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“Couldn’t you get her plain sewing? Is she handy with her needle?”

“She has tried that, but it brings on a pain in her side, and cough; and the doctor has told her it will not do for her to confine herself.”

“How is her handwriting? Does she write a good hand?”

“Only passable.”

“Because,” said I, “I was thinking if I could get Steele and Simpson to give her law papers to copy.”

“They have more copyists than they need now; and, in fact, this woman does not write the sort of hand at all that would enable her to get on as a copyist.”

“Well,” said I, turning uneasily in my chair, and at last hitting on a bright masculine expedient, “I’ll tell you what must be done. She must get married.”

“My dear,” said my wife, “marrying for a living is the very hardest way a woman can take to get it. Even marrying for love often turns out badly enough. Witness poor Jane.”

Jane was one of the large number of people whom it seemed my wife’s fortune to carry through life on her back. She was a pretty, smiling, pleasing daughter of Erin, who had been in our family originally as nursery-maid. I had been greatly pleased in watching a little idyllic affair growing up between her and a joyous, good-natured young Irishman, to whom at last we married her. Mike soon after, however, took to drinking and unsteady courses; and the result has been to Jane only a yearly baby, with poor health and no money.

“In fact,” said my wife, “if Jane had only kept single, she could have made her own way well enough, and might have now been in good health and had a pretty sum in the savings bank. As it is, I must carry not only her, but her three children, on my back.”

“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 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!”