CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER III.

As Helen Pierson disappeared from their sight, Loney turned to Morris Goldberg, saying:

“Mr. Goldberg, how can you help that poor lady when you are so poor yourself? It takes a lot of money, don’t it, to go West? I heard some of the boys at the asylum say it takes more ’n fifteen dollars, and that’s an awful lot. That is more than you have, isn’t it?”

“Vell, Loney, somedimes you make me t’ink you vos got more sense as meinselluf. You say such schmart t’ings, but dot’s a goot investment, Loney, alvays. Der good Gott, He pays it back. For efery dollar I gif avay in charity I gets me two und a halluf back again. I haf vorked hart und safed, und so I will help her.”

“But I am a burden on you, ain’t I?”

“Burten noding! Vot do you got? A place to sleep, mit somedimes somedings good to eat, und somedimes nodings but preat und milluk. If you vos not here I should haf to pay a poyt’ree dollars a veek. Make you no mistake on dot. I am a peezness man, mit mine eye open for der matsuma.”

While Loney was trying to ponder over this statement, Dora came dancing into the room, holding out a tiny blue baby’s shoe, saying, joyfully:

“Oh see, papa. See! I found it. I found it in mama’s old cedar chest. The first shoe I ever wore. We thought it was lost, but I found it. Oh, I’m so glad!”

The shoemaker took the tiny thing in his hand and looked at it through misty eyes, and with a laugh that was half a sob, he said:

“Vell, vot do you t’ink of dot for a shoe? It is a number nodings. You cannot vear dot now, mein child.”

“Hardly,” laughed Dora, holding out a plump and pretty foot.

“How shall I forget der time I maket dot shoe? Dere you vos in der bed, mit your mudder, und ven I dit showed it to her she dit laugh und cry at der same time. Den she vent avay to sleep, mit der little shoe py her lips, vere she kiss it. Now she sleep dot long sleep dot vill know no vaking. I vill put dis vere it vill not get lost again, until I can get Somolus Levinsky to put it in his safe for me.”

More moved than Dora had ever seen her father, she watched him as he put the precious little shoe in his breast pocket and walked back and forth, struggling with his emotion. He had loved his wife with a deep and strong affection, and her death had never found him comforted. Dora resembled her mother, and all the lonely man’s love centered upon her now. And the child loved him, and was in one, daughter and companion, loving, obedient and worthy in every way.

Just as Dora was beginning to feel half-alarmed at her father’s strange actions, there was a light step on the cellar-steps and a gay and pleasant voice heard, saying:

“Hello, Mr. Goldberg! Hello, Dora! Hello, Loney! How are you all?”

The shoemaker brightened up at once and turned to greet the newcomer—a handsome and alert young Jew. Neatly dressed and self-respecting he was, and full of joy at his reception and the news he had to impart. Morris held out his hand heartily.

“Ah, de Bennie. I’m glad to see you, Bennie. Vot’s der matter vit’ your face, Dora? It is red, like de roses.”

“Nothing, papa,” answered Dora, who hadmodestly and shyly drawn backward to the darkest corner.

“Good news, Mr. Goldberg! Good news!” cried Bennie, dancing about lightly, but with his eyes fixed upon the pretty Dora.

“Vell, tell it, Bennie. Dere has been noding in de shop to-day but troubles, und heartaches, und sorrows.”

“I have been promoted to assistant foreman of the cigar factory, with my wages doubled.”

This was said with an anxious glance in the direction of Dora, which was met by a radiant smile.

“Goot! Goot! Vat are you smiling at, like dot, Dora? Vot you got to do mit Bennie’s goot fortune?”

“Oh, papa,” said Dora, hiding her face, while Bennie manfully took his stand beside her. The father was suddenly enlightened, and, after a brief second, he drew himself together and said:

“Vell, I am not plint. I can see dot two is company and four is a procession. Come, Loney, I vant you to go mit me to de oder rooms und help me to sweep de Oriental rugs.”

“Mr. Goldberg, can I take Dora—and Loney—up de street for a treat? It is up to me now.”

“To treat de Dora and de Loney? Sure, treat dem—but treat dem right.”

“And you, too, Mr. Goldberg. Won’t you come?” said Bennie, anxious to gain Mr. Goldberg’s good graces.

“Not so. I cannot leafe. I must fix a pair of prize-fighting shoes for de Kid Broad, und if I get dem not done my name will be—vat you call it, Bennie? Oh, yes, a dead von, Bennie!”

“Yes, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Bring it me von fife-cents stogies und I vill smoke you de goot luck. Come, Loney, let us go und bolish de piano.”

Saying this, the shoemaker took the child’s hand and started to the upper room, leaving Bennie and Dora alone. Ben was too clever to allow such an opportunity for a heart-to-heart talk to pass, so he said:

“Are you glad, Dora, that it has come at last?”

“Yes, Bennie; very glad for your sake.”

“And aren’t you glad just a little foroursakes?”

“Yes, Bennie,” whispered Dora, shyly.

“You know that you promised, when my wages were raised—that—if the father consents, you would be my wife.”

“Did you ask him, Bennie? But it is not because your pay is raised——”

“I know that, Dora. But, you know, I wouldnot want you until I could take good care of you. So, if it wasn’t for the wages, why did you promise, Dora?”

“I promised because I love you, Bennie,” said Dora, simply and sweetly, at the same time holding out both her hands, which Bennie took and held; and then, growing bolder, he put one arm around her and drew her to him and reverently kissed the upturned brow so confidingly raised.

At that moment the father entered the shop, thinking they had gone, and stood a second looking at them, with many emotions struggling on his honest face, but he rallied and said, lightly:

“I might make you marry her for dot, Bennie.”

“Oh do, Mr. Goldberg. Please do. You know I have loved Dora ever since I came here a little boy and she was a baby. It would be no punishment—or else it would be a sweet one. Eh, Dora?”

“Den you shall be punished, Bennie. You are a good, hard-working poy, und some day, in a year or two, ven you are both a little older, you shall have mein chilt.”

“I thank you, Mr. Goldberg—father—more than I can say.”

“Dank Dora, not me. She chooset you. Icould see by de red on her cheeks. But, my poy, guard her like de eyepalls, for she is all I haf. She is like de mudder ofer again, und if anyt’ings happen mein Dora it vill prake mein heart. Yes, I gif my little Dora to you. I vill announce de betrothal at vonce.”

Loney peeped in the door, uncertain as to his welcome, asking if he could come in. The shoemaker said, huskily, for this betrothal, while it assured his daughter a happy home, a good husband, and protection, still seemed to him to sever the dear tie that had so bound them together—the chain was broken, to let in another link:

“Yes; come along, Loney; ve vassen’t long gone, but it vos long enough.”

Then the long-deferred “treat” was brought up for discussion, and Bennie hurried his pretty little Dora—his now—and Loney, and they went happily up the steps, leaving the father alone in the dim shop, with a heavy load of—was it joy or sorrow—in his heart? He scarcely knew himself.

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