Chapter I: Norah's Difficulty

"ANY one of this name live here?" asked the postman, as he held out a letter to Norah, the little maid-of-all-work, who was on her knees cleaning the door-step on a wintry morning at the close of the year.

"'Miss Peele,' why, that must mean me!" cried the young girl, with naive surprise. It was the first time in her life that Norah had ever received a letter, and it was with feelings of wonder and curiosity that she took from the postman the note so strangely addressed to herself. She looked at every part of the envelope, post-mark, address, fancy-wafer and all, to prolong the novel pleasure by guessing who could have sent it, and what the contents could be.

"It can't be from mother,—she never writes but her name at the bottom of the washing bills; and as for Dan—he's not out of round text. Could it be from Uncle Ned? It is not like a man's handwriting, and I'm sure he would, never put 'Miss' for a little servant like me. I must just peep in and see, I was never so curious in all my life!"

Norah wiped her wet cold hands on her apron, and then, taking care to save the pretty wafer, opened the envelope, and took out the note. She raised her eyebrows with surprise at the first word, "Madam," and almost burst out laughing at the notion of being thus addressed; but Norah's mirth changed to grave perplexity, as she turned hastily over to the signature at the end.

"'E. Cupper, Matron of the B— Workhouse.' It must be some mistake,—I am sure there is some mistake—this letter can never be meant for me." Norah examined the envelope again, but the address was perfectly clear. Rather awed by receiving a letter from that great prison-like building which she had passed when on a little journey with her mistress, a letter that looked so formal and neat, and actually began with "Madam," Norah set herself to read, from beginning to end, the contents, which were as follows;—

"Madam,—I have been requested by an inmate of this house of the name of Sophy Puller to inform you of her being here, and to beg that you will come as soon as possible to see her. Visitors are admitted on Fridays from two till four. The girl is almost blind from the effects of rheumatic fever, and is in great distress of mind." Here followed name and date.

The letter dropped from the little maid's hand. It might have been a study to have watched the changes in her soft round face as she read it slowly, tracing each line with her finger. At the name "Sophy Puller," an expression of interest, first mixed with pleasure, then with pain, flitted over her features—succeeded by one of shocked surprise at the terrible words "almost blind." This was the first time for almost four months that Norah had heard of one who had once been her favourite companion and friend. Norah knew that Sophy's father had been taken up for uttering false money, that he had been tried, condemned, and transported; Norah knew that on the day of his arrest Sophy had disappeared from the county town in which she had been working as a milliner's girl,—but here her information ended. Often had Norah longed and prayed to find out what had become of her hapless companion, bereft of an only parent by what was far worse than death. The name of Sophy had never been forgotten in the prayers of the little maid. But to hear of her thus,—sick, blind, and unhappy, in a parish Union, such news were more sad than ignorance; and as Norah read the note once again, the tears gushed fast from her eyes.

"Oh, Sophy, my poor, poor Sophy! You who were so lightsome and gay, so full of frolic and fun, to think of your coming to this!" And as Norah's tears dropped on the note, whose contents she could hardly believe, her mind recurred to the first day of her meeting with the milliner's girl, and a hundred little circumstances connected with their acquaintance. Norah could not help remembering how the society of Sophy Puller had been her own greatest temptation; how her companion had tried to make her think lightly of sin, had fostered the love of fine dress, had laughed at her scruples, had lent her bad books, had almost persuaded her to go out at night without the knowledge of her mistress! Norah tried to forget all this; she would gladly have felt nothing but pity and love for the afflicted Sophy, but such painful recollections would force themselves on her mind. Norah could not help thinking, "Oh! how doubly dreadful sickness and blindness must be to one who has such things to look back on! When all that Sophy once delighted in is shut out from her thus, what can she have to comfort her, and keep her poor heart from breaking?"

But young general servants have little time to give to reading letters or crying over them. The step must be cleaned, the breakfast prepared, before the clock should strike nine. Norah thrust her letter into her pocket, dried her eyes, and went on with her work. But while she was scrubbing the stone with her red little hands, she was painfully turning over in her mind the contents of the note.

"I must go and see my poor Sophy, but oh how shall I ever manage to get to the workhouse! Mistress is so much put about to let me pay my visits to my mother, who lives only three miles off while the workhouse must be full ten; and even if I get leave—how could I ever dare to go alone to that great gloomy place?"

Norah had led a very quiet life; she had never ventured by herself farther than Colme, her native village, and her longest journey had been a twenty miles' drive in a stage-coach with her mistress. Besides the difficulty of travelling so far, Norah Peele had formed a terrible idea of a workhouse. Instead of looking on it as a refuge mercifully provided for the homeless and helpless, she fancied it to be a huge prison, where miserable creatures were shut up, the doors guarded by terrible porters, whom the timid young girl felt that she would never have courage to face by herself. Norah scrubbed her step very hard indeed, clenching her teeth as she did so, as if she were trying to rub down the many difficulties which had suddenly risen in her path. The reader may smile at the fears and perplexities of the poor little maid; but let it be remembered that Norah was still little more than a child, was of a tender, timid nature, and utterly ignorant of the world. To go ten miles to visit an inmate of a workhouse seemed to her as formidable a task, as it would appear to some to push their way into the Queen's own presence, through her surrounding guards.

"Sophy can never have told the matron that I am nothing but a poor little servant; Mrs. Cupper takes me for some grand lady who will drive to the door in her carriage, or else she would never have called me 'Madam.'" So said Norah to herself as she rose from her knees and went into the house, more chilled by her fears than by the weather. "And yet I must go—oh, I will go—if I have to walk the whole way there and back! I cannot desert poor Sophy now that she is in such terrible trouble. It is a dreadful difficulty to me, but God will help me through it. I will tell all to my dear kind mistress, who is always ready to give me advice and help."