Chapter V: Part 5

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Mrs. Brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this silence, which piqued and disappointed Gracie. The child could not understand what the mother guessed at,--the sense of isolation which tormented Ruthy. She was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. She had been injured by an accident for which these people in some wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and gave her this glimpse of heaven. But they were of the chosen people, and she a Gentile, an outcast at their gates. If she could but go away from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into the still wood, she should be happy. Who knew what she might not find there,--love, may be, and friends, and home,--perhaps, even, the father and mother who, as old Sally said, were dead? Who knew?

One day Mrs. Brierly came in to sit with her. Ruthy could sit up now, and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. The lady saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,--

"I think you must like pictures very much, Ruthy?"

The olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont was.

"I don't know, ma'am; I have never seen any. I like this one. It is the country; isn't it?"

Mrs. Brierly smiled.

"Yes; it is the country as Gifford, the man who made the picture, saw it. Country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and paradise to others. I think _you_ could find Gifford's country, Ruthy."

The girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. That was just what she meant to do; but she was silent. Soon Mrs. Brierly asked,--

"Do you remember your father and mother, Ruthy? I think they must have been very different people from old Sally."

"Yes, ma'am, I remember my mother. Father died so long ago I have forgotten all about him, and mother and I grew poorer and poorer, until one day I woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and I had both had a fever, and she was dead. Then Sally took me and sent me out to beg, until I wouldn't beg any more; and since then I've sold matches and swept crossings, and done any thing else I could. My wrist is getting so I can use it now, and I must go to work again. I am very thankful to you, ma'am. I would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. But to-morrow I shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go to work, and I will, please, ma'am."

"These are your own clothes that you have on, Ruthy, your very own. And here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet are your shawl and hat. You must not go away yet, till you are much stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own."

"My very own!" It was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's quivering lips. Her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her cheeks. Mrs. Brierly got up and went away. She had never heard Ruthy speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself any more, now. And Ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought.

The next morning rose bright and clear,--a summer morning, which had slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the last week in April. Nurse Morris went first into Ruthy's room, and found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. She called the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, and asked if she had seen any one go out. No one, the girl said, but she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with Katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it.

Mrs. Morris went next to Mrs. Brierly with her tale, and Mrs. Briefly came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. The hat and shawl she had put in the closet for Ruthy were gone, but the changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great capital letters,--

"I AM GOING TO FIND THE COUNTRY. I DID NOT TELL, FOR FEAR I WOULD
NOT BE LET TO GO. GOD BLESS YOU, MA'AM, I'M VERY THANKFUL."

It seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. No one could guess in what direction she had gone. Tender-hearted little Gracie cried over her departure; Mrs. Brierly felt very anxious and uneasy, but they could only wait. And it was three days before any news came. It was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. A market-man stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs.

"Did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?"

"Yes, on Tuesday morning. Can you tell me any thing of her?"

"Well, you see, I get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get things ready for market, and Wednesday morning I found a girl lying in a dead faint on my barn floor. I called my wife, and we brought her to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'Mrs. Brierly's, No. 775 Tremont Street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to be got out of her. She just kept saying over something about finding the country, and 'it ain't there.'

"I had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she jest called to him. He said it was brain fever; and she don't get any better; and wife said I'd better stop at 775, and if there was a Mrs. Brierly here, why, I could let her know. We live at Highville, about fifteen miles from Boston; and if you ask for Job Smith's you'll find my house."

So poor little Ruthy had walked all those lonesome miles to find the country that Gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, and who knew what more?

That day Mrs. Brierly drove out there, and took Nurse Morris with her; Ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length Mrs. Brierly drove sadly away, leaving Nurse Morris behind to care for the sick child, as busy Mrs. Job Smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do.

And after a while the fever wore itself out, and Ruthy, a white wraith of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the country Gifford saw was hanging on the wall. But the days went by, and the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, and Ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no stronger.

"Do get well, Ruthy," loving little Gracie used to say, "and we'll take you to find the country." But Ruthy would shake her head with a slow, mournful motion, and answer,--

"No use, Miss Gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere else."

And by and by they began to know that Ruthy would never go where pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. Sorrow and privation and weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. But Ruthy was very happy. The unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the country was all over. She had tried her experiment, and found out, as she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly winding ways, and she was content to watch it as Gifford painted it, and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched.

One night when Gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up at Mrs. Brierly.

