromising phases of city life, and she suspended judgment.

Next day, wonder and amusement for a time superseded everything else. The multitude of busy people coming and going, the laden carts and light passing carriages, the gay shops, and the shops that were not gay, filled Rotha's eye and mind. Even the vegetables exposed at a corner shop were a matter of lively interest.

"O mother," she cried, "is this a market?"

"No. It is a store for groceries."

"Well, they have got some other things here. Mother, the cabbages don't look nice." Then soon after coming to a small market store, Rotha must stand still to look.

"They are a little better here," she judged. "Mother, mother! they have got everything at this market. Do see! there are fish, and oysters, and clams; and eggs; and what are those queer things?"

"Lobsters."

"What are they good for?"

"To eat."

"They don't look as if they were good for anything. Mother, one could get a very good dinner here."

"With plenty of money."

"Does it take much? – to get one dinner?"

"Are you hungry?" said her mother, smiling faintly. "It takes a good deal of money to get anything in New York, Rotha."

"Then I am afraid we ought to have staid at Medwayville."

A conclusion which almost forced itself upon Mrs. Carpenter's mind. For the business of finding a lodging that would suit her and that she could pay for, soon turned out to be one of difficulty. She and Rotha grew weary of walking, and more weary of looking at rooms that would suit them which they could not pay for, and other rooms which they could pay for and that would not do. All the houses in New York seemed to come under one or the other category. From one house agency to another, and from these to countless places referred to, advertised for hire, the mother and daughter wandered; in vain. One or the other difficulty met them in every case.

"What will you do, mother, if you cannot find a place?" Rotha asked, the evening of the first day. "Go back to Medwayville?"

"We cannot go back."

"Then we must find a place," said Rotha.

And driven by this necessity, so they did. The third day, well tired in body and much more in mind, they did at last find what would do. It was a long walk from their hotel, and seemed endless. No doubt, in the country, with grass under their feet, or even the well beaten foot track beside the highway, neither mother nor daughter would have thought anything of the distance; but here the hard pavement wearied them, and the way measured off by so many turns and crossings and beset with houses and human beings, seemed a forlorn pilgrimage into remote regions. Besides, it left the pleasanter part of the city and went, as Rotha remarked, among poor folks. Down Bleecker St. till it turned, then following the new stretch of straight pavement across Carmine St., and on and on into the parts then called Chelsea. On till they came to an irregular open space.

"This must be Abingdon Square," said the mother.

"It isn't square at all," Rotha objected.

"But this must be it. Then it's only one street more, Rotha. Look for Jane Street."

Beyond Abingdon Square Jane Street was found to be the next crossing.

They turned the corner and were at the place they sought.

The region was not one of miserable poverty and tenant houses. Better than that; and the buildings being low and small did not darken the streets, as Mrs. Carpenter had found in some parts of the city. A decent woman, a mantua-maker, had the house and offered Mrs. Carpenter the second floor; two little rooms and a closet off them. The rooms were furnished after a sort; but Mrs. Marble could give no board with them; only lodging. She was a bright, sharp little woman.

"Yes, I couldn't," she said. "It wouldn't pay. I couldn't mind my business. I take my meals in a corner; for I couldn't have grease and crumbs round; but where one person can stand, three can't sit. You'll have to manage that part yourself. It'll be cheaper for you, too."

"Is anything cheap here?" Mrs. Carpenter asked wearily. She had sat down to rest and consider.

"That's how you manage it," said the other, shewing a full and rather arch smile. She was a little woman, quick and alert in all her ways and looks. "My rooms aint dear, to begin with; and you needn't ruin yourself eating; if you know how."

"I knew how in the country," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Here it is different."

"Aint it! I guess it is. Rents, you see; and folks must live, landlords and all. Some of 'em do a good deal more; but that aint my lookout. I'd eat bread and salt sooner than I'd be in debt; and I never do be that. Is it only you two?"

"That is all."

"Then you needn't to worry. I guess you'll get along."

For Mrs. Marble noticed the quiet respectability of her caller, and honestly thought what she said. Mrs. Carpenter reflected. The rooms were not high; she could save a good deal by the extra trouble of providing herself; she would be more private, and probably have things better to her liking. Besides, her very soul sickened at the thought of looking for any more rooms. She decided, and took these. Then she asked about the possibilities of getting work. Mrs. Marble's countenance grew more doubtful.

"Plain sewing?" she said. "Well, there's a good many folks doing that, you see."

"I thought, perhaps, you could put me in the way of some."

"Well, perhaps I can. I'll see what I can think of. But there's a many doing that sort o' thing. They're in every other house, almost. Now, when will you come?"

"To-morrow. I suppose I cannot tell what I want to get till I do come."

"I can tell you some things right off. You'd better do part of it to-day, or you'll want everything at once. First of all, you'd better order in some coal. You can get that just a block or two off; Jones & Sanford; they have a coal yard. It is very convenient."

