Chapter 9

THE NEW BONNET.

The next morning, for a wonder. Jenny Lincoln was up before the sun, and in the large dark closet which adjoined her sleeping room, she rummaged through band-boxes and on the top shelves until she found and brought to light a straw hat, which was new the fall before, but which her mother had decided unfit to appear again in the city. Jenny had heard the unkind remarks which Mary's odd-looking bonnet elicited, and she now determined to give her this one, though she did not dare to do so without her mother's consent. So after breakfast, when her mother was seated at her work in the parlor, Jenny drew near, making known her request, and asking permission to carry the bonnet to Mary herself.

"Mercy on me!" said Mrs. Lincoln, "what won't you think of next, and where did you get such vulgar taste. It must have been from your father, for I am sure you never took it from me. I dare say, now, you had rather play with that town pauper than with the richest child in Boston."

For a moment Jenny was silent, and then as a new idea came into her head, she said, "Ma, if you should die, and pa should die, and every body should die, and we hadn't any money, wouldn't I have to be a town pauper?"

"What absurd questions you ask," said Mrs. Lincoln, overturning a work-box to find a spool of cotton, which lay directly on top. "Do what you please with the bonnet, which I fancy you'll find as much too small for Mary as the one she now has is too large."

Jenny felt fearful of this, but "where there's a will there's a way;" and after considering a moment, she went in quest of her sister, who had one just like it. Rose did not care a fig for the bonnet, and after a while she agreed to part with it on condition that Jenny would give her a coral bracelet, with gold clasps, which she had long coveted. This fanciful little ornament was a birth-day present from Billy and at first Jenny thought that nothing would tempt her to part with it, but as Rose was decided, she finally yielded the point, brushing away a tear as she placed the bracelet in her sister's hand. Then putting the bonnet in a basket, and covering it with a newspaper, she started for the poor-house.

"Good morning, Miss Grundy," said she, as she appeared in the doorway. "May I see Mary, just a little minute? I've got something for her."

Miss Grundy was crosser than usual this morning on account of a sudden illness which had come upon Patsy, so she jerked her shoulders, and without turning her head, replied, "It's Monday mornin', and Mary ain't goin' to be hindered by big bugs nor nobody else. Here 'tis goin' on nine o'clock, and them dishes not done yet! If you want to see her, you can go into the back room where she is."

Nothing daunted by this ungracious reception, Jenny advanced towards the "back room," where she found Mary at the "sink," her arms immersed in dishwater, and a formidable pile of plates, platters and bowls all ready to be wiped, standing near her. Throwing aside her bonnet and seizing the coarse dish towel, Jenny exclaimed, "I'm going to wipe dishes Mary, I know how, and when they are done, if Miss Grundy won't let you go up stairs a minute, I'll ask Mr. Parker. I saw him under the woodshed grinding an axe."

It was a rare thing to see Jenny Lincoln in the kitchen at the poor-house, and now the fact that she was there, and wiping dishes too, circulated rapidly, bringing to the spot the sour-faced woman, the pleasant-looking woman, the girl with the crooked feet, and half a dozen others, each of whom commented upon the phenomenon after her own fashion.

"Do see the little thing," said one; "handles the wiping rag just like any body!"

"And look there," cried a second; "setting them up in the cupboard! Did you ever!" While a third remarked that she wore silk stockings, wondering whether they were bought on purpose for her, or had been cut over from a pair of her mother's.

Thus noticed and flattered Jenny worked away, assisting in scouring knives and washing spiders, until her dress was splashed with dishwater, and her white apron crocked by the kettles.

"Won't your marm scold you for getting so dirty?' asked the girl with the crooked feet.

"I s'pose so," said Jenny, carelessly; "but then she scolds most all the time, so I don't mind it!"

The dishes being done, and Miss Grundy making no objections, Mary accompanied Jenny up stairs, where the latter, opening her basket, held to view a neat-looking straw hat, far prettier than the one which Mrs. Campbell had presented.

