IN WHICH HARRY BREAKFASTS ON DOUGHNUTS, AND FINDS THAT ANGELS DO NOT
ALWAYS HAVE WINGS
Harry was very hungry, and the little girl thought he would never have
eaten enough. Since he had told her he had run away, she was deeply
interested in him, and had a hundred questions to ask; but she did not
wish to bother him while he was eating, he was so deeply absorbed in
the occupation.
"What a blessed thing doughnuts are!" laughed she, as Harry leveled on
the sixth cake. "I never thought much of them before, but I never
shall see a doughnut again without thinking of you."
Our hero was perfectly willing to believe that doughnuts were a very
beneficent institution; but just then he was too busily occupied to be
sentimental over them.
"What is your name, little girl?" asked Harry as he crammed half of
the cake into his mouth.
"I have a great mind not to tell you, because you wouldn't tell me
what yours is," replied she, roguishly.
"You see how it is with me. I have run away from--well, from
somewhere."
"And you are afraid I will tell? I won't though. But, as you killed
the snake, I shall tell you. My name is Julia Bryant."
"Mine is Harry West," replied he, unable to resist the little lady's
argument. "You must not tell any one about me for three days, for then
I shall be out of the way."
"Where are you going, Harry?"
"To Boston."
"Are you? They say that none but bad boys run away. I hope you are not
a bad boy." And Julia glanced earnestly at the fugitive.
"I don't think I am."
"I don't think you are, either."
It was a hearty endorsement, and Harry's heart warmed as she spoke.
The little maiden was not more than nine or ten years old, but she
seemed to have some skill in reading faces; at least, Harry thought
she had. Whatever might be said of himself, he was sure she was a good
girl. In short, though Harry had never read a novel in his life, she
was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as
to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious
something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a
special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her
basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile.
There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face.
It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and
ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry
thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words
which constituted her beauty.
"I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will
tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself."
"You will tell me all of it--won't you?"
"To be sure I will," replied Harry, a little tartly, for he
misapprehended Julia's meaning.
He thought she was afraid he would not tell his wrong acts; whereas
her deep interest in him rendered her anxious to have the whole, even
to the smallest particulars.
"I shall be so delighted! I do so love to hear a good story!"
exclaimed Julia.
"You shall have it all; but where were you going? It will take me a
good while."
"I was going to carry these doughnuts to Mrs. Lane. She is a poor
widow, who lives over the back lane. She has five children, and has
very hard work to get along. I carry something to her every week."
"Then you are a little angel!" added Harry, who could understand and
appreciate kindness to the poor.
"Not exactly an angel, though Mrs. Lane says I am," replied Julia,
with a blush.
"Aunty Gray, over to the poorhouse, used to call everybody an angel
that brought her anything good. So I am sure you must be one."
"Never mind what I am now. I am dying to hear your story," interposed
Julia, as she seated herself on another rock, near that occupied by
Harry.
"Here goes, then"; and Harry proceeded with his tale, commencing back
beyond his remembrance with the traditionary history which had been
communicated to him by Mr. Nason and the paupers.
When he came to the period of authentic history, or that which was
stored up in his memory, he grew eloquent, and the narrative glowed
with the living fire of the hero. Julia was quite as much interested
as Desdemona in the story of the swarthy Moor. His "round, unvarnished
tale," adorned only with the flowers of youthful simplicity, enchained
her attention, and she "loved him for the dangers he had passed;"
loved him, not as Desdemona loved, but as a child loves. She was sure
now that he was not a bad boy; that even a good boy might do such a
thing as run away from cruel and exacting guardians.
"What a strange story, Harry! How near you came to being drowned in
the river! I wonder the man had not killed you! And then they wanted
to send you to prison for setting the barn afire!" exclaimed Julia,
when he had finished the story.
"I came pretty near it; that's a fact!" replied Harry, warming under
the approbation of his partial auditor.
"And you killed the big dog?"
"I don't know; I hope I didn't."
"But you didn't steal the horse?"
"I didn't mean to steal him."
"No one could call that stealing. But what are you going to do next,
Harry?"
"I am going to Boston."
"What will you do when you get there?"
"I can go to work."
"You are not big enough to work much."
"I can do a good deal."
For some time longer they discussed Harry's story, and Julia regretted
the necessity of leaving him to do her errand at Mrs. Lane's. She
promised to see him when she returned, and Harry walked down to the
brook to get a drink, while she continued on her way.
Our hero was deeply interested in the little girl. Like the "great
guns" in the novels, he was sure she was no ordinary character. He was
fully satisfied in relation to the providential nature of their
meeting. She had been sent by that incomprehensible something to
furnish him with food, and he trembled when he thought what might have
happened if she had not come.
