CHAPTER 8 The next day was Sunday. True was in the habit of going to church, half the day at least, with the Sexton's family. But Gertie, having no bonnet, could not go, and True would not leave her. So they spent the morning together, wandering round among the wharves, and looking at the ships, Gertie wearing her old shawl pinned over her head. In the afternoon True fell asleep by the fireside, and Gertie played with the cat. Willie came in the evening, but it was only to say good-bye, before going back to Mr. Bray's. He was in a hurry, and could not stop at all, for his master had a sober household, and liked to have his doors closed early, especially Sunday night. Old Mr. Cooper, however, made his usual visit, and when he had gone, True, finding Gertie 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, much surprised and amused at finding herself dressed, sprung up and ran out to ask True how it happened. True was busy making the fire, and Gertie, having received satisfactory answers to her numerous inquiries, when and where she fell asleep, and how she came in bed, applied herself earnestly to help in every possible way about getting the breakfast, and putting the room in order. She followed Mrs. Sullivan's instructions, all of which she remembered, and showed a wonderful degree of capability in everything she undertook. In the course of the few following weeks, during which her perseverance held out surprisingly, she learned how to make herself useful in many ways, and, as Mrs. Sullivan had prophesied, gave promise of becoming, one day, quite a clever little housekeeper. Of course, the services she performed were trifling, but her active and willing feet saved True a great many steps, and True as of essential aid in keeping the room's neat, that being her a special ambition. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan expected her, now that the dust and cobwebs were all cleared away, to take care that they should not accumulate again, and it was quite an amusing sight every day, when True had gone out as usual to fill and clean the street lamps, to see the little girl diligently laboring with an old broom, the handle of which was cut short to make it more suitable for her use. Mrs. Sullivan looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her, and nothing made Gertie happier than learning how to do some new thing. She met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. In two or three instances the toast got burned to a cinder, and, worse still, she one day broke a painted teacup over which she shed many a tear. But as True never thought of blaming her for anything, she forgot her misfortunes, and experience made her careful. Kate McCarty thought her the smartest child in the world, and would sometimes come in and wash up the floor, or do some other work, which required more strength or skill than Gertie possessed. Prompted by her ambition to equal Mrs. Sullivan's expectations, and still more by her desire to be useful to True, and in some degree manifest her love to him by her labors, Gertie was usually patient, good-natured, and obliging. So very indulgent was True that he rarely indeed lay a command upon the child, leaving her to take her own course and have her own way. But, undisciplined as she was, she willingly yielded obedience to one who never thwarted her, and the old man seldom saw her exhibit in his presence, that violent temper which, when roused, knew no restraint. She had little to irritate her in the quiet home she now enjoyed, but instances sometimes occurred which proved that the fire of her little spirit was not quenched, or its evil propensities extinguished. One Sunday Gertie, who had now a nice little hood which True had bought for her, was returning with Mr. Cooper, Mr. Flint, and Willie from the afternoon service at church. The two old men were engaged in one of their lengthy discussions, and the children, having fallen into the rear, had been talking earnestly about the church, the minister, the people, and the music, all of which were new to Gertie, and greatly excited her wonder and astonishment. As they drew near home, Willie remarked how dark it was growing in the streets, and then, looking down at Gertie, whom he held by the hand, he said, Gertie, do you ever go out with Uncle True and see him light the lamps? No, I never did, said Gertie, since the first night I came. I've wanted to, but it's been so cold Uncle True would not let me. He said I'd just catch the fever again. It won't be cold this evening, said Willie. It'll be a beautiful night, and if Uncle True's willing, let's see when I go with him. I've often been, and it's first rate, you can look into the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting all round to the fire in the parlours. And I like to see him light those great lamps, interrupted Gertie. They make it look so bright and beautiful all round. I hope he'll let us go. I'll ask him, come, said she, pulling him by the hand. Let's catch up with them and ask him now. No, wait, said Willie. He's busy talking with Grandpa, and we're almost home. We can ask him then. He could hardly restrain her impatience, however, and as soon as they reached the gate, she suddenly broke away from him, and rushing up to True made known her request. The plan was willingly acceded to, and the three soon started on the rounds. For some time Gertie's attention was so wholly engrossed by the lamp lighting 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 shop, her delight knew no bounds. The brilliant colours displayed in the windows, now for the first time seen by the evening light, completely captivated her fancy. And when Willie told her that his master shop was very 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 the matter to her, and to gratify her curiosity on many other points, found, when they started on their way, that True was some distance in advance of them. He hurried Gertie along, telling her that they were now in the finest street they should pass through, and that they must make haste, for they had nearly reached the house he most wanted her to see. When they came up with True, he was just 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. Some, however, either had no curtains, or they had not yet been drawn. In one parlor there was a pleasant wood fire, around which a group were gathered. And here Gertie would feign have lingered. Again 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 further down the street was another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see beautiful children. How do you know there will 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 Gertie? Three, I believe.  She looked like a wax doll, only a great deal prettier. Oh, I hope we shall see her, said Gertie, dancing along on the tops of her toes, so full was she of excitement and pleasure. There they are, exclaimed Willie. All three I declare, just as they used to be. Where, said Gertie, where? Over opposite, in the great stone house. Here, let's cross over. It's muddy, I'll carry you. Willie lifted Gertie 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. Gertie was not the only child that loved to see the lamp-slit. It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see anyone out of doors. But Willie and Gertie had so much the better chance to look in. It was indeed a fine mansion, evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the center of the room, shed a broad, through cheerful blaze. Rich carpets, deeply tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gertie 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 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 said.  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. Gertie's admiration and rapture were such that she could find no expression for them, except in jumping up and down, shouting, laughing, 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! And look, look at the father's shoes! What is that on the table? I guess it's good. There's a big looking-glass.  In all her exclamations, she began and ended with her praises of the children. Willie was quite satisfied. Gertie was as much pleased as he had expected or wished. True now came up, and as his torchlight swept along the sidewalk, Gertie and Willie became, in their turn, the subjects of notice and conversation. The little curly-haired girl saw them and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. Though Gertie could not know what they were saying, she did not like the idea of being stared at and talked about. And hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up. The Willie laughed at her and told her it was now her turn to be looked at. When True took up his ladder, however, and started to move off, she commenced following him at a run so as to escape observation. But Willie calling to her and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back as quickly to have one more look and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. The next instant the servant girl came and drew down the window shades. Gertie then took Willie's hand again, and they hastened on once more to overtake True. Shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, Gertie? said Willie. Yes, indeed, said Gertie. Ain't it splendid? I wish I had just such a house, said Willie. I mean to one of these days. Where will you get it? exclaimed Gertie, 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 of money. I know it, but I can earn a lot and I mean to. 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 as another? How do you suppose he got so much money? I don't know how he did. There are a good many ways. Some people think it's all luck, but I guess it's as much smartness as anything. Are you smart? Willie left. Ain't I, said he. If I don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say I ain't. I know what I'd do if I was rich, said Gertie. What asked Willie? First I'd buy a great nice chair for Uncle True, with cushions all on 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, sows to make the room as light, as light as it could be. Seems to me your mighty fond of lights, Gertie, said Willie. I be, said the child.  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 tonight. Ain't we having a good time? Yes, real. And so they went on. Gertie jumping and dancing along the sidewalk, Willie sharing in her gaiety and joy and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and at the same time protecting the wild little creature. They talked much of how they would spend that future wealth which, in their buoyant hopefulness, they both fully calculated upon one day possessing. For Gertie had caught Willie's spirit, and she too meant to work and grow rich. Willie told Gertie of the many plans he had for surrounding his mother and grandfather, and even herself and Uncle True, with every comfort and luxury he had ever heard or dreamt of.  And at this Gertie had a great laugh.  