Here True was interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the door. "Here, Uncle True, here's your package. You forgot all about it, I guess; and I forgot it, too, till mother saw it on the table, where I'd laid it down. I was so taken up with just coming home, you know."
"Of course—of course!" said True. "Much obleeged to you, Willie, for fetchin' it for me. It's brittle stuff it's made of, and most likely I should have smashed it 'fore I got it home."
"What is it?—I've been wondering."
"Why, it's a little knick-knack I've brought home for Gerty here, that——"
"Willie! Willie!" called Mrs. Sullivan from the opposite room, "have you been to tea, dear?"
"No, indeed, mother; have you?"
"Why, yes; but I'll get you some."
"No, no," said True; "Stay and take tea with us, Willie; take tea here, my boy. My little Gerty is making some famous toast, and I'll have the tea presently."
"So I will," said Willie! "No matter about any supper for me, mother, I'm going to have my tea here with Uncle True. Come, now, let's see what's in the bundle; but first I want to see little Gerty; mother's been telling me about her. Where is she? Has she got well? She's been very sick, hasn't she?"
"Oh, yes, she's nicely now," said True. "Here, Gerty, look here. Why, where is she?"
"There she is, hiding behind the settle," said Willie, laughing. "She ain't afraid of me, is she?"
"Well, I didn't know as she was shy," said True; "you silly little girl," added he, "come out here and see Willie. This is Willie Sullivan."
"I don't want to see him," said Gerty.
"Don't want to see Willie!" said True; "why, you don't know what you're sayin'. Willie's the best boy that ever was; I 'spect you and he'll be great friends by-and-by."
"He won't like me," said Gerty; "I know he won't."
"Why shan't I like you?" said Willie, approaching the corner where Gerty had hid herself. Her face was covered with her hands. "I guess I shall like you first-rate when I see you."
He stooped down, and, taking her hands from her face and holding them in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her, and pleasantly said, "How are you, cousin Gerty—how do you do?"
"I an't your cousin!" said Gerty.
"Yes, you are," said Willie; "Uncle True's your uncle, and mine too!—so we're cousins—don't you see?—and I want to get acquainted."
Gerty could not resist Willie's good-natured words and manner. She suffered him to draw her out of the corner towards the lighter end of the room. As she came near the lamp, she tried to free her hands in order to cover her face up again; but Willie would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened package, he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, and in a few minutes she was quite at her ease.
"There, Uncle True says it's for you," said Willie; "and I can't think what 'tis, can you?"
Gerty felt, and looked wonderingly in True's face.
"Undo it, Willie," said True.
Willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to every one, representing the little Samuel in an attitude of devotion.
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Gerty, full of delight.
"Why didn't I think?" said Willie; "I might have known what 'twas by feeling."
"Why! did you ever see it before?" said Gerty.
"Not this same one; but I've seen lots just like it."
"Have you?" said Gerty. "I never did. I think it's the beautifullest thing that ever was. Uncle True, did you say it was for me? Where did you get it?"
"It was by an accident I got it. A few minutes before I met you, Willie, I was stoppin' at the corner to light my lamp, when I saw one of thosefurrinboys with a sight o' these things, and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walking with 'em a-top of his head. I was just a wonderin how he kept 'em there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and the first thing I knew, whack they all went! he'd spilt them everyone. Lucky enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the side-walk, and the most of 'em fell into that and wasn't hurt. Some went on to the bricks, and were smashed. Well, I kind o' pitied the feller; for it was late, and I thought like enough he hadn't had much luck sellin' of 'em, to have so many left on his hands——"
"On his head, you mean," said Willie.
"Yes, Master Willie, or on the snow," said True; "any way you've a mind to have it."
"And I know what you did, Uncle True, just as well as if I'd seen you," said Willie; "you set your ladder and lantern right down, and helped him to pick 'em all up—that's just what you'd be sure to do for anybody."
"This feller, Willie, didn't wait for me to get into trouble; he made return right off. When they were all set right, he bowed and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if I'd been the biggest gentleman in the land; talkin,' too, he was, all the time, though I couldn't make out a word of his lingo; and then he insisted on my takin' one o' the figurs. I wasn't agoin' to take it, for I didn't want it; but I happened to think little Gerty might like it."
"Oh, I shall like it!" said Gerty. "I shall like it better than—no, not better, but almostas wellas my kitten; notquiteas well, because that was alive, and this isn't; butalmost. Oh, an't he a cunning boy?"
True, finding that Gerty was wholly taken up with the image, walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two children to entertain each other.
"You must take care and not break it, Gerty," said Willie. "We had a Samuel once, just like it, in the shop; and I dropped it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million pieces."
"What did you call it?" asked Gerty.
"A Samuel; they're all Samuels."
"What areSammles?" inquired Gerty.
"Why, that's the name of the child they're taken for."
"What do you s'pose he's sittin' on his knee for?"
Willie laughed. "Why, don't you know?" said he.
"No," said Gerty; "what is he?"
"He's praying," said Willie.
"Is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too?"
"Yes, of course; he looks up to heaven when he prays."
"Up to where?"
"To heaven."
Gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the eyes were turned, then at the figure. She seemed very much dissatisfied and puzzled.
"Why, Gerty," said Willie, "I shouldn't think you knew what praying was."
"I don't," said Gerty; "tell me."
"Don't you ever pray—pray to God?"
"No, I don't.—Who is God? Where is God?"
Willie looked inexpressibly shocked at Gerty's ignorance, and answered reverently, "God is in heaven, Gerty."
"I don't know where that is," said Gerty. "I believe I don't know nothin' about it."