"I can't be a very bad boy," thought he, "or she would not have liked
me. Mr. Nason used to say he could tell an ugly horse by the looks of
his eye; and the schoolmaster last winter picked out all the bad boys
at a glance. I can't be a very bad boy, or she would have found me
out. I _know_ I am not a bad boy. I feel right, and try to do right."
Harry's investigation invested Julia Bryant with a thousand poetical
excellences. That she felt an interest in him--one so good as she--was
enough to confirm all the noble resolutions he had made, and give him
strength to keep them; and as he seated himself by the brook, he
thought over his faults, and renewed his determination to uproot them
from his character. His meeting with the "little angel," as he chose
to regard her, was an oasis in the desert--a place where his moral
nature could drink the pure waters of life.
No one had ever before seemed to care much whether he was a good boy
or a bad boy. The minister used now and then to give him a dry
lecture; but he did not seem to feel any real interest in him. He was
minister, and of course he must preach; not that he cared whether a
pauper boy was a saint or a sinner, but only to do the work he was
hired to do, and earn his money.
Julia did not preach. Her sweet face was the "beauty of holiness." She
hoped he was not a bad boy. She liked a good boy; and this was
incentive enough to incur a lifetime of trial and self-sacrifice.
Harry was an orphan. To have one feel an interest in his moral
welfare, to have one wish him to be a good boy, had not grown stale by
long continuance. He had known no anxious mother, who wished him to be
good, who would weep when he did wrong. The sympathy of the little
angel touched a sensitive chord in his heart and soul, and he felt
that he should go forward in the great pilgrimage of life with a new
desire to be true to himself, and true to her who had inspired his
reverence.
Even a child cannot be good without having it felt by others. "She
hoped he was not a bad boy," were the words of the little angel; and
before she returned from her errand of mercy, he repeated them to
himself a hundred times. They were a talisman to him, and he was sure
he should never be a bad boy in the face of such a wish.
He wandered about the woods for two or three hours, impatient for the
return of the little rural goddess who had taken possession of his
thoughts, and filled his soul with admiration. She came at last, and
glad was the welcome which he gave her.
"I have been thinking of you ever since I left you," said Julia, as
she approached the place where he had been waiting her return.
Harry thought this was a remarkable coincidence. He had been thinking
of her also.
"I hope you didn't think of me as a bad boy," replied he, giving
expression to that which was uppermost in his mind.
"I am sure I didn't. I am sure you must be a good boy."
"I am glad you think so; and that will help me be a good boy."
"Will it?"
"I never had any one to care whether I was good or bad. If you do, you
will be the first one."
The little girl looked sad. She had a father and mother who loved her,
and prayed for her every day. It seemed hard that poor Harry should
have no mother to love him as her mother loved her; to watch over him
day and night, to take care of him when he was sick, and, above all,
to teach him to be good. She pitied the lonely orphan, and would
gladly have taken him to her happy home, and shared with him all she
had, even the love of her mother.
"Poor boy!" she sighed. "But I have been thinking of something," she
added, in more sprightly tones.
"What, Julia?"
"If you would only let me tell my father that you are here--"
"Not for the world!" cried Harry.
"O, I won't say a word, unless you give me leave; but my father is
rich. He owns a great factory and a great farm. He has lots of men to
work for him; and my father is a very good man, too. People will do as
he wants them to do, and if you will let me tell him your story, he
will go over to Redfield and make them let you stay at our house. You
shall be my brother then, and we can do lots of things together. Do
let me tell him."
"I don't think it would be safe. I know Squire Walker wouldn't let me
go to any place where they would use me well."
"What a horrible man he must be!"
"No; I think I will go on to Boston."
"You will have a very hard time of it."
"No matter for that."
"They may catch you."
"If they do, I shall try again."
"If they do catch you, will you let my father know it? He will be your
friend, for my friends are his friends."
"I will. I should be very glad to have such a friend."
"There is our dinner bell!" said Julia, as Harry heard the distant
sound. "I must go home. How I wish you were going with me!"
"I wish I was. I may never see you again," added Harry, sadly.
"O, you must see me again! When you get big you must come to
Rockville."
"You will not wish to see the little poorhouse boy, then."
"Won't I? I shall always be glad to see the boy that killed that
snake! But I shall come up after dinner, and bring you something to
eat. Do let me tell mother you are here."
"I would rather you wouldn't."
"Suppose she asks me what I am going to do with the dinner I shall
bring you? I can't tell a lie."
"Don't bring any, then. I would rather not have any dinner than have
_you_ tell a lie."
Harry would not always have been so nice about a lie; but for the
little angel to tell a falsehood, why, it seemed like mud on a white
counterpane.
"I won't tell a lie, but you shall have your dinner. I suppose I must
go now."
Harry watched the retreating form of his kind friend, till she
disappeared beyond the curve of the path, and his blessing went with
her.