Good taste is inborn, and Gertie had it in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, knee 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, happy as children only can be. What do they want of wealth? What of anything, material and 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 always will be building to the end of time. Far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. High up they rise and shine and glitter, and the little ones fix their eyes on them, overlook the rough dark places that lie between. See not the perils of the way. Suspect not the gulfs and snares into which many are destined to fall. But confident of gaining the glorious goal, they set forth on the way rejoicing. Blessings on that childhood's delusion, if such it be. 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. One source of the light-heartedness that Willie and Gertie experienced, undoubtedly lay in the disinterestedness and generosity of the emotion which occupied them. For in the plans they formed, neither seemed actuated by selfish motives. They were both filled with the desire to contribute to the comfort of their more aged friends. It was a beautiful spirit of grateful love which each manifested. A spirit in a great degree, natural to both. In Willie, however, it had been so fostered by pious training that it partook of the nature of a principal. While in Gertie it was a mere impulse, and a last for poor human nature, when swayed by its own passions alone. The poor little girl had, as who has not, other less pleasing impulses. And if the former needed encouraging and strengthening, so did the latter, required to be uprooted and destroyed. They had reached the last lamp post in the street, and now turned another corner. But scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before Gertie 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, Gertie, said he? Are you tired? No, oh no, but I can't go any further. Why not? Oh, because, because, and here Gertie lowered her voice, and putting her mouth close to Willie's ear, whispered, There is Nan Grant's house, I see the house. I had forgot Uncle True went there, and I can't go, I'm afraid. Oh, ho! 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, I should laugh. Very kindly and pleasantly did Willie plead with the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to see them, but that perhaps they should see her. And that was just what he wanted. Nothing he should like better. Gertie's fears were easily elade. She was not naturally timid. It was only the suddenness of the shock she received, unrecognizing her old home, that had revived, with full force, her dread and horror of Nan. It needed but little reasoning to assure her of the perfect safety of her present position, and her fears soon gave place to the desire to point out to Willie, her former persecutor. So by the time they stood in front of the house, she was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of Nan, and never had anyone a fairer chance to be looked upon than Nan at that moment. She was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbors. Her countenance expressed angry excitement, and, as ill-looking a woman at best, her face now was so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus, and afterwards questioned her right to the title of vixen, virago, scold, or anything else that conveys the same idea. 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 Gertie, that's Nan. What's she doing? Oh, she's fighting with Miss Birch. She does most 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. But Gertie lingered, courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen. She was attentively gazing at Nan, and her eyes glistened. Not as a few minutes before, with the healthy and 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 hurrying home, and perceiving once more that Mr. Flint and his torch were far down the street, now left Gertie, and started himself, as an expedient, to draw her on, saying, at the same time, Come, Gertie, I can't wait. Gertie turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, stooped, and picking up a stone from the sidewalk, flung it at the window. There was a crash of broken glass, an exclamation in Nan's well-known voice, but Gertie was not there to see the result of her work. The instant the stone had left her hand, and she heard the crash, her fears all returned, and flying past Willie, she paused not until she was safe by the sight of True. Willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and then came running up, exclaiming breathlessly, Why, Gertie, do you know what you did? You broke the window. Gertie jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid Willie, pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do. True now inquired what window, and Gertie, unhesitatingly, acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on purpose. True and Willie were shocked and silent. Gertie was silent too, for the rest of the walk.  She did not understand herself, or her own sensations. We may not say how far she was responsible for them, but this much is certain.  Poor child, how much she needs to learn the truth. God grant that the inward may one day become as dear to her as now, the outward light. 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 go out and to take with him a number of articles which he wanted for his Saturday's work in the church.  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 kindlings in his hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was feigned to acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. So Mrs. Sullivan called Gertie, and asked her to go to the church with Mr. Cooper, and help him carry his tools. Gertie was very much pleased with the proposal, and taking the hammer and nails 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, left her, and went down into the vestry-room to commence there his operation of sweeping, dusting, and building fires. Gertie was thus left to her own amusement, and ample amusement she found it, 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 just beginning to grow weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered unperceived, commenced playing some low, sweet music, and Gertie, seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest attention and pleasure. He had not played long before the door at the foot of the broad aisle opened, and a couple of visitors entered, and observing whom Gertie was soon wholly engrossed. One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, short in spare, with hair thin and gray, forehead high, and features rather sharp. But though a plain man, remarkable for his calm and benign 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 color, relieved by some light blue ribbon about the face. The only article of her dress which was either rich or elegant was some beautiful dark fur, fastened at her throat with a costly enameled slide. She was somewhat below the middle size, but had a pleasing and well-rounded figure. Her features were small and regular, her complexion clear, though rather pale, and her light brown hair was most neatly and carefully arranged.  The two approached the spot where Gertie sat, but without perceiving her. I am glad you like the organ, said the gentleman. I am not much of a judge of music myself, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that Herman plays it remarkably well. Nor is my opinion of any value, said the lady, for I have very 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 it is partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the solemn choir of the church this afternoon. I love to go into a large church on a weekday. 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 Herman would be playing about this time, and besides, when I saw how pale you were looking, it seemed to me 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, you know, go out alone. I thought I should find Mr. Cooper, the sexton here, said the gentleman. I want to speak to him about the light, the afternoons are so short now, and it grows dark so early. I must ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot see to read my sermon to-morrow. Perhaps he is in the vestry-room. He is always somewhere about here on Saturday. I think I had better 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, seemed to request him to accompany 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. Glasses with him, and I suppose I should have to be absent some time. Do you think you should mind waiting here until I return? She lives in the next street, but I may be detained, for it's about that matter of the library books being so mischievously defaced. And I am very much afraid that oldest boy of hers had something to do with it. It ought to be inquired into before to-morrow, and I can hardly walk so far as this again to-night, or I would not think of leaving you. 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. Herman's playing is a great treat to me, and I don't care how long I wait, so I beg you won't hurry on my account, Mr. Arnold. Thus assured Mr. Arnold concluded to go, and having first led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, went away with Mr. Cooper. All this time Gertie had been quite unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on the upper stair, a little secured from sight by the pulpit. Hardly had the doors closed, however, with the 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 rather suddenly. Who's that? Gertie stood quite still and made no reply. Strangely enough, 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 Gertie began again to run down the stairs. This time the lady sprung up and stretching out her hand, sat as quickly as before. Who is it? Me, said Gertie, looking up into the lady's face, it's only me. Will you stop and speak to me, said the lady. Gertie not only stopped, but came close up to Emily's chair, irresistibly attracted by the music of the sweetest voice she had ever heard. The lady placed her hand on Gertie's head, drew her towards her, and said, Who are you? Gertie? Gertie, who? Nothing else but Gertie. 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 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? Gertie laughed at this. Where were you, on the stairs? Yes. Suppose you sit down on the 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 sidewalk. 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. Oh, I know, said Gertie, springing suddenly up and clapping her hands together. I know you asked him to keep me. He said so. I heard him say so.  Oh, I love you ever so much.  She did not speak, but passing her arm round the child's waist drew her closer to her. As the peculiar expression passed away from her face, and her features assumed their usual calm composure, Gertie, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder, a look which the child had worn during the whole of the conversation, exclaimed at last, 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, Gertie. I can see nothing. Not see, said Gertie. Can't you see anything? Can't you see me now? No, said Miss Graham. Oh, exclaimed Gertie, drawing a long breath. I am so glad. Glad, said Miss Graham, and the saddest voice that ever was heard. Oh, yes, said Gertie. 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 Gertie. I'm so ugly.  