"How beautiful God can make children, ma'am. I think they'll _all_ be so, in the true country." Then reaching forward she took Mrs. Brierly's hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips.

"Oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good."

The next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter than ever. She would never speak again to tell her disappointment or her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her young, wistful mouth, and Mrs. Brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss Gracie's tears away, and said,--

"Do not cry, my darling,--I think, at last, Ruthy has found the true country."

JOB GOLDING'S CHRISTMAS.

It was very strange, thought old Job Golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. He had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. He was through with his day's work,--he had dined comfortably,--he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December afternoon,--for the 24th of December it was. He was all ready to enjoy himself. How singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done,--even as his day's work was all done now,--when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. How curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him.

His dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! He could see her moving round the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into God's haven. She had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. He seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever.

He recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. She _was_ a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. She wanted--missed without knowing what the lack was--the love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. But, as soon as she grew old enough to understand how useless it was, _she_ had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. Did she have tastes, he wondered--wants, longings? She never told him.

But suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. He remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,--

"Father, do you know any thing against Harry Church?"

"Yes," he had answered wrathfully; "I know that he is as poor as Job was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife."

"Any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye.

"No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors will never open to you again, never."

He met with a will as strong as his own that time. She _did_ marry Harry Church, and went away with him from her father's house. She had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. He wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. He wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. Harry Church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only--poor. In that word lay the head and front of his offending. He, Job Golding, was rich,--had been rich all his lifetime,--but what special thing had riches done for him? He was an old man now, and all alone. "All alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity.

And all this time a message was on its way to him.

He heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. Meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. Her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,--a dainty, delicate creature,--her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. The housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face.

"Miss Amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "It is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here."

"You are Mrs. Osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her.

"Hear the blessed lamb! Who in this world told you there _was_ a Mrs. Osgood?"

"Mamma. You loved mamma, didn't you? She said you were always so kind to her."

"Loved your ma? Well, I _did_ love her. The old house has never been the same since she went out of it."

"Then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? That is what mamma said I was to do."

Mrs. Osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over fear, and she said,--

"Yes, you shall. Heaven forbid I should hinder you! Go right upstairs and open the first door."

The man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone.

She opened the door softly, and went in. She did not speak; perhaps the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. She just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. He took it, scarcely noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange messenger. He looked at the outside. It was his daughter's writing. Ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this one,--what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? It was not long, but it commenced with "Dear father." He had never been a dear father to her, he thought.

She had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. They had passed these ten years in the West, and Heaven had prospered them. Her husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his love,--wanted only that death should not come between them, and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the other.

"Let _her_ lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their youth's brightness,--let them plead with you to be reconciled to her child. Surely, you will not turn away from the messenger I send,--your own grandchild."

The messenger,--he had forgotten about her. He turned and she was standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. He looked at her, and saw her father's broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of her mother's smile. His grandchild--his! His heart throbbed chokingly. He grew hungry to clasp her,--to feel her soft arms clinging round his neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from his face. But he feared to startle her. He tried to speak gently,--he, to whom gentleness was so new and strange.

"Come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. "Can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?"

"I am eight, grandpapa, and my name is Amy."

Another Amy! He felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he choked them back.

"What have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. Could it be possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him?

"They always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; and if I were good they would fetch me to see you some day. And every night I say in my prayers, 'God bless papa and mamma, and God bless grandpapa.'"

"Why _didn't_ they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?"

"Mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. They are waiting at the hotel, and John is down-stairs. They want you to come back with me. Will you, grandpapa?"

Mrs. Osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put on his overcoat,--came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden hair floating beside him. Was that old Job Golding?

He stepped into the carriage in which careful Mistress Amy had sent her messenger. The horses did not go fast enough. He would have been in a fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. Through it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,--whether he were his own old self, or some one else.

At last they were there, and the child led him in,--up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,--until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,--

"Mamma, here's grandpapa."

His head swam. He was fain to sit down, and there were his own Amy's arms about his neck. Why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? He held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:--

"Father, are we reconciled at last?"

"I don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me."

"There need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "You went according to your own light. It is enough that God has brought us together again in peace. I thought that no one could resist my little Amy, least of all her grandpapa."

He looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He put out his arms and drew her into them, close--where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. He felt her clinging hold round his neck,--her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he--_was_ it himself, or another soul in his place?

"Here, father," Amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are Harry and the boys waiting to speak to you."

He shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. Then he looked at the boys,--six-years-old Hal, three-years-old Geordie,--brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,--his first-found grandchild.

He sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. He did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. When, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,--there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them.

"To-morrow is Christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully.

"All the better. If Christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. Come round to dinner,--three o'clock sharp,--and bring all the boxes with you. That will give you time to pack up, and Mrs. Osgood time to get your rooms ready."

"Boxes and boys,--won't they be too much for you, father?"

"When they are I'll tell you,"--with a last touch of the old gruffness.

Then he went out on the street, and began looking for Christmas gifts. It was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. It was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. So he perambulated the streets like a bewildered Santa Claus,--and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,--with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections.

He called Mrs. Osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,--

"Mrs. Osgood, I hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. My daughter, Mrs. Church, is coming home with her husband and children, and I want the best Christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three."

Mrs. Osgood had always loved Miss Amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. So her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,--a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards.

Amy, and Amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,--what a jubilant party they were! And among them all Job Golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,--a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. No one else saw _her_, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,--the Christmas anthem,--

"Peace on earth and good will toward men."

MY COMFORTER.

I got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. He had been singing all day, till it seemed to me I could not bear it any longer. That morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never be any better. She was liable, he said, to die at any time. At the longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. And my mother was all I had in the world.

My father had been dead a year. In his lifetime we had lived in a pleasant country home. He had been employed in the county bank, and we had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. I had been sent to school, and learned a little French, a little music, and something of art. I had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. Indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,--tastes which suited a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. This was unwise, perhaps. People said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and left us with no property and no dependence save our home.

It was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because I fancied I could find more openings for employment, that I persuaded mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to New York. She was willing enough to do this. I think that it was a relief to her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her life among them so blessed. She fancied, perhaps, that when she was among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear away. But with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of pain. She was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible.

Our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand dollars, and with this sum we went to New York. In spite of my mourning for my father I had the elasticity of youth, and I did not make this removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth.

We went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. We expected to use two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then I hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching upon the principal. I might have succeeded, perhaps,--for I was not long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,--if, when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun seriously to decline. I think she made an effort to live on, after all the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and by she grew weary and gave up the struggle.

Of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. I would have for her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that I could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. So we were gradually going behindhand all the time. This had troubled me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. There would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after that I could not bring myself to think. I would have shuddered at the thought of self-destruction, but I believe the prayer was in my mind, every moment in the day, that God would let me care for her till the end, and then lie down and die beside her. So I carried back the work I had from Richmond's and La Pierre's, and spent all my time with her,--my darling.

Often when I tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and I would turn away to hide the sudden rush of tears. It was on Wednesday the doctor had told me what I must expect; and up to Saturday night I had kept it from her, trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. That night I sat beside her in the twilight. She was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, and I on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. We had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each other no longer. At last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and sweet,--

"Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
Beyond the watching and the weeping,
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
I shall be soon."

Then she put out her hand and touched my wet face.

"Do not grieve, my darling," she said,--oh, how tenderly,--"because I am going home. The only pang I feel is for you, and it will not be long before you come."

"It may be years," I said, bitterly. "I am young and strong. Oh, I wish I wasn't,--if God would only take me too, and not make me stay in this great, empty world without you!"

"I think, darling, He will send you a comforter."

"Oh, I am not so bad that I do not want His Spirit. I do believe; I do try to follow the dear Lord; but I want a human comforter,--something to see and feel,--tender lips, gentle fingers. The flesh is so weak."

"And I meant a human comforter. I believe He will send you one in His own time and way,--when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in helping some one still more desolate."

"As if that could be. O, mother, when you are gone there won't be in the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine."

"People always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like their sorrow, until God teaches them better, either by making their own burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. God grant it may be this last with you, Bessie."

"But is there no hope, mother?" I said, with a wild longing for a little of the comfort a doubt would give.

"I think none. Dr. West told you so Wednesday, did he not? and you have been trying to keep it from me,--as if I could not read it in your face, every time you looked at me."

All reserve broke down then. I was in her arms, sobbing and crying on her bosom; I that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge any more for ever.

The doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. She lived four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with me a long, long time. At last she said she was tired, and would go to sleep. Then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle face toward the wall. She awoke again in another world than ours. But by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face I knew that her soul had departed in peace. It was a smile that made her young and fair again, as the mother I remembered away back in my childhood.