"I shouldn't think you did," said Willie. "Ibelieveheaven is up in the sky; but my Sunday-school teacher says, 'Heaven is anywhere where goodness is,' or some such thing," he said.
"Are the stars in heaven?" asked Gerty.
"They look so, don't they?" said Willie. "They're in the sky, where I always used to think heaven was."
"I should like to go to heaven," said Gerty.
"Perhaps, if you're good, you will go some time."
"Can't any but good folks go?"
"No."
"Then I can't ever go," said Gerty, mournfully.
"Why not?" asked Willie; "an't you good."
"Oh no! I'm very bad."
"What a queer child!" said Willie. "What makes you think yourself so very bad?"
"Oh, Iam," said Gerty, in a very sad tone; "I'm the worst of all. I'm the worst child in the world."
"Who told you so?"
"Everybody. Nan Grant says so, and she says everybody thinks so; I know it too, myself."
"Is Nan Grant the cross old woman you used to live with?"
"Yes. How did you know she was cross?"
"Oh, my mother's been telling me about her. Well, I want to know if she didn't send you to school, or teach you anything?"
Gerty shook her head.
"Why, what lots you've got to learn! What did you used to do when you lived there?"
"Nothing."
"Never did anything; don't know anything; my gracious!"
"Yes, I do know one thing," said Gerty. "I know how to toast bread;—your mother taught me;—she let me toast some by the fire."
As she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and turned towards the stove; but she was too late—the toast was made, the supper ready, and True was just putting it on the table.
"Oh, Uncle True," said she, "I meant to get the tea."
"I know it," said True, "but it's no matter; you can get it to-morrow."
The tears came into Gerty's eyes; she looked very much disappointed, but said nothing. They all sat down to supper. Willie put the Samuel in the middle of the table for a centre ornament, and told so many funny stories that Gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, and showed herself, for once, a merry child. After tea, she sat beside Willie on the great settle, and, in her peculiar way, gave him a description of her life at Nan Grant's, winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten.
The two children were in a fair way to become as good friends as True could possibly wish. True sat on the opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe; his elbows on his knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all their conversation. He laughed when they laughed; took long whiffs at his pipe when they talked quietly; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when Gerty recounted her childish griefs. He often heard it afterwards, but neverwithout crying.
After Gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, she sat for a moment without speaking, then becoming excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone, and began uttering the most bitter invectives against Nan Grant. The child's language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of future revenge. True looked troubled at hearing her talk so angrily. Since he brought her home he had never witnessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and the few weeks subsequent to it. True's own disposition was so amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that anyone, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of anger and bitterness. Gerty had shown herself so mild and patient since she had been with him, that it had never occurred to him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. Now, however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling of her little fist as she menaced Nan with her future wrath, he had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in the control of his little charge. For the moment she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hitherto considered her. He saw in her something which needed a check, and felt himself unfit to apply it.
Hewastotally unfit to cope with a spirit like Gerty's. It was true he possessed over her one mighty influence—her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. It was that which made her so submissive and patient in her sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do something in return. It was that love, illumined by a higher light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and self-denial. It was that which cheered the old man's latter years, and shed joy on his dying bed.
Willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive language; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention to him. He could not help smiling at her childish wrath, nor could he resist sympathising with her in a degree. But he was conscious that Gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand what made everybody think her so bad.
After Gerty had railed about Nan a little while, she stopped of her own accord; though an unpleasant look remained on her countenance. It soon passed away, however; and when, a little later in the evening, Mrs. Sullivan appeared at the door, Gerty looked bright and happy, listened with evident delight while True uttered warm expressions of thanks for the labour which had been undertaken in his behalf, and, when Willie went away with his mother, said her good night, and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her eyes looked so bright, that Willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing, "She's a queer little thing, an't she, mother? But I kind o' like her."
It would have been difficult to find two children of the poorer class whose situations in life had presented a greater contrast than those of Gerty and Willie. Gerty was a neglected orphan; she had received little of that care, and still less of that love, which Willie had enjoyed. Mrs. Sullivan's husband was an intelligent country clergyman; but as he died when Willie was a baby, leaving little property for the support of his family, the widow and her child went home to her father. The old man needed his daughter; for death had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he was alone.
From that time the three had lived together in humble comfort, for, though poor, industry and frugality secured them from want. Willie was his mother's pride, her hope, her constant thought. She spared no care to provide for his physical comfort, his happiness, and his education and virtue.
She might well be proud of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early evidences of a noble nature, won him friends even among strangers. It was his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his full grey eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild, the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming high health, which gave promise of power to the future man. No one could have been in the boy's company half an hour without loving and admiring him. He had a warm-hearted, affectionate disposition, which his mother's love and the world's smiles had fostered; an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural politeness towards his superiors; a quick apprehension; a ready command of language; and a sincere sympathy in others' pleasures and pains. He was fond of study, and until his twelfth year his mother kept him constantly at school.
At that time he had an opportunity to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive business, and wanted a boy to assist in the shop. The wages offered by Mr. Bray were not great, but there was a prospect of an increased salary; and it was not a chance to be overlooked. Fond as he was of his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear the burden of labour in the family. His mother and grandfather consented to the plan, and he gladly accepted Mr. Bray's proposals. He was sadly missed at home; for, as he slept at his employer's during the week, he rarely could make a passing visit to his mother, except on Saturday, when he came home at night and passed Sunday. So Saturday night was Mrs. Sullivan's happy night, and the Sabbath became a more blessed day than ever.