But just think, Gertie, 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. Gertie burst into a proxism 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 in 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 I'm quite happy. I shouldn't be happy in the dark. I should hate to be, said Gertie.  I'm real sorry. I wish you could see me in everything. Can't your eyes be opened anyway? No, said Emily, never. But we won't talk about that any more. We'll talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly.   But I ain't good, said Gertie. I'm real bad. But you can be good, said Emily, and then everybody will love you. Do you think I can be good? Yes, if you try. I will try. I hope you 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 went on to make inquiries concerning Gertie's former way of life, and became so much 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. Gertie was very communicative. Always a little shy of strangers at first, she was nevertheless easily won by kind words. And, in the present case, the sweet voice and sympathetic tones of Emily went straight to her heart. Singularly enough, though her whole life had been passed among the poorer, and almost the whole of it among the lowest class of people, she seemed to feel none of that awe and constraint, which might be supposed natural, on her encountering, for the first time, one, who born in bread amid influence and luxury, showed herself in every word in motion, a lady of polished mind and manners. On the contrary, Gertie clung to Emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom as if she herself had been born in a palace and cradled in sable fur. Once or twice she took Emily's nicely gloved hand between both her own and held it tight, her favorite mode of expressing her enthusiastic warmth of gratitude and admiration. The excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon Miss Graham's feelings. The latter saw at once how totally neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated and trained with care, lest early abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature capable of the best detainments. The two were still entertaining each other, and as we have said, unconscious of the lateness of the hour, when Mr. Arnold entered the church hastily, and somewhat out of breath. As he came up the aisle, when he was yet some way off, he called to Emily, saying, Emily dear, I'm afraid you thought I had forgotten you. I have been gone so much longer than I intended. Were you not quite tired and discouraged?  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 wouldn't but know she was safe home, on any account. I'd rather get a little fatigued. If Emily could have seen Gertie's grateful face that moment, she would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness. So they went home with Gertie, and Emily kissed Gertie at the gate, and Gertie was a happy child that night. End of Chapter 9 As may be supposed, the blind girl did not forget our little Gertie. 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 benevolence and charity, both of heart and deed. She lived a life of love. She loved God with her whole heart, and her neighbor as herself. Her own great misfortunes and trials could not be helped, and were born 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. Many a blessing was called down upon her head by young and old for kindness past. Many a call was made upon her for further aid, and to the call of none was she ever deaf. But never had she been so touched as now by any tale of sorrow. Ready listener as she was, to the story of grief and trouble, she knew how many children were born into the world amid poverty and privation, how many were abused, neglected and forsaken, so that Gertie's experience was not new to her. But it was something in the child herself that excited and interested Emily in an unwanted degree. The tones of her voice, the earnestness and pathos with which she spoke, the confiding and affectionate manner in which she had clung to her, the sudden clasping of her hand, and finally her vehement outbreak of grief when she became conscious of Emily's great misfortune. All these things so haunted Miss Grimm's recollection that she dreamt of the child at night, and thought much of her by day. She could not account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger. But the impulse to see and 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 Grimm'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. Gertie had previously told him how she had seen Miss Grimm, 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 ain't much use to being with other children. Besides, I don't exactly like to spare her. I like to see her round. 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 it 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. 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 air 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 delay in doing anything for Gertie. I should like to have her come and see me some day, if she would like to, and you'll let her. Sarton, sarton, said true, and thank you kindly, she'd admire to come. A few days after, Gertie 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.  It proved afterwards that Emily took 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 Gertie, and was sorry and grieved that Mrs. Ellis should have sent them away so abruptly. One Saturday evening, when Willie was present, true broached the subject of Gertie's going to school. Gertie herself was very much disgusted with the idea, but it met with Willie's warm approbation, and when Gertie learned that Miss Graham also wished it, she consented, though rather reluctantly, to begin the next week and try how she liked it. So on the following Monday, Gertie accompanied true to one of the primary schools, was admitted, and her education commenced. When Willie came home the next Saturday, he rushed into Truesrom, full of eagerness to hear how Gertie liked going to school. He found her seated at the table with her spelling book, and as soon as he entered she exclaimed, Oh, Willie, Willie, come and hear me read. Her performance could not properly be called reading. She had not got beyond the alphabet and a few syllables which she had learned to spell. But Willie bestowed upon her much well merited praise, for she had really been very diligent. He was astonished to hear that Gertie liked going to school, liked the teacher and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. He had fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and very probably go into tantrums about it, which was the expression he used to denote her fits of ill temper. On the contrary, everything thus far had gone well, and Gertie had never looked so animated and happy as she did this evening. 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 unsmoothly. Gertie went regularly to school and continued to make rapid progress. Every Saturday Willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised, and encouraged her. He had, however, a shrewd suspicion that on one or two occasions she had come near having a brush with some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. Whatever the difficulty originated in, it soon reached a crisis. One day, when the children were assembled in the schoolyard during recess, Gertie caught sight of true in his working dress, just passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp filler. Shouting and laughing, she bounded out of the yard, pursued and overtook him. She came back in a few minutes, seeming much delighted at the unexpected re-encounter, and ran into the yard out of breath and full of happy excitement. The troop of large girls, whom Gertie had already had some reason to distrust, had been observing her. And as soon as she returned, one of them called out, saying, Who's that man? That's my uncle true, said Gertie. You are 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. What are you laughing at? said Gertie fiercely. Ugg, before I'd live with him, said the girl, old smuddy. The others caught it up, and the laugh and epithet, old smuddy, circulated freely in the corner of the yard where Gertie was standing. Gertie 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 sidewalk, she brushed roughly against a tall and rather stiff- looking lady, who was walking slowly in the same direction, with another and much smaller person leading on her arm. Bless me! said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equilibrium from her fright and the suddenness of the shock.  As she spoke, she grasped Gertie by the shoulder, and, before the child could break away, succeeded in giving her a slight shake. This served to increase Gertie's anger, and her speed gaining in proportion. It was but a few minutes before she was at home, crouched in a corner of true's room, behind the bed, her face to the wall, and, as usual, on such occasions, 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. A privilege, indeed, of which she fully availed herself. But she had not had time to indulge 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. Gertie's attention was arrested, for she knew by the sound that it was a step of a stranger who was approaching. With a strong effort, she succeeded, after one or two convulsive sobs, and so far controlling herself as to keep quiet. There was a knock at the door, but Gertie did not reply to it, remaining in her position concealed behind the bed. The knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the latch and walked in. There doesn't seem to be anyone 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. Gertie 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 Gertie had so frightened and disconcerted. Oh, I don't regret coming, said Emily. You can leave me here while you go to your sisters, 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 expressman's 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 armchair, and I can make myself quite contented. Well, at any rate, said Mrs. Ellis, I'll make up a good fire in the stove before I go. As she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and after stirring up the coals, and making free with all trues kindling wood, waited long enough to hear the roaring, and see the blaze. And then, having laid aside Emily's cloak and boa, went away with the same firm, steady step with which she had come, and which had so overpowered Emily's noiseless tread, that Gertie had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. As soon as Gertie knew, by the swinging of the gate, that Mrs. Ellis had really departed, she suspended her effort at self-control, and with a deep, drawn sigh, gasped out, Oh, dear, oh, dear! Why Gertie exclaimed Emily, is that you? Yes, sobbed Gertie. 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. By this time her whole frame was trembling with agitation. Why, Gertie, said Emily, what is the matter? But Gertie could not reply, and Emily, finding this to be the case, desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be somewhat composed.  