"Where can it be put?"

"In the cellar. There's room enough. And if I was you, I wouldn't get less than half a ton. They make awful profits when they sell by the basket. You will want a little kindling too. Hadn't you better get a little bit of a stove? one with two places for cooking; or one place. It will save itself six times over in the course of the winter."

"Where can I get it?"

"I guess you're pretty much of a stranger here, aint you?"

"Entirely a stranger."

"I thought so. Folks get a look according to the place they live. You aint bad enough for New York," she added with a merry and acute smile.

"I hope there are some good people here," said Mrs. Carpenter.

"I hope so. I haven't passed 'em all through my sieve; got something else to do; and it aint my business neither. Well – only don't you think there aint some bad ones in the lot, that's all. There's plenty of places where you can get your stove, if you want to. Elwall's in Abingdon Square, is a very good place. Some things goes with the stove. I guess you know what you want as well as I do," she said, breaking off and smiling again.

"I shall need bedding too," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a look at the empty bedstead.

"You can't do everything at once, if you're to come in to-morrow. I'll tell you – I've a bed you can have, that I aint using. It'll cost you less, and do just as well. I aint one of the bad ones," she said, again with a gleam of a smile. "I shan't cheat you."

The arrangement was made at last, and Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha set out on their way back. They stopped in Abingdon Square and bought a stove, a little tea-kettle, a saucepan and frying pan; half a dozen knives and forks, spoons, etc., a lamp, and sundry other little indispensable conveniences for people who would set up housekeeping. Rotha was glad to be quit of the hotel, and yet in a divided state of mind. Too tired to talk, however, that night; which was a happiness for her mother.

The next day was one of delightful bustle; all filled with efforts to get in order in the new quarters. And by evening a great deal was done. The bed was made; the washstand garnished; the little stove put up, fire made in it, and the kettle boiled; and at night mother and daughter sat down to supper together, taking breath for the first time that day. Mrs. Carpenter had been to a neighbouring grocery and bought a ham and bread; eggs were so dear that they scared her; she had cooked a slice and made tea, and Rotha declared that it tasted good.

"But this is funny bread, mother."

"It is baker's bread."

"It is nice, a little, but it isn't sweet."

"Let us be thankful we have got it, Rotha."

"Yes; but, mother, I think I should be more thankful for better bread."

"I will try and make you some better," Mrs. Carpenter said laughing.

"This is not economical, I am sure."

"Mother," said Rotha, "do you suppose aunt Serena takes in sewing?"

"She? no. She gives it out."

"You would not like to do her sewing?"

"I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly.

"Does she do her own cooking, as you do?"

"No, my child. She has no need."

"Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?"

"That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to her eyes.

"Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "if she isn't, I should say that things are queer."

"That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him."

"And weren't they?" asked Rotha.

"No. He did not understand; that was all."

"I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me uneasy."

"You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy."

"Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly.

"Trust God. He knows."

"Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted.

"For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and in the best way."

"Mother, that is trusting a good deal."

"The Lord likes to have us trust him."

"But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?"

"You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his children."

"I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly.

"Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always do that."

"And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days."

Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true.

"Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?"

"Not now."

"When?"

"I do not know."

"Where does she live?"

"Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to rights in the other room."

The next day Mrs. Carpenter set about finding some work. Alas, if there were many that had it to give, there seemed to be many more that wanted it. It was worse than looking for rooms. At last some tailoring was procured from a master tailor; and Mrs. Carpenter sat all day over her sewing, giving directions to Rotha about the affairs of the small housekeeping. Rotha swept and dusted and washed dishes and set the table, and prepared vegetables. Not much of that, for their meals were simple and small; however, with one thing and another the time was partly filled up. Mrs. Carpenter stitched. It was a new thing, and disagreeable to the one looker-on, to see her mother from morning to night bent over work which was not for herself. At home, though life was busy it was not slaving. There were intervals, and often, of rest and pleasure taking. She and Rotha used to go into the garden to gather vegetables and to pick fruit; and at other times to weed and dress the beds and sow flower seeds. And at evening the whole little family were wont to enjoy the air and the sunsets and the roses from the hall door; and to have sweet and various discourse together about a great variety of subjects. Those delights, it is true, ceased a good while ago; the talks especially. Mrs. Carpenter was not much of a talker even then, though her words were good when they came. Now she said little indeed; and Rotha missed her father. An uneasy feeling of want and longing took possession of the child's mind. I suppose she felt mentally what people feel physically when they are slowly starving to death. It had not come to that yet with Rotha; but the initial fret and irritation began to be strong. Her mother seemed to be turned into a sewing machine; a thinking one, she had no doubt, nevertheless the thoughts that were never spoken did not practically exist for her. She was left to her own; and Rotha's thoughts began to seethe and boil. Another child would have found food enough and amusement enough in the varied sights and experiences of life in the great city. They made Rotha draw in to herself.