# The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter IX

CHAPTER IX.
A PEEP INTO THE RICH POOR MAN'S HOUSE.
Seven years had not passed over without those precious accumulations to Aikin that constitute the poor man's wealth; for, save a conscience void of offence, there is no treasure comparable to healthy, bright, well-trained children. Our friend Harry and his wife had kept the even tenour of their way—no uncommon event had happened to them; but, as the river of life glides through a varied country, the aspect of their's now varied from what it was when we last saw them.
The floor of the room was partly covered with a carpet, and the part visible as clean as hands could make it. It was summer, and the blinds were closed, admitting only light enough to enable the persons within to carry on their occupations. Uncle Phil is sitting by the half-opened window, with a year-old baby on his lap, telling over on its toes that charming lyric, "this pig went to market, and that pig stayed at home"—Aunt Lottie was preparing a pot of wholesome soup, which, like a judicious housewife, having boiled the day before, she was freeing from every particle of fat—a little girl, six years old, was tacking worsted binding together for Venitian blinds, whereby she got from a manufacturer (working only at odd intervals) ​half a dollar per week; and at the same time teaching a sister, something more than two years younger, thee multiplication-table—Susan Aikin sat by, her vigilant eye seeing every thing, and her kind voice interposing, as often as the wants or claims of the children rendered her interference necessary. Her most difficult duty seemed to be to keep in due order a restless, noisy little fellow, William, the twin brother of her eldest girl, whom she was teaching to write, while at the same time she was tailoring and instructing in her art a young girl, who had just set the last stitch in a vest of the most costly material, and was holding it up for inspection; a slight anxiety, till she heard the approving word, tempering her conscious success. Susan scrutinized every part of it, every seam, button-hole, and button; and then said—
"There's not a fault in it—I could not do one better myself, Agnes."
Agnes burst into tears; Anne looked up from her work inquiringly; little Mary exclaimed, "Such a big girl cry!" Willie said, "She is not really crying;" and the baby stretched out its neck, and put up its lips to offer a kiss of consolation, which Agnes took, smiling through her tears, and saying, "Oh, I'm only crying because your mother has been so good to me!"
"Well," shouted Willie, "that's a funny thing to cry for !"
"That was not all, Willie," said his mother; "Agnes cries because she has been good herself."
"That's funnier yet; we never cry only when we are naughty."
Mrs. Aikin solved the riddle, and so will we, ​Agnes was the eldest child of a worthy and very poor neighbour of Mrs. Aikin. Her father had been disabled for some months, by falling from a building, and had recently died; her mother had lost her health from over-exertion. Agnes had an idiot sister, and two brothers too young to render the family any assistance. Mrs. Aikin, foreseeing the distress of the family after they should have exhausted the father's earnings, and knowing that Agnes was a diligent and good girl, and had been well taught plain sewing in a public school, offered to instruct her in making vests, a very profitable business to those who are skilled in it, and can command work from the first merchant tailors. There were some obstacles in the way: Agnes could only be spared from home at odd intervals, and often only at times very inconvenient to Susan Aikin; but who, as Sudan said, would ever do any good in this world if they made mountains of molehills? Those who saw her multiplied cares, her bee-like industry, would rather have said she made molehills of mountains. She always received Agnes with a smile, always found a quiet corner for her, and made leisure to attend to her. Agnes, seeing the efforts and sacrifices her kind friend made for her, set the right value upon the good she was obtaining, and performed her part with fidelity.
Many complaints are made of the low rates of women's wages—some just, no doubt; but, for the most part, they are paid according to their capacity. A well-qualified seamstress, tailoress, or milliner, can, except in very rare cases, obtain certain employment and good pay: a half-taught and ​careless worker must take her chance for slopwork, at low wages. Susan Aikin could at all times command work from the most respectable houses, was sure of the highest wages, and incidental favours that she knew how to turn to account. "Now, Agnes, my child," she had said on the day previous to this on which we have introduced her young friend, "here is a trial vest for you; I have got leave from my employers to put it into your hands; you must set every stitch in it; and, if it is done to their satisfaction, you are to have as much of their best work as you can do, which is as good as a promise of six dollars a week to you—a sure support for your poor mother, and helpless sister, and little brothers. Better, my child, to trust to diligent, skilful hands, than to widows' societies, and assistance societies, and so on; leave those for such as can get nothing better, while we use the means of independence that Providence has given us."
"But if I should fail, Mrs. Aikin?"
"Why, then there is one comfort left, we can try again; but you will not fail."