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, very judiciously questioned her upon other topics. At last, however, she asked her if she went to school. I have been, said Gertie, raising her head suddenly from Emily's shoulder. But I won't ever go again. What? Why not?  Yes, I hate them. Ugly things. Gertie, said Emily, don't say that.  Why shouldn't I, said Gertie? Because it's wrong. No, it's not wrong. I say it isn't, said Gertie. And I do hate them.  And I always shell.  No, answered Emily. I don't. Did anybody ever drown your kitten? Did anybody ever call your father old smutty? said Gertie. If they had, I know you'd hate them just as I do. Gertie, said Emily, solemnly.  Yes, said Gertie. If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others. Gertie said nothing. Do you not wish God to forgive and love you? God that lives in heaven, that made the stars? said Gertie. Yes. Will he love me and let me go some time to heaven? Yes, if you try to be good and love everybody. Miss Emily, said Gertie, after a moment's pause. I can't do it, so I suppose I can't go. Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gertie's forehead. She looked thoughtfully up in Emily's face, then said, Dear Miss Emily, are you going? I am trying to.  Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working of her own thoughts. Miss Emily, said Gertie, at last, in the lowest whisper. I mean to try, but I don't think I can.  For fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. Gertie 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 wonderingly, and then, turning to Emily, exclaimed, Upon my word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, balling little creature that came so near being the death of us. Emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old, overthrowing and annihilating a woman of Mrs. Ellis's inches, but said nothing. Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? Why did she, unbended knee, 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 which Gertie had this day shown, my in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of earthly joy, and so she prayed to heaven that night for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity.  Her large eyes were fixed upon Emily's face, which always seemed, in some unaccountable way, to fascinate the little girl. So attentively did she watch the play of the features in accountants the charm of which many an older person than Gertie had felt, but tried in vain to describe. It was not beauty, at least not brilliant beauty, for that Emily had not possessed, even when her face was illumined, as it had once been, by beautiful hazel eyes. Nor was it the effect of what is usually termed fascination of manner. For Emily's manner and voice were both so soft and unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. It was not compassion for her blindness, though so great a misfortune might well, and always did, excite the warmest sympathy. But it was hard to realize that Emily was blind. It was a fact never forced upon her friend's recollection by any repining or selfish indulgences on the part of the sufferer. And, as there was nothing painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed as they were by her long and heavy eyelashes, it was not unusual for those immediately about her to converse upon things which could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her attention to one object and another, quite forgetting for the moment, her sad deprivation. And Emily never sighed, never seemed her at their want of consideration, or showed any lack of interest in objects thus shot from her gaze. But apparently quite satisfied with the description she heard, or the pictures which she formed in her imagination, would talk pleasantly and playfully upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions. Some said that Emily had the sweetest mouth in the world, and they loved to watch its ever-varying expression. Some said her chief attraction lay in a small dimple in her right cheek. Others, and these were young girls who wanted to be charming themselves, remarked that if they thought they could make their hair wavelike Emily's, they'd braid it up every night, it was so becoming. But the chosen few, who were capable, through their own spirituality, of understanding and appreciating Emily's character. The few, the very few, who had known her struggles, and had witnessed her triumphs. Had they undertaken to express their belief concerning the source when she derived that power by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and old, and won their love and admiration, they would have said, as Gertie did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at Emily on the very Sunday afternoon of which we speak. Ms. Emily, I know you've been with God. Gertie was certainly a strange child. All untaught as she was, she had felt Emily's entire superiority to any being she had ever seen before. And yielding to that belief in her belonging to an order above humanity, she reposed implicit confidence in what she told her, allowed herself to be guided and influenced by one whom she felt loved her and saw only her good. And as she sat at her feet and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, Emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face that was looking up at her, knew by the earnest attention she had gained by the child's perfect stillness, and still more by the little hand which had sought hers, and now held it tight, that one great point was one. Gertie had not been to school since the day of her battle with the great girls. All true persuasions had failed, and she would not go. But Emily understood the child's nature so much better than true did, and urged upon her so much more forcible motives than the old man had thought of employing, that she succeeded where he had failed. Gertie considered that her old friend had been insulted, and that was the chief cause of indignation with her. But Emily placed the matter in a different light, and convincing her at last that if she loved Uncle True she would show it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish anger. She finally obtained Gertie's promise that she would go to school the next morning. She also advised her how to conduct herself towards the scholars whom she so much disliked, and gave her some simple directions with regard to her behavior the next day, telling her that perhaps Mr. Flint would go with her, make suitable apologies to the teacher for her absence, and that in such case she would have no further trouble. The next morning True, much pleased that Gertie's repugnance to the school was at last overcome, went with her, and inquiring for the teacher at the door, stated the case to her in his blunt, honest way, and then left Gertie in her special charge. Miss Brown, who was a young woman of good sense and good feelings, saw the matter in the right light, and taking an opportunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited Gertie's temper by their rudeness, made them feel so ashamed of their conduct that they no longer molested the child, and as Gertie soon after made friends with one or two quiet children of her own age, with whom she played in recess, she got into no more such difficulties. The winter passed away, the pleasant sunny spring days came, days when Gertie would sit at open windows, or on the doorstep, when birds sang in the morning among the branches of an old locus tree that grew in the narrow yard, and the sun at evening threw bright rays across true's great room, and Gertie could see to read until almost bedtime. She had been to school steadily all winter, and had improved as rapidly as most intelligent children do, who were first given the opportunity to learn at an age when, full of ambition, the mind is most fertile and capable of progress. She was looking healthy and well, her clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked by Emily, and the caravet superintended by Mrs. Sullivan. She was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so joyously and lightly, that true declared his birdie knew not what it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips of her toes. The old man could not have loved the little adopted one better had she been his own child, and as he sat by her side on the wide settle, which when the warm weather came, was moved outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she read aloud to him story after story, of little girls who never told lies, boys who always obeyed their parents, or more frequently still, of the child who knew how to keep her temper. They seemed, as indeed they were, most suitable companions for each other. The old man's interest in the story books, which were provided by Emily, and read and reread by Gertie, was as keen and unflagging as if he had been a child himself, and he would sit with his elbows on his knees, hearing the simple stories, laughing when Gertie laughed, sympathizing as fully and heartily as she did and the sorrows of her little heroines, and rejoicing with her in the final triumph of truth, obedience, and patience. Emily knew the weight that such tales often carried with them to the hearts of children, and most carefully and judiciously did she select books for Gertie. Gertie's life was now as happy and prosperous as it had once been wretched and miserable. Six months before, she had felt herself all alone, unloved, uncared for. Now she had many friends, and knew what it was to be thought of, provided for, and caressed. All the days in the week were joyous, but Saturday and Sunday were marked days with her, as well as with Mrs. Sullivan. For Saturday brought Willie home to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh, and play with her. He had so many pleasant things to tell.  