When Willie reached his mother's room on the evening of which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and Mr. Cooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them. Willie had always much to relate concerning the occurrences of the week. Mrs. Sullivan was interested in everything that interested Willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear; for though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem to listen, he usually heard all that was said. He seldom made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or contemptuous expression regarding individuals or the world in general; thereby evidencing want of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, and this formed a marked trait in his character. Willie's spirits would receive a momentary check, forheloved and trustedeverybody. Willie did not fear his grandfather, who had never been severe to him, or interfered with Mrs. Sullivan's management; but he sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. On the present occasion the conversation turned upon True Flint and his adopted child. Mr. Cooper had been unusually bitter, and, as he took his lamp to go to bed, declared that Gerty would never be anything but a trouble to Flint, who was a fool not to send her to the almshouse at once.
There was a pause after the old man left the room; then Willie exclaimed, "Mother, what makes grandfather hate folks?"
"Why, he don't, Willie."
"I don't mean exactlyhate—I don't suppose he doesthat, quite; but he don't seem to think a great deal of anybody—do you think he does?"
"Oh yes; he does not show it much," said Mrs. Sullivan, "but he thinks a great deal of you, Willie, and he wouldn't have anything happen to me for the world; and he likes Mr. Flint, and——"
"Oh yes; but I don't mean that; he doesn't think there's much goodness in folks, nor to think anybody's going to turn out well, and——"
"You're thinking of what he said about little Gerty."
"Well, she an't the only one. That's what made me speak of it now, but I've often noticed it before, particularly since I went away from home, and am only here once a week. Now I think everything of Mr. Bray; and when I was telling how much good he did, and how kind he was to old Mrs. Morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he didn't believe it, or didn't think much of it."
"Oh, well, Willie, you mustn't wonder much at that. Grandpa's had many disappointments. You know he thought everything of Uncle Richard, and there was no end to the trouble he had with him; and there was Aunt Sarah's husband—he seemed to be such a fine fellow when Sally married him, but he cheated father at last, so that he had to mortgage his house in High Street, and finally gave it up entirely. He's dead now, and I don't want to say anything against him; but he didn't prove what we expected, and it broke Sally's heart. That was a dreadful trial to father, for she was the youngest, and his pet. And just after that, mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and a quack doctor prescribed for her, and father always thought that did her more hurt than good. So that he has had a great deal to make him look on the dark side now, but you mustn't mind it, Willie; you must take care and turn out well yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough; he's as pleased as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things of you one of these days."
Here the conversation ended; but Willie added another to his many resolves, that, if his health and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes groundless.
Oh, what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever present with him a high, a noble, and unselfish motive! What an incentive to exertion, perseverance, and self-denial! Fears that would otherwise appal, discouragements that would dishearten, labours that would weary, opposition that would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, he struggles for the victory! Persons born in wealth and luxury seldom achieve greatness. They were not born for labour; and, without labour, nothing that is worth having can be won. A motive Willie had long had. His grandfather was old, his mother weak, and both poor. He must be the staff of their old age; must labour for their support and comfort; he must domore:—they hoped great things of him; theymustnot be disappointed. He did not, however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world, forget the present, but sat down and learned his Sunday-school lessons. After which, according to custom, he read aloud in the Bible; and then Mrs. Sullivan, laying her hand on the head of her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy—one of those mother's prayers which the child listens to with reverence and love, and remembers for life.
After Willie went home that evening, and Gerty was left alone with True, she sat beside him for some time without speaking. Her eyes were intently fixed upon the white image which lay in her lap. True was not the first to speak; but finding Gerty unusually quiet, he looked inquiringly in her face, and said—"Well, Willie's a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn't he?"
Gerty answered "Yes" without, however, seeming to know what she was saying.
"You like him, don't you?" said True.
"Very much," said Gerty, in the same absent way. It was not Willie she was thinking of. True waited for Gerty to talk about her new acquaintance; but she did not speak for a minute or two. Then looking up suddenly, she said—"Uncle True, what does Samuel pray to God for?"
True stared. "Samuel!—pray!—I guess I don't know exactly what you're saying."
"Why," said Gerty, holding up the image, "Willie says this little boy's name is Samuel; and that he sits on his knees, and puts his hands on his breastso, and looks up, because he's praying to God, that lives up in the sky. I don't know what he means—wayup in the sky—do you?"
True took the image and looked at it attentively; scratched his head, and said—"Well, I s'pose he's about right. This 'ere child is prayin', sartain, though I didn't think on it afore. But I don't jist know what he calls it a Samuel for. We'll ask him sometime."
"Well, what does he pray for, Uncle True?"
"Oh, he prays to make him good: it makes folks good to pray to God."
"Can God make folks good?"
"Yes. God is very great; He can do anything."
"How can Hehear?"
"He hears and sees everything in the world."
"And does He live in the sky?"
"Yes," said True—"in heaven."
Many more questions Gerty asked, which True could not answer; many questions that he had never asked himself. True had a humble, loving heart, and a child-like faith; he had enjoyed but little religious instruction, but he earnestly tried to live up to the light he had. True had never inquired into the sources of belief, and he was not prepared to answer the questions suggested by the inquisitive mind of little Gerty. He answered her as well as he could, however; and, where he was at fault, referred her to Willie, who, he told her, went to Sunday-school, and knew a great deal about such things. All the information that Gerty could gain amounted to the knowledge of these facts: that God was in heaven; that His power was great; and that people were made better by prayer. But her mind was so intent upon the subject, that the thought even of sleeping in her new room could not efface it. After she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her bosom, and True had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long time with her eyes wide open. Just at the foot of the bed was the window. The sky was bright with stars; and they revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the Author of such distant and brilliant lights. As she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought, "God lit them! Oh, how great He must be! But achildmight pray to Him!" She rose from her little bed, approached the window, and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands precisely in the attitude of Samuel, she looked up to heaven. She spoke no word, but her eyes glistened with a tear that stood in each. Was not each tear a prayer? She breathed no petition, but she longed for God and virtue. Was not that very wish a prayer? Her little, uplifted heart throbbed vehemently. Was not each throb a prayer? And did not God in heaven, without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept that first homage of a little, untaught child; and did it not call a blessing down?
