Katie Robertson : $b A girls story of factory life

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KATIE ROBERTSON

A GIRLS STORY OF FACTORY LIFE

By MARGARET E. WINSLOW
Author of "Miss Malcolm's Ten," "Three Years at Glenwood," etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

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Copyright, 1885,
By Congregational Sunday School and Publishing Society.

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To the many boys and girls who are in early years earning an honorable
support for themselves, or else assisting their parents by working in
factories; to the multitudes of young church members, who may be glad of
some practically helpful suggestions in surmounting the difficulties and
resisting the temptations incident to their new lives; to mill-owners,
who feel their solemn responsibility, as in the sight of God, for the
intellectual and spiritual welfare of their operatives; and chiefly to
the young Christian manufacturer who has been the model from which the
picture of "Mr. James" has been copied,--this story, whose incidents are
mostly true ones, is dedicated.

That the Holy Spirit may make use of it to inculcate in young hearts a
sense of honorable independence, a conviction of the dignity of
faithfully performed work, and, above all, an earnest and irrevocable
choice of God's blessed service and an entire committal of their ways to
him, is the sincere prayer of

                                                            THE AUTHOR.

SAUGERTIES, July 1, 1885.

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KATIE ROBERTSON.

CHAPTER I.

A NEW DEPARTURE.


"But, mother, it isn't as if I were going away from home, like the Lloyd
girls; you might have a right to cry if that were the case."

"I know, dear; it's all right, and I ought to be very thankful; but I'm
a foolish woman. I can't bear to think of _my_ little girl, whom I have
guarded so tenderly, going among all those girls and men, and fighting
her way in life."

"I don't think I shall be much of a fighter," laughed Katie, looking at
her diminutive hands; "and why is it any worse to go among the boys and
girls in the factory than among the boys and girls in school? You never
minded that."

"That was different--you weren't doing it for money. O me! what would I
have thought when I married your father if any one had told me that his
child, his _girl_ child, would ever have to earn her bread!"

"Well, mother, I won't go," said the girl, her bright looks fading away,
"if you don't want me to; but I don't know what Mr. Sanderson will
think, he tried so hard to get me into the mill, and it was such a favor
from Mr. Mountjoy. You _said_ you were very thankful."

"So I was, so I am; but--but you don't understand, and perhaps it's
better you should not. I'll try not to grumble."

This was promising more than Mrs. Robertson was able to perform perhaps,
for she was a chronic and inveterate grumbler. But she had some excuse
in the present circumstances, for Katie was, as she said, her baby, and
the "apple of her eye." Married when quite young to the handsome and
intelligent young village doctor, she certainly had not expected ever to
be placed in a position where her children, her girls at least, would
need to earn their own bread. But in a few short years the doctor died
of a contagious disease he had taken from one of his patients, and as he
had not yet begun to accumulate anything, his young widow was left with
her three children to struggle along as best she could. How she had done
it God and herself only knew. The little house was her own, the sole
patrimony left by her own father. The horse and buggy, the medical
library and valuable professional instruments, medicines, etc., were
sold at a fair valuation; and the money thus secured, deposited in the
bank, had served as a last resource whenever the barrel of meal failed
or the cruse of oil ran dry. For the rest, Mrs. Robertson was employed
by her neighbors to help turn and put down carpets, cover furniture,
etc. etc., light jobs requiring judgment and skill rather than strength,
for which her friends, who never placed her in a menial capacity, gladly
paid double the sum they would to any one else. She was also a capital
nurse, and in this position rendered herself very valuable in many
households, and for such services she was even more generously
remunerated; so that somehow she managed to keep her head above water
while her children were small, and feed, clothe, and send them to school
as they grew older.

Her children were, of course, the one source of consolation left to the
poor widow, and many a long evening's work was both shortened and
lightened by golden dreams of their future prosperity and success.

When her eldest boy Eric was twelve, and when Alfred, the second child,
was only ten, a friend made interest with Mr.