That on Monday morning she began to count the days until Saturday would come again. Then if anything went wrong or got out of order, if the old clock stopped or her toys got broken, or worse still, if her lessons troubled, or any little childish grief oppressed her, Willie knew how to put everything right to help her out of every difficulty. So Willie's mother looked not more anxiously for his coming than Gertie did. Sunday afternoon Gertie always spent with Emily, in Emily's own room, listening to her sweet voice, and half unconsciously imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. Emily preached no sermons, nor did she weary the child with exhortations and precepts. Indeed, it did not occur to Gertie that she went there to be taught anything, but simply and gradually the blind girl imparted light to the child's dark soul, and the truths that make for virtue, the lessons that are divine, were implanted in her so naturally, and yet so forcibly, that she realized not the work that was going on. But long after, when goodness had grown strong within her, and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep her childish resolves had matured into deeply rooted principles, and confirmed habits of right, she felt as she looked back into the past, that on those blessed sabbets, sitting on her crooked Emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of that immortal light that never could be quenched. Thus her silent prayer was answered. God had chosen an earthly messenger to lead his child into everlasting peace. A messenger from whose closed eyes the world's paths were all shut out, but who had been so long treading the heavenly road that it was now familiar ground. Who was so fit to guide the little one as she, who with patience had learned the way? Who so well able to cast light upon the darkness of another soul as she? To whose own darkened life God had lent a torch divine? It was a grievous trial to Gertie about this time, to learn that the grams were soon going into the country for the summer. Mr. Graham owned a pleasant residence about six miles from Boston, to which he invariably resorted as soon as the planting season commenced. For though devoted to business during the winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation from his counting-room in the summer, and vudgers and day-books were now soon to be supplanted in his estimation by the labor's ants' delights of gardening. Emily promised Gertie, however, that she should come and pass a day with her when the weather was fine—a visit which Gertie enjoyed three months in anticipation, and more than three in retrospection. It was some compensation for Emily's absence that as the days became long, Willie was frequently able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two in the evening. And Willie, as we have said, always knew how to comfort Gertie whatever the trouble might be. CHAPTER XII. Let every minute, as it springs, convey fresh knowledge on its wings. Let every minute, as it flies, record thee good, as well as wise. COTTON. It was one pleasant evening in the latter part of April that Gertie, who had been to see Miss Graham and bid her good-bye before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of the yard weeping bitterly. She held in her hand a book and a new slate, Emily's parting gifts, but she had not removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was quite besmeared with tears.  With her, the first of those many sad partings life is so full of, that she did not hear any one approach, and was unconscious of any one's presence, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders, and as she turned round, she found herself encircled by Willie's arms, and face to face with Willie's sunny countenance. Why, Gertie, said he, this is no kind of a welcome when I've come home on a weeknight to stay with you all the evening. Mother and grandfather are both gone out somewhere, and then, when I come to look for you, you're crying so I can't see your face through such oceans of tears.  Willie, sobbed she, do you know Miss Emily's gone? Gone where? Way off, six miles, to stay all summer. But Willie only laughed. Six miles, said he, that's a terrible way, certainly. But I can't see her any more, said Gertie. You can see her next winter, rejoined Willie. Oh, but that's so long, said the child. What makes you think so much of her, asked Willie? She thinks much of me. She can't see me, and she likes me better than anybody but Uncle True. I don't believe it. I don't believe she likes you half as well as I do. I know she don't. How can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in her life, and I see you all the time, and love you better than I do anybody in the world, except my mother? Do you really, Willie? Yes, I do. I always think when I come home, now I'm going to see Gertie, and everything that happens all the week, I think to myself, I shall tell Gertie that. I shouldn't think you'd like me so well. Why not? Oh, because you're so handsome, and I ain't handsome a bit. I heard Ellen Chase tell Lucretta Davis the other day, that she thought Gertie Flint was the worst-looking girl in the school. Then she ought to be ashamed of herself, said Willie. I guess she ain't very good-looking. I should hate the looks of her, or any other girl that said that. Oh, Willie! exclaimed Gertie earnestly. It's true, as true as can be. No, it ain't true, said Willie. To be sure, you haven't got long curls in a round face, and blue eyes, like bell clittins.  I often think you're the brightest-looking girl I ever saw in my life, and I don't care what other folks thinks, as long as I like your looks. I feel just as bad when you cry, or anything's to matter with you, as if it were myself. And worse! George Bray struck his little sister Mary yesterday, because she tore his kite. I should have liked to give him a flogging. I wouldn't strike you, Gertie, if you tore all my playthings to pieces. Such professions of affection on Willie's part were frequent, and always responded to by a like declaration from Gertie. Nor were they mere professions. The two children loved each other dearly. They were very differently constituted, for Willie was earnest, persevering, and patient. Calm in his temperament, and equal in his spirits. Gertie, on the other hand, excitable and impetuous, was constantly thrown off her guard. Her temper was easily roused, her spirit's variable, her whole nature sensitive to the last degree. Willie was accustomed to be loved, expected to be loved, and was loved by everybody. Gertie had been an outcast from all affection, looked not for it, and, except under favorable circumstances, and by those who knew her well, did not readily inspire it. But that they loved each other, there could be no doubt. And if in the spring the bond between them was already strong, Autumn found it cemented by still firmer ties. For, during Emily's absence, Willie filled her place, and his own too. And though Gertie did not forget her blind friend, she passed a most happy summer, and continued to make such progress in her studies at school. That when Emily returned to the city in October, she could hardly understand how so much had been accomplished, and what had seemed to her so short a time. The following winter, too, was passed most profitably by Gertie. Miss Graham's kindly feeling towards her little protege, far from having diminished, seemed to have been increased by time and absence, and Gertie's visits to Emily became more frequent than ever. The profit derived from these visits was not all on Gertie's part. Emily had been in the habit, the previous winter, of hearing her read occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency. Now, however, she discovered on the first trial that the little girl had attained to a greater degree of excellence in this accomplishment than is common among grown people. She read understandingly, and her accent and intonations were so admirable, that Emily found rare pleasure in listening to her. Partly with a view to the child's benefit, and partly for her own gratification, she proposed that Gertie should come every day and read to her for an hour. Gertie was only too happy to oblige her dear Miss Emily, who, in making the proposal, represented it as a personal favor to herself, and a plan by which Gertie's eyes could serve for them both. It was agreed that when true started on his lamplighting expeditions, he should take Gertie to Mr. Graham's, and call for her on his return. Owing to this arrangement, Gertie was constant and punctual in her attendance at the appointed time, and none but those who have tried it are aware what a large amount of reading may be accomplished in six months, if only an hour is devoted to it regularly each day. Emily, in her choice of books, did not confine herself to such as come strictly within a child's comprehension. She judged rightly that a girl of such keen intelligence, as Gertie was naturally endowed with, would suffer nothing by occasionally encountering what was beyond her comprehension. But that, on the contrary, the very effort she would be called upon to make would enlarge her capacity and be an incentive to her genius. So history, biography, and books of travels were perused by Gertie at an age when most children's literary pursuits are confined to stories and pictures. The child seemed indeed to give the preference to this comparatively solid reading, and aided by Emily's kind explanations and encouragement. She stored up in her little brain many an important fact and much useful information. At Gertie's age the memory is strong and retentive, and things impressed on the mind then are usually better remembered than what is learned in after-years when the thoughts are more disturbed and divided. Her a special favorite was a little work on astronomy, which puzzled her more than all the rest put together, but which delighted her in the same proportion. For it made some things clear, and all the rest, though a mystery still, was to her a beautiful mystery, and one which she fully meant some time to explore to the uttermost. And this ambition to learn more and understand better, by and by, was after all the greatest good she derived. Awaken a child's ambition, and implant her a taste for literature, and more is gained than by years of schoolroom drudgery, where the heart works not in unison with the head. From the time Gertie was first admitted, until she was twelve years old, she continued to attend the public schools, and was rapidly advanced and promoted. But what she learned with Miss Graham, and acquired by study with Willie at home, formed nearly as important a part of her education. Willie, as we have said, was very fond of study, and was delighted at Gertie's warm participation in his favorite pursuit. They were a great advantage to each other, for each found encouragement in the other's sympathy and cooperation. After the first year or two of their acquaintance, Willie could not be properly called a child, for he was in his fifteenth year, and beginning to look quite manly. But Gertie's eagerness for knowledge had all the more influence upon him. For if the little girl ten years of age was patient and willing to labor at her books until after nine o'clock, the youth of fifteen must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. It was when they had reached these respective years that they commenced studying French together. Willie's former teacher continued to feel a kindly interest in the boy, who had longed been his best scholar, and who would certainly have borne away from his class the first prizes. Had not a higher duty called him to inferior labors, previous to the public exhibition. Whenever he met him in the street or elsewhere, he inquired concerning his mode of life, and whether he continued his studies. Finding that Willie had considerable spare time, he earnestly advised him to learn the French language. That being a branch of knowledge, which would undoubtedly prove useful to him, whatever business he might chance to pursue in life, and offer to lend him such books as he would need at the commencement. Willie availed himself of his teacher's advice, and his kind offer, and began to study in good earnest. When he was at home in the evening, he was in the habit of coming into true's room, partly for the sake of quiet, for true was a quiet man, and had too great a veneration for learning to interrupt the students with his questions, and partly for the sake of being with Gertie, who was usually at that time occupied with her books. Gertie, as may be supposed, conceived a strong desire to learn French too. Willie was willing she should try, but had no confidence that she