"Revenge, at first though sweet,Bitter ere long back on itself recoils."—Milton.
"Revenge, at first though sweet,Bitter ere long back on itself recoils."—Milton.
The next day was Sunday. True generally went to church half the day at least, with the sexton's family; but Gerty having no bonnet could not go, and True would not leave her. So they spent the morning wandering round among the wharves and looking at the ships, Gerty wearing her old shawl over her head.
Willie came in the evening to say good-bye before returning to Mr. Bray's. He was in a hurry, for his master had his doors closed early, especially on a Sunday night. But Mr. Cooper made his usual visit; and when he had gone, True, finding Gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on.
She did not wake until morning; and then, surprised and amused at finding herself dressed, ran out to ask True how it happened. True was making the fire; and Gerty having been told all about it, helped to get the breakfast ready, and to put the room in order. She followed Mrs. Sullivan's instructions, and in a few weeks she learned to make herself useful in many ways, and, as Mrs. Sullivan had prophesied, gave promise of becoming a clever little housekeeper. Her active and willing feet saved True many steps, and she was of essential aid in keeping the rooms neat, that being her especial ambition. Mrs. Sullivan looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her; and nothing made Gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. She met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. Kate M'Carty thought her the smartest child in the world, and would oft come in and wash the floor, or do some other work which required more strength than Gerty possessed.
One Sunday Gerty, who had a nice little hood, bought by True, was returning with Mr. Cooper, Mr. Flint, and Willie, from the afternoon service at church. The two old men were engaged in discussion, and the children talked earnestly about the church, the minister, the people, and the music, all of which were new to Gerty, and greatly excited her wonder.
As they drew near home, Willie remarked how dark it was growing in the streets; and then, looking down at Gerty, whom he held by the hand, he said, "Gerty, do you ever go out with Uncle True, and see him light the lamps?"
"No, I never did," said Gerty, "since the first night I came. I've wanted, but it's been so cold, he would not let me; he said I'd have the fever again."
"It won't be cold this evening," said Willie; "it'll be a beautiful night; and, if Uncle True's willing, we will go with him. I've often been; you can look into the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting round the fire in their parlours."
"And I like to see him light those great lamps," said Gerty; "they make it look so bright and beautiful all around. I hope he'll let us go; I'll ask him; come," said she, pulling him by the hand.
"No—wait," said Willie; "he's busy talking with grandpa—we can ask him at home."
As soon as they reached the gate she broke away from him, and, rushing up to True, made known her request. He readily consented, and the three soon started on the rounds.
For a time Gerty's attention was so engrossed by the lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. But when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of a large apothecary's shop, her delight knew no bounds. The brilliant colours displayed in the windows captivated her fancy; and when Willie told her that his master's shop was similar she thought it must be a fine place to spend one's life in. Then she wondered why this was open on Sunday, when all the other stores were closed, and Willie, stopping to explain, they found that True was some distance in advance. He hurried Gerty along, telling her that they were now in the finest street they should pass through, and they must haste, for they had nearly reached the house he most wanted her to see. When they came up with True, he was placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block of buildings. Many of the front windows were shaded, so that the children could not see in; but some had no curtains, or they had not yet been drawn. In one parlour there was a pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered; and here Gerty would fain have lingered. In another, a brilliant chandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped her hands in delight, and Willie could not prevail upon her to leave the spot, until he told her that farther down the street was another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see some beautiful children.
"How do you know there'll be children there?" said she, as they walked along.
"I don't know, certainly," said Willie; "but I think there will. They used always to be up at the window when I came with Uncle True, last winter."
"How many?" asked Gerty.
"Three, I believe; there was one little girl with such beautiful curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. She looked like a wax doll, only a great deal prettier."
"Oh, I hope we shall see her!" said Gerty, dancing along on the tops of her toes.
"There they are!" exclaimed Willie; "all three, I declare, just as they used to be!"
"Where?" said Gerty; "where?"
"Over opposite, in the great stone house. Here, let's cross over. It's muddy; I'll carry you."
Willie lifted Gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in front of the house. True had not yet come up. It was he that the children were watching for. Gerty was not the only child that loved to see the lamps lit.
It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see any one out of doors; but Willie and Gerty had so much better chance to look in. The mansion was a fine one, evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. Rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gerty her first impressions of luxurious life. There was an air of comfort combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating to the child of poverty and want. A table was bountifully spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate, above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting look. A gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy chair by the fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's arrangements at the tea-table; and the children of the household, smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking out, as we have just narrated.
They were sweet, lovely-looking little creatures; especially a girl, of the same age as Gerty, the eldest of the three. Her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little round plump figure. Gerty's admiration and rapture were such, that she could find no expression for them, and directing Willie's notice first to one thing and then another; "Oh, Willie, isn't she a darling? and see what a beautiful fire—what a splendid lady! What is that on the table? I guess it's good! There's a big looking-glass; and oh, Willie! an't they dear, handsome children?"