"See," said she, placing it upon Mary's head; "this is for you. I wanted to give you mine, but 'twasn't big enough, so Rose let you have hers. It's real becoming, too."

The tears which fell from Mary's eyes were caused not less by Jenny's kindness, than by the thought that the haughty Rose Lincoln had given her a bonnet! She did not know of the sacrifice which the noble-hearted Jenny had made to obtain it, and it was well she did not, for it would have spoiled all the happiness she experienced in wearing it.

"Thank you, Jenny, and Rose too," said she. "I am so glad, for I love to go to church, and I surely would never have gone again and wore that other bonnet."

"I wouldn't either," returned Jenny. "I think it was ridiculous for Mrs. Campbell to give you such an old dud of a thing, and I know mother thinks so too, for she laughed hard for her, when I described it, though she said nothing except that 'beggars shouldn't be choosers.' I wonder what that means. Do you know?"

Mary felt that she was beginning to know, but she did not care to enlighten Jenny, who soon sprang up, saying she must go home, or her mother would be sending Henry after her. "And I don't want him to come here," said she, "for I know you don't like him, and there don't hardly any body, he's so stuck up and kind of--I don't know what."

In passing through the hall, the girls met Miss Grundy, who had just come from Patsy's room. As soon as she saw Mary, she said, "Clap on your bonnet quick, and run as fast as ever you can to Miss Thornfield's. Dr. Gilbert has gone there, and do you tell him to come here right away, for Patsy is dreadful sick, and has fits all the time."

There was a tremor in her voice, and she seemed much excited, which surprised the girls, who fancied she would not care even if Patsy died. Mrs. Thornfield's was soon reached, the message given, and then they hurried back.

"Is Patsy worse?" asked Mary, as she saw the bedroom door open, and two or three women standing near the bed.

Miss Grundy did not answer, and when next her face was visible, the girls saw that her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Jenny, as she started for home. "I didn't suppose any thing would make her cry, and I guess now the tears are sort of _sour!_"

Dr. Gilbert came, but his skill could not save the poor idiot girl, and at about four that afternoon she died. Around the bed of death there were no tears or lamentations, for those who stood by and watched the lamp of life as it went out, felt that the spirit which was leaving them would be happier far in another world, for never in this had a ray of reason shone upon poor Patsy's darkened mind. We have said there were no tears, and yet, although the waters came not to the surface, there was one heart which wept, as with unflinching nerve the cold, stern woman arrayed the dead girl for the grave.

That night Mary was aroused from sleep, by some one whispering her name in her ear, and starting up, she saw Sally bending over her.

"Come with me," said she softly, "and I'll show you the queerest sight you ever saw."

Trembling in every joint, Mary arose and followed Sal, who led her towards the room where Patsy lay. As she drew near the door they paused, and by the light of the autumn moon, which streamed through the curtained window Mary saw Miss Grundy kneeling by the cold body, and sobbing bitterly. Once she spoke, and Mary caught the words, "My child, my poor child."

Wonderingly she looked up to Sally for an explanation; but the crazy woman only replied, as they returned to their rooms, "Yes,--there's been queer doings some time or other, it's very evident; but I know one thing, I'll never draw her profile again, and I'll call her _Mrs._ Grundy after this!"

It was hardly worth while, as the neighbors thought, to be at all the trouble and expense of carrying a foolish girl without friends or relatives to the graveyard, so they buried her beneath the shadow of a wide-spreading maple, in a little inclosure where several other unfortunate ones lay sleeping At the funeral many wondered at the ghastly whiteness of Miss Grundy's face, and why she grasped at the coffin lid, as if to keep from falling, when with others she gazed upon the pale face which, in its dreamless slumber, looked calm and placid as that of a child.

There were but few who knew of Miss Grundy's sin, and her secret was buried in Patsy's grave, where often a mother's form was bending and a mother's tears were shed, when the world was dark and still, and there was no eye to see, save that of Him who said, "Go and sin no more."