Oh, what a desolate funeral that was! I had no friends near enough to give them any claim to be sent for, and I wanted no one. I made all the arrangements myself, and the third day I buried my dead. I remember the minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. But I was deaf with sorrow. I made no answer, and presently he turned away. I don't know how long I stood there. After a while my driver came up, touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,--

"Would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically I went toward the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. So I went back to the desolate room where she had died.

Some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, but I would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as when I went away. The days which followed were sad and evil. My soul rose in revolt. I asked why I, of all others, should be so set apart by sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. For a whole week I had been thus mutinous. I had seen in my God no Father, but an Avenger. All the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. I passed through the very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil did battle for my soul; until at last I slept, one night, and dreamed of mother, for the first time since she died. In the dream she seemed beside me, but not as of old. A spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "I think, darling, the Father will send you a comforter."

I woke refreshed, as I had not been before by any slumber. The voice of my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. I began to have faith. I remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter was to come. But when and where should I find some one more desolate than myself to help? At any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, an idler in the vineyard. I must go to work.

I put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. If I could get my old work from the trimming stores, I could earn enough now to take care of myself, and keep what money I had left as surety against the proverbial rainy day. I made my way first to Richmond's. As I went in I noticed a little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. One sees such objects of charity often enough in New York. I doubt if this one would have attracted me but for her singular beauty. She had the fairest skin I ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. It was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. I noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while I stood a few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. I followed the universal example as I went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush crimsoned the sensitive little face.

I made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, and down the street to La Pierre's. When I came back, half an hour later, the child was still sitting there; and I looked at her again, wondering anew at her delicate beauty. Then a thrill of compassion warmed my heart for the poor little waif. It was a cold day in the autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her occupation. I went up to her and spoke to her.

"What is your name?"

"Jennie Green."

"Whose little girl are you?"

"Nobody's, ma'am."

Oh, perhaps I should not have understood the wail of sadness in those words if I, too, had not been nobody's girl.

"Have you no friends?" I asked, putting my question in a new form.

"No, ma'am. Mother died last spring, and I've had no friends since."

"But you live somewhere?"

"Oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she takes the money I get to pay for my keeping."

"Do you like to live with her?" I pursued, getting strangely interested.

A quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,--

"Oh, no, no!"

A sudden impulse moved me. I beckoned to a policeman who stood near by watching us.

"Do you know any thing of this child?" I inquired.

"Not much. She seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. A woman brings her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back after her toward night. I've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes."

"That woman is no relation to her," I said, "only a person in the house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her, I suppose. Would it be against any law if I took her home with me, without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? Could that woman claim her again?"

The policeman whistled, by which token proving himself Yankee born, and considered a moment. Then he answered, deliberately,--

"No, it ain't agin no law, as I knows of. I don't think the woman would dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb you. All I'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?"

"I have no folks," I said, with the old sadness rising up and choking me. "Will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?"

I had given my direction without at all consulting the child. When he was gone for the hack I went up to her and asked her if she would go home with me, and have it for her home.

"Do you mean me to leave Mrs. McGuire?" she cried, with wide eyes.

"Yes, if you want to."

"And not--not come out for money any more?"

"Not, please God, while I have strength to work for us both."

"Oh, I do want to go, I do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. And then she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and stood there waiting.

"Oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "It's almost time for Mrs. McGuire." Just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, and I carried my poor little foundling home.

* * * * *

Yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and I lived over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. I laid my head on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation which swept over me. And as I lay there crying I heard gentle footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,--

"Oh, can't I comfort you, Miss Bessie? Can't I do any thing for you, now you've made my life all new and bright?"

And I opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, bright-haired girl, and realized that God indeed had sent me my comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when I forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate.

I should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring the child home, had I been less utterly alone in the world. But I have never regretted it. I found that her parents had brought her up in the fear of God, and all the rude and rough associations, which had worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled her innate purity. My care and tenderness have made of her all I hoped. Dr. West's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. She helps me at my tasks, and for her sake I have recalled my old pencil craft, and here I foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and some day I fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my comforter.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.

_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._

BED-TIME STORIES.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.

Square 16mo. Price $1.50.

"Mrs. Moulton's 'Bed-time Stories' are tender and loving, as
the last thoughts of the day should be. They are told simply
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courage. 'What Jess Cotrell did,' and 'Paying off Jane,' are
perhaps the best; although 'Mr. Turk, and what became of him,'
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"It is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read
these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted
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"Very delicately and prettily are these stories for children
told.... Children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will
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told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_The
London Bookseller._

_In Preparation._

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