True now came up, and as his torch-light swept along the side-walk Gerty and Willie became the subjects of notice and conversation. The curly-haired girl saw them, and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. Though Gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like being stared at and talked about; and hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up, though Willie laughed at her, and told her it was now herturnto be looked at. When True moved off, she began to run, so as to escape observation; but Willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back to have one more look, and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. Then the servant-girl drew down the window-blinds. Gerty then took Willie's hand, and they tried to overtake True.
"Shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, Gerty!" said Willie.
"Yes, indeed," said Gerty; "an't it splendid?"
"I wish I had just such a house," said Willie. "I mean one of these days."
"Where will you get it?" exclaimed Gerty, much amazed at so bold a declaration.
"Oh, I shall work, and grow rich, and buy it."
"You can't; it would take a lot o' money!"
"I know it; but I can earn a lot, and I will, too. The gentleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he first came to Boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich as well an another?"
"How do you suppose he got so much money?"
"I don't know howhedid; there are a great many ways. Some people think it's all luck, but I guess it's as much smartness as anything."
"Are you smart?"
Willie laughed. "An't I?" said he. "If I don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say I an't."
"I know what I'd do if I was rich," said Gerty.
"What?" asked Willie.
"First, I'd buy a great nice chair for Uncle True, with cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it—just exactly like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, I'd have great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so as to make the room aslight—aslightas it could be!"
"Seems to me you're mighty fond of lights, Gerty," said Willie.
"I be," said the child. "I hate old, dark, black places; I like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and Uncle True's torch——"
"And I like bright eyes!" interrupted Willie; "yours look just like stars, they shine so to-night. An't we having a good time?"
"Yes, real."
And so they went on—Gerty dancing along the side-walk, Willie sharing in her gaiety and joy, and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and protecting the wild little creature. They talked of how they would spend that future wealth which they both calculated upon one day possessing; for Gerty had caught Willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and grow rich. Willie said his mother was to wear a gay cap, like that of the lady they had seen; this made Gerty laugh. She thought that demure little widow would be ridiculous in a flowered headgear. Good taste is inborn, and Gerty had it in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, neat, and sober-looking, would altogether lose her identity. Willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for his reward. Happy children! What do they want of wealth? What of anything, material or tangible, more than they now possess? They have what is worth more than riches or fame—they are full of childhood's faith and hope. With a fancy and imagination unchecked by disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many thousand children have built before, that children will always be building to the end of time. Far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. Undeceive not the little believers, ye wise ones! Check not that God-given hopefulness, which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over many a rough spot in life's road. It lasts not long at the best; then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard.
They had reached the last lamp-post in the street, but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before Gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed any further, pulled hard at Willie's hand, and tried to induce him to retrace his steps.
"What's the matter, Gerty?" said he, "are you tired?"
"No, oh no! but I can't go any further."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because—because—" and here Gerty putting her mouth close to Willie's ear, whispered, "there is Nan Grant's; I see the house! I had forgot Uncle True went there; and I am afraid!"
"Oho!" said Willie, drawing himself up with dignity, "I should like to know what you're afraid of, when I'm with you! Let her touch you if she dares! And Uncle True, too!—Ishouldlaugh."
Very kindly did Willie plead with the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to seethem, but they might seeher; and that was just what he wanted—nothing he should like better. Gerty's fears were soon allayed. When they stood in front of the house, Gerty was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of Nan. Nan was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbours. Her countenance expressed great anger, and her face was now so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of vixen, virago, or scold.
"Which is she?" said Willie; "the tall one, swinging the coffee-pot in her hand? I guess she'll break the handle off, if she don't look out."
"Yes," said Gerty, "that's Nan."
"What's she doing?"
"Oh, she's fighting with Mrs. Birch; she does always with somebody. She don't see us, does she?"
"No, she's too busy. Come, don't let's stop; she's an ugly-looking woman, just as I knew she was. I've seen enough of her, and I'm sure you have—come."
Gerty lingered. Courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen, she was gazing at Nan, and her eyes glistened, not with the innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of kindled passion—a fire that Nan had kindled long ago, which had not yet gone out, and which the sight of Nan had now revived in full force. Willie, thinking it was time to be at home, and perceiving Mr. Flint and his torch far down the street, left Gerty, and started himself, to draw her on, saying, "Come, Gerty, I can't wait."
Gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, stooped, and picking up a stone, flung it at the window. There was a crash of broken glass, and an exclamation in Nan's well-known voice; but Gerty was not there to see the result. The instant she heard the crash her fears returned, and flying past Willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of True.
Willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, "Why, Gerty, do you know what you did?—You broke the window!"
Gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid Willie, pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do.
True inquired what window? and Gerty acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on purpose. True and Willie were shocked and silent. Gerty was silent too, for the rest of the walk; there were clouds on her face, and she felt unhappy in her little heart.
Willie bade them good night at the house door, and as usual they saw no more of him for a week.
"Father," said Mrs. Sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing to take a number of articles which he wanted for his Saturday's work in the church, "why don't you get little Gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things? You can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, I know."
"She'd only be in the way," said Mr. Cooper; "I can take them myself."
But when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal hod on one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of chips in his hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. Mrs. Sullivan called Gerty, and asked her to go and help him carry his tools. Gerty was pleased with the proposal, and started off with great alacrity.
When they reached the church the old sexton took them from her hands, and telling her she could play about until he went home, but to be sure and do no mischief, he went into the vestry to commence sweeping, dusting, and building fires. Gerty had ample amusement for some time, to wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine closely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the gallery. Then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination addressed a large audience. She was growing weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered unseen, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and Gerty, seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest pleasure. He had not played long before the door opened and two visitors entered. One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, with hair thin and grey, and features rather sharp; but remarkable for his benignant expression of countenance. A young lady, apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his arm. She was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark brown cloak, and a bonnet of the same colour, relieved by some light-blue ribbon about the face. She was somewhat below the middle size, but had a good figure. Her features were small and regular; her complexion clear but pale; and her light-brown hair was neatly arranged. She never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly up the aisle.