would long persevere. To his surprise, however, she not only discovered a wonderful determination, but a decided talent for language. And as Emily furnished her with books similar to Willie's, she kept pace with him, oftentimes translating more during the week than he could find time to do. On Saturday evening, when they always had a fine study time together, true would sit on his old subtle by the fire, watching Willie and Gertie, side by side at the table, with their eyes bent on the page, which to him seemed the greatest of earthly labyrinths. Gertie always looked out the words, in which employment she had great skill, her bright eyes diving, as if by magic, into the very heart of the dictionary, and transfixing the right word at a glance, while Willie's province was to make sense. Almost the only occasion when true was known to disturb them, by a word even, was when he first heard Willie talk about making sense. Making sense, Willie, said the old man, is that what year after? Well, you couldn't do a better business. I'll warrant you a market for it. There's want enough on it in the world. It was but natural that, under such favorable influences as Gertie enjoyed, with Emily to advise and direct, and Willie to aid and encourage, her intellect should rapidly expand and strengthen. But how is it with that little heart of hers, that at once warm and affectionate, impulsive, sensitive and passionate, now throbs with love and gratitude, and now again burns, as vehemently, with a consuming fire that a sense of wrong, a consciousness of injury, to herself or her friends, would at any moment enkindle. Has she, in two years of happy childhood, learned self-control? Has she also attained to an enlightened sense of the distinction between right and wrong, truth and falsehood? In short, has Emily been true to herself in post-trust, her high resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of the little ignorant one? Has Gertie learned religion? Has she found out God, and begun to walk patiently in that path, which is lit by a holy light, and leads to rest? She has begun. And though her footsteps often falter, though she sometimes quite turns aside, and impatient of the narrow way, gives the reign to her old irritability and ill temper, she is yet but a child, and there is the strongest foundation for hopefulness and the sincerity of her good intentions, and the depth of her contrition, when wrong has had the mastery. Emily has spared no pains in teaching her where to place her strong reliance, and Gertie has already learned to look to higher aid than Emily's, and to lean on a mightier arm. Miss Graham had appointed for herself no easy task, when she undertook to inform the mind and heart of a child, utterly untaught in the ways of virtue. In some important points, however, she experienced far less difficulty than she had anticipated. For instance, after her first explanation to Gertie of the difference between honesty and dishonesty, the truth and a lie, she never had any cause to complain of the child, whose whole nature was the very reverse of deceptive, and whom nothing but extreme fear had ever driven to the meanness of falsehood. If Gertie's greatest fault lay in a proud and easily roused temper, that very fault carried with it its usual accompaniment of frankness and sincerity. Under almost any circumstances, Gertie would have been too proud to keep back the truth, even before she became too virtuous. Emily was convinced, before she had known Gertie six months, that she could always depend upon her word, and nothing could have been a greater encouragement to Miss Graham's unselfish efforts, than the knowledge that truth, the root of every holy thing, had thus easily and early been made to take up its abode in the child. But this sensitive, proud temper of Gertie's seemed an inborn thing. Abuse and tyranny had not been able to crush it. On the contrary, it had flourished in the midst of the unfavorable influences amid which she had been nurtured. Kindness could accomplish almost anything with her, could convince and restrain. But restraint from any other source was unbearable, and however proper and necessary a check it might be, she was always disposed to resent it. Emily knew that to such a spirit even parental control is seldom sufficient. She knew of but one influence that is strong enough, one power that never fails to quell and subdue earthly pride and passion, the power of Christian humility, and grafted into the heart, the humility of principle, of conscience, the only power to which native pride will ever pay homage. She knew that a command of almost any kind, laid upon Gertie by herself or Uncle True, would be promptly obeyed. For in either case, the little girl would know that the order was given in love, and she would fulfill it in the same spirit. But to provide for all contingencies, and to make the heart right, as well as the life, it was necessary to inspire her with a higher motive than merely pleasing either of these friends. And in teaching her the spirit of her Divine Master, Emily was making her powerful to do and to suffer, to bear and to forebear, when depending on herself she should be left to her own guidance alone. How much Gertie had improved in the two years that had passed since she first began to be so carefully instructed and provided for, the course of our story must develop. We cannot pause to dwell upon the trials and struggles, the failures and victories that she experienced. It is sufficient to say that Miss Graham was satisfied and hopeful, true, proud, and overjoyed, while Mrs. Sullivan, and even old Mr. Cooper, declared she had improved wonderfully in her behavior and her looks, and was remarkably mannerly for such a child. CHAPTER XIII No caprice of mind, no passing influence of idle time, no popular show, no clamor from the crowd, can move him, airing, from the path of right, W. G. Sims. One Saturday evening in December, the third winter of Gertie's residence with True, Willie came in with his French books under his arm, and after the first salutations were over, exclaimed as he threw the grammar and dictionary upon the table. Oh, Gertie, before we begin to study, I must tell you and Uncle True the funniest thing that happened to-day. I have been laughing so at home as I was telling mother about it. I heard you laugh, said Gertie, if I had not been so busy I should have gone into your mother's room to hear what it was so very droll. But come, do tell us. Why, you will not think it's anything like a joke when I begin, and I should not be so much amused if she hadn't been the very queerest old woman that I ever saw in my life. Old woman? You haven't told us about any old woman? But I'm going to, said Willie. You noticed how everything was covered with ice this morning? How splendidly it looked, didn't it? I declare, when the sun shone on that great elm tree in front of our shop, I thought I never saw anything so handsome in my life. But there, that's nothing to do with my old woman. Only that the sidewalks were just like everything else—a perfect glare. I know it, interrupted Gertie. I fell down going to school. Did you, said Willie, didn't you get hurt? No indeed, but go on, I want to hear about your old woman. I was standing at the shop door, about eleven o'clock, looking out, when I saw the strangest-looking figure that you ever imagined coming down the street. I must tell you how she was dressed.  She had on some kind of a black silk or satin gown, made very scant, and trimmed all round with some brownish-looking lace. Black I suppose it had been once, but it isn't now. Then she had a gray cloak of some sort of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out of the Ark, if it hadn't been for a little cape of a different color, that she wore outside of it, and which must have dated a generation further back. I would not undertake to describe her bonnet. Only I know it was twice as big as anybody's else, and she had a figured lace veil thrown over one side that reached nearly to her feet. But her goggles for the crowner, such immense, horrid-looking things I never saw. She had a work bag made of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colors in the rainbow sewed onto it, zig-zag. Then her pocket-hankerchief was pinned to her bag, and a great feather fan, only think at this season of the year, that was pinned on somewhere, by a string, I suppose, and a bundle-hankerchief, and a newspaper. O gracious, I can't think of half the things, but they were all pinned together with great brass pins, and hung in a body on her left arm, all depending on the strength of the bag string. Her dress, though, wasn't the strangest thing about her. What made it too funny was to see her way of walking. She looked quite old and infirm, and it was evident she could hardly keep her footing on the ice. And yet she walked with such a smirk, such a consequential little air. Oh, Gertie, it's lucky you didn't see her. You'd have laughed from then till this time.  Asked true. Oh, no, said Willie. I don't think she was. Queer enough to be sure, but not crazy. Just as she got opposite the shop door, her feet slipped, and the first thing I knew, she fell flat on the sidewalk. I rushed out, before I thought the fall might have killed the poor little thing. And Mr. Bray and a gentleman he was waiting upon followed me. She did appear stunned at first, but we carried her into the shop, and she came to her senses in a minute or two. Crazy, you asked if she were Uncle True. No, not she. She's as bright as a dollar. As soon as she opened her eyes and seemed to know what she was about, she felt for her work bag and all its appendages, counted them up to see if the number were right, then nodded her head very satisfactorily. Mr. Bray poured out a glass of cordial and offered it to her. By this time she had got her heirs and graces back again. So when he recommended to her to swallow the cordial, she retreated, with a little old-fashioned curtsy, and put up both hands to express her horror at the idea of such a thing. The gentleman that was standing by smiled, and advised her to take it, telling her it would do her no harm. Upon that she turned round, made another curtsy to him, and answered, and a little cracked voice. Can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candor and gallantry, that it is not an exhilarating potion? The gentleman could hardly keep from laughing, but he told her it was nothing that would hurt her. Then, said she, I will venture to sip the beverage. It has a most aromatic fragrance. She seemed to like the taste, as well as the smell, for she drank every drop of it, and when she had set the glass down on the counter, she turned to me and said, Except upon this gentleman's assurance of the harmlessness of the liquid, I would not have swallowed it in your presence, my young master, if it were only for the example. I have set my seal to no temperance pledge, but I am ebstemious because it becomes a lady. It is with me a matter of choice, a matter of taste. She now seemed quite restored, and talked of starting again on her walk. But it really was not safe for her to go alone on the ice, and I rather think Mr. Bray thought