MY NEW YEAR’S DREAM.
BY MARY E. CLARK E.
It was midnight, and the last of the old year. All alone in my little room, I listened to the heavy clang of the belle that bade farewell to 1866, to welcome in hie new-born brother. Alone! One year before I had been the centre l of a brilliant party, each and all of whom were drinking a welcome to the New Tear. I was an orphan then, but an heiress and a belle: and having lost my parents in infhnoy, my orphan- hood did not weigh heavily upon me. One month later, my guardian absconded, and it was J found that all my money was gone with him. jj Where he went I know not to this day. I only know he never returned. One by one the gay butterflies of fashion, who had made me their idol, fell away, and I was alone. There was one, one in whose eyes I had fancied I read deep devotion; one whose hand clasped mine with a long, lingering pressure; one whose image nestled close against my heart; one whose large, soft eyes haunted me; one on whose faith I would have staked my life: he too was gone. He was away when the news came to me; I hoped for a letter, a line to say he was the same as ever. It never came. Crushed, worn out, I left my own home, to be a governess here to Mrs. Morton’s lovely daughter. She was as old os myself, but my music and languages were farther advanced, and I came to teach her what I knew of these.
The lost stroke of the bells died away, and all was silent. Mr. and Mrs. Morton, Lucy and her brother, were all at a gay party, such a one as welcomed me one year before. Even the ser- vants were out, and I was entirely alone.
A heavy weight seemed crushing me to the earth, and I longed with bitter, intense longing for one voice to wish me joy on the New Year, one hand to press mine in love and sympathy. There was none! Sadly I looked forward through years to come. Nothing could I see but toil and loneliness. “Oh!” I cried, “that I could die with the eld year!”
“Peace!” said a low voice beside me, “rather wish to begin a new life with the New Year.” I started up and looked about me. All was dark.
“Who is there?” I cried.
A flood of light answered my question, and there on the pillow, where my head had pressed. I saw an artificial flower which had fallen from my bonnet, which hung above it In the centra of the flower stood a tiny figure, not higher than my finger, and it spoke to me again.
“Murmurer,” it said, “be still. Our Father commands all things for the best. Think you that you are the most miserable being on earth? Have you not kind friends, a pleasant home, and a salary that covers your expenses! I have the power to Show yon how the New Year opens for my Maker.”
“Your Maker?”
“Yes. I am the spirit enclosed in your new bonnet; come with me!”
Darkness closed around me again, and I found myself in the open air. Literally in the air, for I was sailing along high above the houses. We passed out of the fashionable quarters where Mr. Morton resided, and alighted in a narrow court, where dirt and misery reigned supreme.
My conductor flitted before me, and I followed. Up, up, many flights of stairs we passed, until we reached the attic of a high, narrow house. Here we found two young girls, sewing, while a third counted the contents of a little green purse.
“How much is there, Carrie?” asked one of them, laying down a wreath of tiny flowers she had just twisted into shape.
“Sixteen cents.”
“Five cents a piece, and one over,” said the other, bitterly. “We begin our New Year with brilliant prospects.”
“Hush, sister!” and the one named Carrie pointed to a mattress, upon which lay a woman sleeping.
“What can we do? It is impossible to live in this way.”
A gloomy silence fell on the party.
“Carrie,” said the first speaker, “how much did Mrs. Gray give you for Miss Morton’s bonnet?”
“Twenty-five cents.”
I started. Miss Morton’s bonnet was warranted French, and had oost thirty dollars.
“Did you find anything?”
“The materials? No, only the work. It took me two days, the lace required dainty handling. I was paid ten cents for the work in the other.