The two approached the spot where Gerty sat, but without perceiving her. "I am glad you like the organ," said the gentleman; "I am not much of a judge of music, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that Hermann plays it remarkably well."
"Nor is my opinion of any value," said the lady; "for I have little knowledge of music, much as I love it. But that symphony sounds very delightful to me; it is a long time since I have heard such touching strains; or, it may be partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church this afternoon. I love to go into a large church on a week-day. It was very kind of you to call for me this afternoon. How came you to think of it?"
"I thought you would enjoy it, my dear. I knew Hermann would be playing about this time; and, besides, when I saw how pale you were looking I knew the walk would do you good."
"It has done me good. I was not feeling well, and the clear, cold air was just what I needed; I knew it would refresh me; but Mrs. Ellis was busy, and I could not go out alone."
"I thought I should find the sexton here," said the gentleman. "I want to speak to him about the light; the afternoons are so short now, and it is dark so early, I must ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot see to read my sermon to-morrow. He may be in the vestry-room; he is always about here on Saturday; I will go and look for him."
Just then Mr. Cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman, came up, and after receiving his directions about the light, requested him to go with him somewhere, for the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then said, "I suppose I ought to go to-day; and, as you say you are at leisure, it is a pity I should not; but I don't know——"
Then, turning to the lady, he said, "Emily, Mr. Cooper wants me to go to Mrs. Glass's with him; and I shall be absent some time. Should you mind waiting here until I return? She lives in the next street; but I may be detained, for it's about the library-books being so mischievously defaced, and I am afraid that her oldest boy had something to do with it. It ought to be inquired into before to-morrow."
"Oh, go, by all means," said Emily; "don't mind me; it will be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. Mr. Hermann's playing is a great treat to me, and I don't care how long I wait; so do not hurry on my account, Mr. Arnold."
Thus assured, Mr. Arnold led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, and went with Mr. Cooper.
All this time Gerty had been unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on the upper stair, secured from sight by the pulpit. Hardly had the doors closed, however, with a loud bang, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs. The moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near, started, and exclaimed, "Who's that?"
Gerty stood still, and made no reply. Strange the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the movement was above her head. There was a moment's pause, and then Gerty began again to run down the stairs. The lady sprang up, and, stretching out her hand, said, "Who is it?"
"Me," said Gerty, looking up in the lady's face; "it's only me."
"Will you stop and speak to me?" said the lady.
Gerty not only stopped, but came close up to Emily's chair, irresistibly attracted by the sweetest voice she had ever heard. The lady placed her hand on Gerty's head, and said, "Who are you?"
"Gerty."
"Gerty who?"
"Nothing else but Gerty."
"Have you forgotten your other name?"
"I haven't got any other name."
"How came you here?"
"I came with Mr. Cooper, to help him to bring his things."
"And he's left you here to wait for him, and I'm left too; so we must take care of each other, mustn't we?"
Gerty laughed at this.
"Where were you?—On the stairs?"
"Yes."
"Suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with me a little while: I want to see if we can't find out what your other name is. Where do you say you live?"
"With Uncle True."
"True?"
"Yes. Mr. True Flint I live with now. He took me home to his house one night, when Nan Grant put me out on the side-walk."
"Why, are you that little girl? Then I've heard of you before. Mr. Flint told me all about you."
"Do you know my Uncle True?"
"Yes, very well."
"What's your name?"
"My name is Emily Graham."
"O! I know," said Gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping her hands together; "I know. You asked him to keep me; he said so—Iheardhim say so; and you gave me my clothes; and you're beautiful; and you're good; and I love you! O! I love you ever so much!"
As Gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look passed over Miss Graham's face, a most inquiring and restless look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her memory. She did not speak, but, passing her arm around the child's waist, drew her closer to her. As the peculiar expression passed from her face, and her features assumed their usual calmness, Gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder, exclaimed, "Are you going to sleep?"
"No.—Why?"
"Because your eyes are shut."
"They are always shut, my child."
"Always shut!—What for?"
"I am blind, Gerty; I can see nothing."
"Not see!" said Gerty; "can't you see anything? Can't you see me now?"
"No," said Miss Graham.
"O!" exclaimed Gerty, drawing a long breath, "I'm so glad."
"Glad!" said Miss Graham, in the saddest voice that ever was heard.
"O yes!" said Gerty, "so glad you can't see me!—because now, perhaps, you'll love me."
"And shouldn't I love you if I saw you?" said Emily, passing her hand softly and slowly over the child's features.
"Oh, no!" answered Gerty, "I'm so ugly! I'm glad you can't see how ugly I am."
"But just think, Gerty," said Emily, in the same sad voice, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the world?"
"Can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're in? Are you in the dark?"
"In the dark all the time—day and night in the dark."
Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, "It's too bad! it's too bad!"
The child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years, Emily wept bitterly for her blindness.
It was but for a few moments, however. Quickly recovering herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, "Hush! hush! don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! It's not too bad; I can bear it very well. I'm used to it, and am quite happy."
"I shouldn't be happy in the dark; I shouldhateto be!" said Gerty. "Ian'tglad you're blind; I'm reallysorry. I wish you could see me and everything. Can't your eyes be opened, any way?"
"No," said Emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly."
"Because folks say that I am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly children."
"Yes, people do," said Emily, "love ugly children, if they are good."