Thus stimulated and encouraged, Agnes set to work, and, as has been seen, accomplished her task, and no wonder that she shed tears of joy when it was done. Which, we would ask, was happiest—which richest; he who paid fifteen dollars for the vest, or she who earned the dollar by making it, and thereby cheered the hearts of the desolate, and brought comfort and light to a dreary home? or, which is happiest—richest; she who is lapped in luxury, and is every day seeking some new and expensive pleasure, or those who, like our friend ​Mrs. Aikin, in some obscure place, are using their faculties and seizing their opportunities of doing good, never to be known and praised by the world, but certainly recorded in the book of life?
While the vest was passing round to be examined and praised by Aunt Lottie, Uncle Phil, and all, for their joys were in common in this little family, Aikin entered, and had his share in the general pleasure; but his brow soon clouded. Children are quick readers of faces they love.
"What is the matter, father?" asked Willie; "is that ugly pain in your breast come again?"
"No, something worse, Willie; a pain in my heart."
"What is the matter ?" asked Susan, anxiously. Every eye now turned to Aikin.
"It's poor M'Elroy's troubles again. He called me in as I was passing. There lay his wife on the floor, dead drunk. Returning from the grocer's, she slipped down the cellar stairs, and is so black and bruised, her head so swollen, you would not know her. The children were crying, and he wringing his hands and saying, 'I can bear it no longer.' He, every week of his life, earns more than I do, and this bad woman wastes it. This comes of marrying a poor, ignorant, ill-brought-up girl, who had nothing but a pretty face to recommend her. M'Elroy says his children are going to destruction. She makes them play truant, sends them out begging, puts lies into their mouths, and, last and worse than all, gives them rum to drink."
"Dear me! dear me!" exclaimed Susan, "what can be done for them?"
​"He says but one thing—he must turn her adrift; he has forgiven and forgiven till he is tired of it."
"Ah, there is but one Being that is never tired of forgiving!"
"The poor fellow has been very patient, though; but he says, for his children's sake, he must break up; they are going to ruin. He has engaged places for them all but little Sam; no one is willing to take him for the price M'Elroy can pay."
"Not willing to take Sam, father!" interrupted Mary; "I should think they would be willingest of all to take Sam."
"Why, Mary!"
"Because he wants taking care of most."
"Ah, Mary, that's a rule few go by. It's no joke," continued Aikin to his wife, "for the poor fellow to board out himself and four children, for there's not one of them yet old enough to earn his own living."
"Sam's a bright boy," said Uncle Phil.
"And a poor, sickly little fellow, that's been cruelly neglected," said Aunt Lottie.
"It would be a comfort to see if care and management would not cure him," said Susan Aikin.
"M'Elroy can pay half a dollar a week, which I think will pay for all the poor little fellow can consume in his present state," said Aikin.
"It is an opportunity," said Susan, seeming to think aloud.
"What did you say, Susan?" asked her husband.
"Nothing; I was only thinking it was an opportunity." Her husband smiled "Well," she ​added, "I am superstitious about that: the opportunities are given, and it is our business to improve them, and it always makes me feel bad when I have let one slip by: the same never offers twice."
"Speak out plain, wife: what do you mean?"
It was now Susan's turn to smile. "You know what I mean, Harry. It would not be right for us to run into any expense for a neighbour's child, but care and kindness we can give—they cost us nothing. Lottie is the best of doctors, and I think, among us, we could cure up little Sam; and that would be a comfort."
"But," asked her husband, "are you not afraid to bring a child that has been in the hands of that bad woman among our children?"
"No, our children all pull one way; and if they see any thing wrong we shall know, for they are true and open as the day. Poor little Sam has not been sent into the streets like the other children; and, if he has caught some of their bad habits, surely they may be cured in one so young. We have no money to give away, husband; but of such as we have we can give, and hope for the Lord's blessing upon the gift."
The whole family, old and young, were of Susan's mind. The little boy was brought into the shelter of their fold; and soon, under the kind and judicious management of Lottie and Susan, his unstrung, weak, dropsical figure, was braced to health and activity; his eye brightened, and his sallow cheek changed to the natural hue of childhood. Good principles and good habits were implanted, and good feeling cherished; and he who must have perished in a miserable childhood, or ​have dragged on a mischievous, or, at best, a worthless existence, held up his head in after life among his fellows, a prosperous, useful, and respected citizen.
Truly did Susan Aikin say, "God gives the opportunity;" and well did she improve it."