so, for he asked her where she was going. She told him, in her roundabout way, that she was proceeding to pass the day with Mistress somebody that lived in the neighborhood of the Common. I touched Mr. Bray's arm and said in a low voice that if he could spare me I'd go with her. He said he shouldn't want me for an hour, so I offered her my arm, and told her I should be happy to wait upon her. You ought to have seen her then. If I had been a grown-up man, and she a young lady, she couldn't have tossed her head or giggled more. But she took my arm and we started off. I knew Mr. Bray and the gentleman were laughing to see us. But I didn't care. I pitted the old lady, and I did not mean she should get another tumble. Every person we met stared at us, and it's no wonder they did, for we must have been a most absurd-looking couple. She not only accepted my offered crook, but clasped her hands together round it, making a complete handle of her two arms, and so she hung on with all her might. But there I ought not to laugh at the poor thing, for she needed somebody to help her along, and I'm sure she wasn't heavy enough to tire me out, if she did make the most of herself. I wonder who she belongs to. I shouldn't think her friends would let her go about the street so, especially such walking as it is today. What's her name? inquired Gertie. Didn't you find out? No, answered Willie. She wouldn't tell me. I asked her, but she only said, in her little cracked voice. And here Willie began to laugh immoderately. That she was the incognito, and that it was part of a true and gallant night to discover the name of his fair lady. Oh, I promise you, she was a case. Why, you never heard anyone talk so ridiculously as she did. I asked her how old she was. Mother says that was very impolite. But it's the only uncivil thing I did, or said, as the old lady would testify herself if she were here. How old is she? said Gertie. Sixteen. Why, Willie, what do you mean? That's what she told me, returned Willie, and a true and gallant night is bound to believe his fair lady. Poor body! said true. She's childish. No, she isn't, Uncle True, said Willie. You'd think so part of the time to hear her run on with her nonsense. And then the next minute, she'd speak as sensibly as anybody, and say how much obliged she was to me for showing such a spirit of conformity as to be willing to put myself to so much trouble for the sake of an old woman like her. Just as we turned into Beacon Street, we met a whole school of girls, blooming beauties, handsome enough to kill, my old lady called them, and from the instant they came in sight, she seemed to take it for granted I should try to get away from her and run after some of them. But she held on with a vengeance. It's lucky I had no idea of forsaking her, for it would have been impossible. Some of them stopped and stared at us. Of course, I didn't care how much they stared. But she seemed to think I should be terribly mortified. And when we had passed them all, she complimented me again and again on my spirit of conformity. Her favourite expression. Her willy paused, quite out of breath. True clapped him upon the shoulder. Good boy, willy, said he, clever boy, you always look out for the old folks, and that's right. Respect for the aged is a good thing, though your grandfather says it's very much out of fashion. I don't know much about fashion, Uncle True. But I should think it was a pretty mean sort of a boy that would see an old lady get one fall on the ice, and not save her from another by seeing her safe home. Willys always kind to everybody, said Gertie. Willys either a hero, said the boy, or else he has got two pretty good friends. I rather think it's the latter. But come, Gertie, Charles the Twelfth is waiting for us, and we must study as much as we can tonight. We may not have another chance very soon, for Mr. Bray isn't well this evening. He seems threatened with a fever, and I promise to go back to the shop after dinner tomorrow. If he should be sick, I shall have plenty to do, without coming home at all. Oh, I hope Mr. Bray is not going to have a fever, said True and Gertie, in the same breath. He's such a clever man, said True. He's so good to you, Willie, added Gertie. Willie hoped not to, but his hopes gave place to his fears when he found on the following day that his kind master was not able to leave his bed, the doctor pronounced his symptoms alarming. A typhoid fever set in, which in a few days terminated the life of the excellent apothecary. The death of Mr. Bray was so sudden and dreadful a blow to Willie that he did not at first realize the important bearing the event had upon his own fortunes. The shop was closed, the widow having determined to dispose of the stock and remove into the country as soon as possible. Willie was thus left without employment, and deprived of Mr. Bray's valuable recommendation and assistance. His earnings during the past year had been very considerable and had added essentially to the comfort of his mother and grandfather, who had thus been enabled to relax the severity of their own labors. The thought of being a burden to them, even for a day, was intolerable to the independent and energetic spirit of the boy, and he earnestly set himself to work to obtain another place. He commenced by applying to the different apothecaries in the city, but none of them wanted a youth of his age, and one day was spent in fruitless inquiries. He returned home at night, disappointed, but not by any means discouraged. If he could not obtain employment with an apothecary, he would do something else. But what should he do? That was the question. He had long talks with his mother about it. She felt that his talents and education entitled him to fill a position equal, certainly, to that he had already occupied, and could not endure the thought of his descending to a more menial service. Willey, without too much self-esteem, thought so, too. He knew, indeed, that he was capable of giving satisfaction in a station which required more business talent than his situation at Mr. Brays had ever given scope to. But if he could not obtain such a place as he desired, he would take what he could get. So he made every possible inquiry. But he had no one to speak a good word for him, and he could not expect people to feel confidence in a boy concerning whom they knew nothing. So he met with no success, and, day after day, returned home silent and depressed. He dreaded to meet his mother and grandfather after every fresh failure. The careworn, patient face of the former turned towards him, so hopefully, that he could not bear to sadden it by the recital of any new disappointment. And his grandfather's incredulity and the possibility of his ever having anything to do again was equally tantalizing, so long as he saw no hope of convincing him to the contrary. After a week or two Mrs. Sullivan avoided asking him any questions concerning the occurrences of the day, for her watchful eye saw how much such inquiries paint him, and therefore she waited for him to make his communications, if he had any. Sometimes nothing was said on either side of the manner in which Willie had passed his day. And many an application did he make for employment. Many a mortifying rebuff did he receive, of which his mother never knew. CHAPTER XIV Yet where an equal poise of hope and fear does arbitrate the event, my nature is, that I incline to hope rather than fear. COMES This was altogether a new experience to Willie, and one of the most trying he could have been called upon to bear. But he bore it and bore it bravely, kept all his worst struggles from his anxious mother and desponding grandfather, and resolved manfully to hope against hope. Gertie was now his chief comforter. He told her all his troubles, and, young as she was, she was a wonderful consolar, always looking on the bright side, always prophesying better luck to-morrow. She did much towards keeping up his hopes and strengthening his resolutions. Gertie was so quick, sagacious and observing, that she knew more than most children of the various ways in which things are often brought about, and she sometimes made valuable suggestions to Willie, of which he gladly availed himself. Among others she one day asked him if he had applied at the intelligence offices. He had never thought of it, wondered he had not, but would try the plan the very next day. He did so, and for a time was buoyed up with the hopes held out to him. But they proved fleeting, and he was now almost in despair. When his eye fell upon an advertisement in a newspaper, which seemed to afford still another chance, he showed the notice to Gertie. It was just the thing. He had only to apply. He was the very boy that man wanted, just fifteen, smart, capable, and trustworthy, and would like, when he had learned the business, to go into partnership. That was what was required, and Willie was the very person she was sure. Gertie was so sanguine, that Willie presented himself the next day at the place specified, with a more eager countenance than he had ever yet worn. The gentleman, a sharp-looking man, with very keen eyes, talked with him some time, asked a great many questions, made the boy very uncomfortable by hinting his doubts about his capability and honesty. And finally, wound up by declaring that, under the most favourable circumstances, and with the very best recommendations, he could not think of engaging with any young man, unless his friends were willing to take some interest in the concern, and invest a small amount on his account. This, of course, made the place out of the question for Willie, even if he had liked the man, which he did not, for he felt in his heart that he was a knave, or not many degrees removed from one. Until now he had never thought of despairing, but when he went home after this last interview, it was with such a heavy heart, that it seemed to him utterly impossible to meet his mother, and so he went directly to True's room. It was the night before Christmas. True had gone out, and Gertie was alone. There was a bright fire in the stove, and the room was dimly lighted by the last rays of the winter sunset, and by the glare of the coals, seen through one of the open doors of the stove. Gertie was engaged in stirring up an Indian cake for tea, one of the few branches of the cooking department in which she had acquired some little skill. She was just coming from the pantry, with a scoop full of meal in her hand, when Willie entered at the opposite door. The manner in which he tossed his cap upon the settle, and seating himself at the table, leaned his head upon both his hands, betrayed at once to Gertie the defeat the poor boy had met with in this last encounter with ill fate. It was so unlike Willie to come in without even speaking. It was such a strange thing to see his bright young head bowed down with care, and his elastic figure, looking tired and old, that Gertie knew at once his brave heart had given way.  Her sympathetic touch and look were more than he could bear. He laid his head on the table, and in a minute more Gertie heard great heavy sobs, each one of which sank deep into her soul. She often cried herself, it seemed only natural. But Willie, the laughing, happy, light-hearted Willie, she had never seen him cry. She didn't know he could. She crept up on the rounds of his chair, and putting her arm round his neck whispered, I shouldn't mind Willie if I didn't get the place. I don't believe it's a good place. I don't believe it is either, said Willie, lifting up his head. But what shall I do?  We'd like to have you at home, said Gertie. It's pleasant enough to be at home. I was always glad enough to come when I lived at Mr. Bray's, and was earning something, and could feel as if anybody was glad to see me. Everybody is glad to see you now. But not as they were then, said Willie, rather impatiently. Mother always looks as if she expected to hear I'd got something to do. And grandfather, I believe, never thought I should be good for much. And now, just as I was beginning to earn something, and be a help to them, I've lost my chance. But that ain't your fault, Willie. You couldn't help Mr. Bray's dying. I shouldn't think Mr. Cooper would blame you for not having anything to do now. He don't blame me, but if you were in my place, you'd feel just as I do. To see him sit in his armchair, evenings, and groan and look up at me, as much as to say, It's you I'm groaning about. He thinks this is a dreadful world, and that he's never seen any good luck in it himself. So I suppose he thinks I never shall. I think you will, said Gertie. I think you'll be rich sometime. And then won't he be astonished?  If ever I am rich, I promise to go shares with you. But, added he despondently, taint so easy, I used to think I could make money when I grew up. But it's a pretty slow business. Here he was on the point of leaning down upon the table again, and giving himself up to Mellencally. But Gertie caught hold of his hands. Come, said she, Willie, don't think any more about it. People have troubles always, but they get over them. Perhaps next week you'll be in a better shop than Mr. Bray's, and we shall be as happy as ever. Do you know, said she, by way of changing the subject, a species of tact which children understand as well as grown people. It's just two years to-night since I came here. That's it, said Willie. Did Uncle True bring you home with him the night before Christmas? Yes. Why, that was Santa Claus carrying you to good things instead of bringing good things to you, wasn't it? Gertie did not know anything about Santa Claus, that special friend of children. And Willie, who had only lately read about him in some book, undertook to tell her what he knew of the veteran toy dealer. Finding the interest of the subject had engaged his thoughts in spite of himself. Gertie returned to her cooking, listening attentively, however, to his story, while she stirred up the corn cake. When he had finished, she was just putting her cake in the oven, and as she sat on her knee by the stove, swinging the handle of the oven door in her hand. Her eyes twinkled with such a merry look that Willie exclaimed, What are you thinking of Gertie that makes you look so sly? I was thinking that perhaps Santa Claus would come for you to-night. If he comes for folks that need something, I expect he'll come for you, and carry you to some place where you'll have a chance to grow rich. Very likely, said Willie, he'll clap me into his bag and trudge off with me as a present to somebody. Some old creosess that will give me a fortune for the asking. I do hope he will, for if I don't get something to do before New Year, I shall give up and despair. True came in now, and interrupted the children's conversation by the display of a fine turkey, a Christmas present from Mr. Graham. He had also a book for Gertie, a gift from Emily. Isn't that queer? exclaimed Gertie. Willie was just saying you were my Santa Claus, Uncle True, and I do believe you are. As she spoke, she opened the book, and in the front's piece was a portrait of that individual. It looks like him, Willie.    Yes, I've got a little something, but I'm afeard he won't think much on it. It's only a bit of a note. A note for me? inquired Willie. Who can it be from? Can't say, said True, fumbling in his great pockets. Only just round the corner I met a man who stopped me to inquire where Miss Sullivan lived. I told him she lived just here, and I'd show him the house. When he saw I belonged here, too, he gave me this little scrap of paper, and asked me to hand it over, as it was directed to Master William Sullivan. I suppose that's you, ain't it? He now handed Willie the slip of paper, and the boy, taking True's lantern in his hand, and holding the note up to the light, read aloud. R. H. Clinton would like to see William Sullivan on Thursday morning, between ten and eleven o'clock, at number eighteen, Blank Wharf. Willie looked up in amazement. What does it mean? said he. I don't know any such person. I know who he is, said True. Why, it's he as lives in the Great Stone House in Blank Street. He's a rich man, and that's the number of his store, his counting room, rather, on Blank Wharf. What, father to those pretty children we used to see in the window? The very same. What can he want of me? Very like he wants your services, suggested True. Then it's a place, cried Gertie, a real good one, and Santa Claus came and brought it. I said he would. Oh, Willie, I'm so glad. Willie did not know whether to be glad or not. It was such a strange message, coming, too, from an utter stranger. He could not but hope, as Gertie and True did, that it might prove the dawning of some good fortune. But he had reasons of which they were not aware, for believing that no offer from this quarter could be available to him, and therefore made them both promise to give no hint of the matter to his mother or Mr. Cooper. On Thursday, which was the next day but one, being the day after Christmas, Willie presented himself at the appointed time and place. Mr. Clinton, a gentlemanly man, with a friendly countenance, received him very kindly, asked him but few questions, and did not even mention such a thing as a recommendation from his former employer. But telling him that he was in want of a young man to fill the place of junior clerk in his counting-room offered him the situation. Willie hesitated, for though the offer was most encouraging to his future prospects, Mr. Clinton made no mention of any salary, and that was a thing the youth could not dispense with. Seeing that he was undecided, Mr. Clinton said, Perhaps you do not like my proposal, or have already made some other engagement. No, indeed, answered Willie quickly. You are very kind to feel so much confidence in a stranger as to be willing to receive me, and your offer is a most unexpected and welcome one. But I have been in a retail store where I obtained regular earnings, which were very important to my mother and grandfather. I had far rather be in a counting-room like yours, sir, and I think I might learn to be of use. But I know there are numbers of boys, sons of rich men, who would be glad to be employed by you and would ask no compensation for their services, so that I could not expect any salary at least for some years. I should indeed be well repaid at the end of that time by the knowledge I might gain of mercantile affairs. But unfortunately, sir, I can no more afford it than I could afford to go to college. The gentlemen smiled. How did you know so much of these matters, my young friend? I have heard, sir, from boys who were at school with me, and are now clerks in mercantile houses, that they received no pay. And I always considered it a perfectly fair arrangement. But it was the reason why I felt bound to content myself with a position I held in a nepothecary shop, which, though it was not suited to my taste, enabled me to support myself, and to relieve my mother, who was a widow, and my grandfather, who was old and poor. Your grandfather is Mr. Cooper, sexton of Mr. Arnold's church. Aha! said Mr. Clinton, I know him. What you say, William, added he, after a moment's pause, is perfectly true. We are not in the habit of paying any salary to our young clerks, and are overrun with applications at that rate. But I have heard good accounts of you, my boy. I shan't tell you where I had my information, though I see you look very curious. And, moreover, I like your countenance, and believe you will serve me faithfully. So if you will tell me what you've received from Mr. Bray, I will pay you the same next year, and after that, increase your salary, if I find you deserve it. And if you please, you shall commence with me the first of January. Willie thanked Mr. Clinton in the fewest possible words, and hastened away. The senior clerk, who, as he leaned over his accounts, listened to the conversation, thought the boy did not express much gratitude, considering the unusual generosity of the merchant's offer. But the merchant himself, who was watching the boy's countenance, while the spondency gave place to surprise, and surprise again was superseded by hope, joy, and a most sincere thankfulness, saw there a gratitude too deep to express itself in words, and remembered the time when he, too, the only son of his mother, and she, a widow, had come alone to the city, sought long for employment, and, finding it at last, had sat down to write and tell her how he hoped soon to earn enough for himself and her. The grass had been growing on that parent's grave, far back in the country, more than twenty years, and the merchant's face was furrowed with the lines of care. But as he returned slowly to his desk, and unconsciously traced on a blank sheet of paper, and with a dry pen, the words, Dear Mother, she for the time became a living image, he a boy again, and those invisible words were the commencement of the very letter that carried her the news of his good fortune. No, the boy was not ungrateful, or the merchant would not thus have been reminded of the time when his own heart had been so deeply stirred. And the spirits of those mothers, who have wept, prayed, and thanked God over similar communications from much-loved sons, may know how to rejoice and sympathize with good little Mrs. Sullivan when she heard from Willie the joyful tidings. Mr. Cooper and Gertie also have their prototypes, and many an old man, whose dim and world-worn eye lights up occasionally with the hope that, disappointed as he has been himself, he cannot help cherishing for his grandson, and in many a proud little sister, who now sees her noble brother appreciated by others, as he has always been by her. Nor on such an occasion is the band of rejoicing once complete, without some such hearty friend is true, to come in unexpectedly, tap the boy on the shoulder, and exclaim, Ah, Master Willie, they needn't have worried about you, need they? I've told your grandfather, more than once, that I was of the pinion to what all come out right at last. The great mystery of the whole matter was Mr. Clinton's ever having heard of Willie at all. Mrs. Sullivan thought over all her small circle of acquaintances, and suggested a great many impossible ways. But as with much conjecturing, they came no nearer to the truth. They finally concluded to do as Gertie did, set it all down to the agency of Santa Claus.