"But I an't good," said Gerty, "I'm really bad!"
"But youcan be good," said Emily, "and then everybody will love you."
"Do you think I can be good?"
"Yes, if you try."
"I will try."
"Ihopeyou will," said Emily. "Mr. Flint thinks a great deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him."
She then asked concerning Gerty's former way of life, and became so interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone away.
Gerty was very communicative. The sweet voice and sympathetic tones of Emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been passed among the poorer and lowest classes of people, she felt no awe and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, a lady of polished mind and manners. On the contrary, Gerty clung to Emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a palace. Once or twice she took Emily's nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her favourite mode of expressing her warmth of gratitude and admiration. The excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon Miss Graham's feelings. The latter perceived how neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated, lest early abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature capable of the best attainments. The two were still entertaining each other, when Mr. Arnold entered the church hastily. As he came up the aisle, he called to Emily, saying, "Emily; dear, I fear you thought I had forgotten you. I have been longer than I intended. Were you not tired of waiting?"
"I thought it was but a very little while. I have had company, you see."
"What, little folks," said Mr. Arnold, good-naturedly. "Where did this little body come from?"
"She came to the church this afternoon with Mr. Cooper. Isn't he here for her?"
"Cooper?—No: he went straight home after he left me; he's probably forgotten all about the child. What's to be done?"
"Can't we take her home? Is it far?"
"It is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our way; altogether too far for you to walk."
"Oh, no, it won't tire me; I'm quite strong now, and I would know she was safe home."
If Emily could but have seen Gerty's grateful face that moment, she would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness.
The blind girl did not forget little Gerty. Emily Graham never forgot the sufferings, the wants, the necessities of others. She could not see the world without, but there was a world of love and sympathy within her, which manifested itself in abundant charity, both of heart and deed. She loved God with her whole heart, and her neighbour as herself. Her own great misfortunes and trials were borne without repining; but the misfortunes and trials of others became her care, the alleviation of them her greatest delight. Emily was never weary of doing good. But never had she been so affected as now by any tale of sorrow. Children were born into the world amid poverty and privation. She could not account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger; but the impulse to know more of her was irresistible, and sending for True, she talked a long time with him about the child.
True was highly gratified by Miss Graham's account of the meeting in the church, and of the interest the little girl had inspired in one for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect. Gerty had previously told him how she had seen Miss Graham, and had spoken in the most glowing terms of the dear lady who was so kind to her, and brought her home when Mr. Cooper had forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man that the fancy was mutual.
Emily asked him if he didn't intend to send her to school?
"Well, I don't know," said he; "she's a little thing, and an't much used to being with other children. Besides, I don't exactly like to spare her."
Emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and write; and that the sooner she went among other children, the easier it would be to her.
"Very true, Miss Emily, very true," said Mr. Flint. "I dare say you're right; and if you think she'd better go, I'll ask her, and see what she says."
"I would," said Emily. "I think she might enjoy it, besides improving very much; and, about her clothes, if there's any deficiency, I'll——"
"Oh, no, no, Miss Emily!" interrupted True; "there's no necessity; she's very well on't now, thanks to your kindness."
"Well," said Emily, "if she should have any wants, you must apply to me. You know we adopted her jointly, and I agreed to do anything I could for her; so you must never hesitate—it will be a pleasure to serve either of you. My father always feels under obligations to you, Mr. Flint, for faithful service that cost you dear in the end."
"Oh, Miss Emily," said True, "Mr. Graham has always been my best friend; and as to that 'ere accident that happened when I was in his employ, it was nobody's fault but my own; it was my own carelessness, and nobody's else."
"I know you say so," said Emily, "but we regretted it very much; and you mustn't forget what I tell you, that I shall delight in doing anything for Gerty. I should like to have her come and see me, some day, if she would like, and you'll let her."
"Sartain, sartain," said True, "and thank you kindly; she'd be glad to come."
A few days after Gerty went with True to see Miss Graham, but the housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that she was ill and could see no one. So they went away full of disappointment and regret.
Emily had taken a severe cold the day she sat so long in the church, and was suffering with it when they called; but, though confined to her room, she would have been glad to have a visit from Gerty, and was sorry that Mrs. Ellis should have sent them away.
On Saturday evening, when Willie was present, True broached the subject of Gerty's going to school. Gerty was much displeased with the idea; but it met with Willie's approbation; and when Gerty learned that Miss Graham also wished it, she consented, though reluctantly, to begin the next week, and try how she liked it. So next Monday Gerty went with True to one of the primary schools, was admitted, and her education began. When Willie came home the next Sunday, he rushed into True's room, eager to hear how Gerty liked going to school. She was seated at the table, with her spelling-book; and she exclaimed, "Oh, Willie! Willie! come and hear me read!"
Her performance could hardly be called reading. She had not got beyond the alphabet, and a few syllables she had learned to spell; but Willie bestowed upon her much well-merited praise, she had been very diligent. He was astonished to hear that Gerty liked going to school, liked the teachers and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. He had fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and go into tantrums about it—which was the expression he used to denote her fits of ill-temper. Willie promised to assist her in her studies; and the two children's literary plans soon became as high-flown as if one had been a poet-laureate and the other a philosopher.
For two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. Gerty went regularly to school, and made rapid progress. Every Saturday Willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised, and encouraged her. But he had heard that, on two occasions, she had nearly had a brush with some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. This soon reached a crisis. One day, when the children were in the school-yard, during recess, Gerty saw True in his working-dress, passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp-filler. Shouting and laughing, she pursued and overtook him. She came back in a few minutes, seeming much delighted, and ran into the yard full of happy excitement. The troop of large girls, whom Gerty had already had some reason to distrust, had been observing her, and one of them called out saying——
"Who's that man?"
"That's my Uncle True," said Gerty.
"Your what?"
"My Uncle, Mr. Flint, that I live with."
"So you belong to him, do you?" said the girl, in an insolent tone of voice. "Ha! ha! ha!"
"What are you laughing at?" said Gerty, fiercely.
"Ugh! Before I'd live with him!" said the girl—"Old Smutty!"
The others caught it up, and the laugh and epithet Old Smutty circulated freely in the corner of the yard where Gerty was standing. Gerty was furious. Her eyes glistened, she doubled her little fist, and, without hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd. But they were too many for her, and, helpless as she was with passion, they drove her out of the yard. She started for home on a full run, screaming with all her might.
As she flew along the side-walk, she brushed stiffly against a tall, stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the same direction, with a much smaller person leaning on her arm. "Bless me!" said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equilibrium from the suddenness of the shock. "Why, you horrid little creature!" As she spoke, she grasped Gerty by the shoulder, and, before she could break away, gave her a slight shake. This served to increase Gerty's anger, and, her speed gaining in proportion, it was but a few minutes before she was crouched in a corner of True's room behind the bed, her face to the wall, and covered with both her hands. Here she was free to cry as loud as she pleased; for Mrs. Sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in the house to hear her.
But she had not indulged long in her tantrum when the gate at the end of the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps were heard coming towards Mr. Flint's door. Gerty's attention was arrested, for she knew by the sound that a stranger was approaching. With a strong effort she controlled herself so as to keep quiet. There was a knock at the door, but Gerty did not reply to it, remaining concealed behind the bed. The knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the latch and walked in.
"There doesn't seem to be any one at home," said a female voice, "what a pity."
"Isn't there? I'm sorry," replied another, in the sweet musical tones of Miss Graham. Gerty knew the voice at once.
"I thought you'd better not come here yourself," rejoined the first speaker, who was no other than Mrs. Ellis, the identical lady whom Gerty had so frightened and disconcerted.
"Oh, I don't regret coming," said Emily. "You can leave me here while you go to your sister's, and very likely Mr. Flint or the little girl will come home in the meantime."
"It don't become you, Miss Emily, to be carried round everywhere, and left, like an express parcel, till called for. You caught a horrid cold that you're hardly well of now, waiting there in the church for the minister; and Mr. Graham will be finding fault next."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Ellis; it's very comfortable here; the church must have been damp, I think. Come, put me in Mr. Flint's arm-chair, and I can make myself quite contented."
"Well, at any rate," said Mrs. Ellis, "I'll make up a good fire in this stove before I go."
As she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and, after stirring up the coals, and making free with all True's kindlewood, waited till the fire burnt up, and then, having laid aside Emily's cloak, went away with the same firm step with which she had come, and which had so overpowered Emily's noiseless tread, that Gerty had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. As soon as Gerty knew that Mrs. Ellis had really departed, she suspended her efforts at self-control, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, "O dear! O dear!"
"Why, Gerty!" exclaimed Emily, "is that you?"
"Yes," sobbed Gerty.
"Come here."
The child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran, threw herself on the floor by the side of Emily, buried her face in the blind girl's lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. Her whole frame was agitated.
"Why, Gerty," said Emily, "what is the matter?"
But Gerty could not reply; and Emily desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be somewhat composed. She lifted Gerty up into her lap, laid her head upon her shoulder, and with her handkerchief wiped the tears from her face. Her soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child, and when she was calm, Emily, instead of recurring at once to the cause of her grief, questioned her upon other topics. At last, however, she asked her if she went to school.
"Ihave been," said Gerty, raising her head from Emily's shoulder; "but I won't ever go again!"
"What!—Why not!"
"Because," said Gerty, angrily, "I hate those girls; yes, I hate 'em! ugly things!"
"Gerty," said Emily, "don't say that; you shouldn't hate anybody."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Gerty.
"Because it's wrong."
"No, it's notwrong; I say itisn't!" said Gerty; "and I do hate 'em; and I hate Nan Grant, and I always shall! Don'tyouhate anybody?"
"No," answered Emily, "I don't."
"Did anybody ever drown your kitten? Did anybody ever call your father Old Smutty?" said Gerty. "If they had, I know you'd hate 'em just as I do."
"Gerty," said Emily, solemnly, "didn't you tell me, the other day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be good, and would try!"
"Yes," said Gerty.
"If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others." Gerty said nothing.
"Do you not wish God to forgive and love you?"
"God, who lives in heaven—who made the stars?" said Gerty.
"Yes."
"Will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?"
"Yes, if you try to be good and love everybody."
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, after a moment's pause, "I can't do it, so I s'pose I can't go."
Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gerty's forehead. She looked thoughtfully up into Emily's face, then said—
"Dear Miss Emily, are you going there?"
"I am trying."
"I should like to go with you," said Gerty.
Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working of her own thoughts.
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "I mean totry, but I don't think Ican."
"God bless you, and help you, my child!" said Emily, laying her hand upon Gerty's head.
For fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. Gerty lay perfectly still in Emily's lap. By-and-by the latter perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. When Mrs. Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. She did so, and turning to Emily, exclaimed, "My word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that came so near being the death of us!" Emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing a woman of Mrs. Ellis' inches, but said nothing.
Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? Why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a mighty sorrow? Why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and heavenly aid? Why did she so beseechingly ask of God His blessing on the little child? Because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, how a temper like that of Gerty's might, in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of early joy. And so she prayed to heaven for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity.