next a boy of about his own age. "Never mind," she added, seeing a
flush rise to Jack's face, and guessing at once that he could not read,
"you can listen to the rest."
Each of the children read a verse in turn from the Gospel of St.
Matthew, and their father finished the chapter. Then all together sang
a couple of verses from a hymn to a familiar tune, and all kneeled down
while Mr. Bond prayed, every little voice joining in the Lord's Prayer
at the last. It was the first time Jack had ever seen family worship,
though he had heard of such a thing; and when in the course of the
prayer he heard himself alluded to in terms that he could not mistake,
his eyes filled, and he had hard work to keep from sobbing aloud.
"Come now, Sarah Anne, let's have breakfast," said Mrs. Bond, in the
same cheerful tones, after prayers were over. "I am rather behind, for
I was over at Mrs. Cox's till about three o'clock, and I slept too long
this morning."
"What took you over to Mrs. Cox's?" asked Mr. Bond. "I thought you said
you would never go into the house again."
"Neither I would, to visit," said Mrs. Bond, busily turning her cakes,
"because the last time I was there she showed me plainly that she
didn't want me, and of course I wouldn't visit where it was considered
an intrusion. But one of her children was taken with the croup, and she
thought he was going to die directly. So she sent the girl over for me,
and of course, under such circumstances, I went."
"Taking the bottle of goose-grease?" interrupted her husband, laughing.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bond, laughing in her turn. "That's my cure for
the croup, you know, and it answered a good purpose, for the boy was
relieved very soon. But she was so frightened, and so helpless, that I
did not like to leave her alone with him, till he seemed entirely out
of danger. You would be surprised to see how little presence of mind
she had. She did nothing but talk, and cry, and wring her hands, till I
was out of patience with her."
"I should not be surprised at all," replied Mr. Bond. "I should not
expect her to be good for much. She is too grand a talker for that.
But I am glad you were able to be of use to her. Now let us have our
breakfast, if it is ready."
There was much merry chat at the table between the children and their
parents, the uplifted finger of the mother serving as a check if any of
the little ones seemed likely to become too noisy.
Meantime, Tabby, seated near the fire, made her observations upon the
family, and compared them in her own mind with other groups of children
she had seen in her travels. They were all nicely but plainly dressed,
the girls in dark woollen or calico frocks, with white aprons, the
boys in coarse grey cloth, with here and there a patch on knee or
elbow. Mrs. Bond herself was as nice as any lady Tabby had ever seen,
in her dark calico frock, muslin cap, and plain white linen collar.
No slip-shod shoes, or stockings out at the heel, had a place in her
morning toilet; as she expressed it, she liked to be always fit to be
seen. Her table furniture was all cheap, but neat and well-matched, and
the brown cloth was without a stain.
Tabby thought of the Warringtons, where the beautiful French china and
shining silver of the breakfast table were surrounded by cross faces
and angry voices, and again of Mrs. Webster, with her cracked tea-cups
and battered tin-ware for her own family, and the fine china and glass
for company. And she decided that if she could not go home, she would
rather live here than in any family she had seen in her wanderings.
When breakfast was over, each child set about his or her several tasks,
with an alacrity and cheerfulness that showed they did not consider
work any hardship. The mother took up the baby, and dressed her by the
fire; Sarah Anne and Jenny put on their long checked pinafores, pinned
up their sleeves, and washed the dishes; Samuel cleaned the knives and
swept the front steps and side-walk, and Tom set himself about sawing
wood. A plate was set down for Tabby, who made a hearty breakfast, and
then began, after the custom of cats, to explore her new abode.
"Can't I help you to do that?" said Jack, going into the shed where Tom
was at work. "I know how to saw wood. Suppose you let me saw while you
split."
"You may do so," returned Tom, resigning the saw and taking up the axe.
"I should like to get it all done to-day if I can, for school begins
again to-morrow, and then I shall not have so much time."
"Do you go to school?" said Jack. "I wish 'I' did."
When two boys are at work together, it does not generally take them
very long to become acquainted. Before the wood was finished and piled
up, and the chips disposed of, they had learned all of each other's
history from first to last, and made their own reflections thereon.
Jack had made up his mind to be a good boy at any rate, and try to get
such an education as should enable him to make his way in the world;
while Tom secretly came to the conclusion that he had not valued his
advantages as highly as they deserved, and resolved that he would never
again complain of being kept in school all the term, and not allowed to
be in the street of an evening, which he had sometimes thought rather a
hard case.
Meantime, Mr. Bond had been holding a consultation with his wife,
as to what was to be done with Jack, in whom he felt more and more
interested, the more closely he observed him. Mrs. Bond thought it
rather a pity the boy should go to the House of Refuge, and believed
some place might be provided, where he could have a home and be out of
harm's way, without submitting to quite so severe a rule. Mr. Bond, on
his part, considered that Jack took the right view of the case.
"You have not seen so much of these street children as I have," he
remarked. "They get so much attached to their wandering way of life,
miserable as it seems, that it appears almost impossible to give it
up. This boy has probably many bad habits, which it will take some
time, and very likely some pains, to cure. He will be well off there
as far as food and clothes are concerned, and out of the way of bad
associates, and at the same time he will be learning what will be
useful to him afterwards."
"He seems inclined to work," said Mrs. Bond. "See how much he is
engaged about helping Tom with the wood."
"True; he works well, but you must remember that it is a new thing to
him, and hard labour will seem very different after the novelty is worn
off and it becomes an every day matter. You know it is much easier to
work for one day or two than for a month or a year."
"That's true," assented Mrs. Bond. She sat thinking a few moments,
while her fingers were busily engaged upon the shoe she was binding. "I
think if I were you, husband," she added after a little, "I would go
and consult Mr. Merriam. You know he has had a great deal of experience
in such matters, and he is one of the Governors of the House of Refuge.
I think he will be able to tell you what is the best course to take."
Mr. Bond thought this a very good idea, and acted upon it at once,
first exacting a promise from Jack, that he would not leave the
premises till his return. Jack gave the required pledge very readily,
for he felt in no hurry to leave a place where he had been so
kindly treated. Tabby, for her part, felt in a tremor of undefined
expectation. She had heard Mr. Bond say where he was going, and she
could not help hoping that it would in some way come to pass that she
should be returned to her home.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
CONCLUSION.
WHEN Mr. Bond arrived at Mr. Merriam's, the family were at breakfast,
and he was invited into the dining-room. He knew Mr. and Mrs. Merriam
well, having often had business with them relating to street children,
for whom they were much interested, and Sarah Anne and the little girls
were in the same class in Sunday-school.
"Will you take a cup of coffee, Mr. Bond?" asked Mrs. Merriam kindly.
"This is a cold morning."
Mr. Bond thanked her, but declined upon the ground of having just risen
from the breakfast table, and then entered upon the subject of his
errand, to which the little girls listened with as much attention as
their parents, for they had been early accustomed to take an interest
in whatever concerned the welfare of poor people and their children,
and Ella and Marian had their own little girl, as they called her, a
little coloured orphan at the Home for the Friendless, for whom they
made clothes, and sometimes bought playthings.
"It is a singular case," said Mr. Merriam, as Mr. Bond concluded his
story. "I never met with one exactly like it in all my experience.
Certainly the boy's resolution shows a great deal of strength of
character."
"Especially as he knows what to expect," remarked Miss Fanny. "Mr. Bond
says he has talked with a boy who has been in the house, so that he
understands that it is a place of strict discipline and hard labour."
"That seems to be just what attracts him," replied Mr. Bond. "He says
very honestly that he is not a good boy, and that he knows he will be
likely to get into mischief if left without superintendence."
"What do you think of his appearance?" inquired Mrs. Merriam. "You are
pretty well accustomed to judge of such cases."
"I like his looks very well," replied Mr. Bond. "He looks one straight
in the face when he speaks, which is a very good sign, and he seems
ready enough to take hold of any work that comes along. I left him
helping my son to saw and split wood, and working very hard, though,
of course, there is no knowing how long it will last. One little thing
which happened last night gave me a good idea of his disposition—" And
he proceeded to relate the story of his saving the kitten, to which the
children listened with much interest.
"What sort of kitten was it?" asked Ella, as the account was concluded.
"Why, I am not learned about cats," replied Mr. Bond, smiling, "but I
believe I heard my little girls call it a tabby, or tortoise-shell."
Ella and Marian looked at each other, and Ella gave a little jump in
her chair, as she was apt to do under any excitement.
"O mamma! Perhaps it is our very own kitten."
"That is not very likely," said Mrs. Merriam. "Poor Tabby's troubles
are probably all at an end long before this time."
"But it might be, mamma—it is possible," argued Ella. "You know kittens
live through a great deal, and Tabby had so much spirit."
And the two little girls began to overwhelm Mr. Bond with inquiries
about the kitten's ears, feet, and tail,—questions which he could not
answer very minutely, being more accustomed to observe the outward
appearance of vagrants than of cats.
"But I will tell you what you can do," he said good-naturedly, seeing
how much the children were interested, "you can go down to my house,
and see the kitten, and if it turns out to be yours, you can bring it
home. I think that will be the best way to manage."
"May we, mamma?" asked both the children at once.
"You know you have the double-gown to finish for little Chloe," said
Mrs. Merriam. "You were going to take it to her to-day, and she really
needs it very much, for Mrs. S. tells me she is not able to sit up a
great deal now."
"But that will not take long, mamma, and we will sit right down to it
as soon as we have finished our work. Then we can carry it to her after
dinner, you know, and come home by the way of Mr. Bond's. It is only a
very little bit farther."
The kind mother consented to this arrangement, and Mr. Bond took his
leave, promising to bring Jack Fletcher to Mr. Merriam's office in the
course of the morning.
No sooner was breakfast over, and their daily task of sweeping and
dusting completed, than Ella and Marian sat down to finish the
double-gown. And though they were both reasonably good seamstresses for
their years, their little fingers never flew faster than now.
"Oh! If it should be our own precious darling kitten, how glad I should
be!" said Ella. "I wish we knew for certain, for you know in a city
like this there may be a great many tabby cats besides ours."
"We won't tell the old cat anything about it till we are sure," said
Marian considerately; "and then she won't be disappointed. I wonder if
she will be glad to see her again?"
"To be sure she will," returned Ella rather indignantly. "You don't
suppose she is going to forget her own kitten in a week, do you? How
glad I shall be to see them all together at play again! O you dear
little Tody! You don't know what a nice New Year's present you are
going to have perhaps—"
And Ella suspended her work for a moment to hug Tody who had just that
moment come in, and wondered what in the world his little mistress
could mean. However, he was used to her ways, and did not trouble
himself much about the matter. But as soon as he was released went to
chasing a spool into the corners, and pretending it was a rat, while
Ella worked with renewed diligence to make up for the moment she had
lost.
The garment was finished before dinner, and neatly folded into a bundle
with two pairs of warm stockings which Mrs. Merriam had found time to
knit, and sundry playthings old and new, all destined for the little
orphan.
The wind was cold, and drifted the snow in little clouds round the
corners of the streets and into the faces of the little girls as they
went on their errand, but they were warmly wrapped up, and their hearts
were too full of joyous and kindly thoughts to care if their noses
did smart a little. Merrily they proceeded on their way, laughing and
talking, and stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with a
companion or school-mate.
"Oh, there is Dora Warrington across the street," exclaimed Marian, as
they turned a corner, "let us go over and ask how Agnes is."
Dora was thin and pale, but she had a pleasanter expression than when
we last saw her, though she looked sad and subdued.
"She is better," she said in answer to Ella's inquiries about her
sister, "but we do not think her out of danger yet. She has some very
bad turns, and whenever she is out of her mind, she is always talking
about that kitten. I suppose you have not heard anything of her, have
you?"
"We don't know," replied Marian. "We have heard of a tortoise-shell
kitten that was found last night, and we are going now to see if it is
the same. Mother thinks Tabby must be dead by this time, but I cannot
help hoping we shall find her after all."
"I hope you will," said Dora. "I have always felt very sorry about it,
and so has Agnes, I know. I don't see what possessed her to do such a
spiteful thing, though, to be sure, I have been just as bad myself. I
hope we shall both be better girls after this: I am sure we have had
a lesson. But, girls, if you do find her, will you come round by our
house, and let us know? Agnes will be so relieved."
The girls promised to do so, and went on their way.
"How thin Dora is!" remarked Ella. "She looks as though she had been
sick herself."
"She stays with Agnes a great deal," said Marian, "and runs to wait on
her mother." She was silent a few moments, and then added abruptly,
"Ella, are you not glad that Mrs. Warrington is not our mother?"
"Yes, indeed," said Ella heartily. "I should not like her at all. She
is so idle. But, Marian," she added, correcting herself, "you know
mother does not like us to talk about the faults of older people."
"I should not object to having Miss Barbara for a sister," said Marian.
"I like her very much."
"Surely there will be greater harmony between Agnes and Dora after
this," remarked Ella. "Dora seems changed a good deal, and it must make
a difference in the family having Theresa there. How neat she is, and
she goes about so nicely with her little crutch. Mother says she never
saw any grown person more useful in a sickroom than Theresa was that
night they sat up with Agnes. She seemed to know just what was wanted
before it was asked for, and she was never in the way. I should like to
be just like her when I am as old."
"You would not like to be lame," said Marian.
"Of course not; I mean like her in disposition. And after all, she
does not seem to mind her lameness much. She is almost always in good
spirits."
Thus chatting, they beguiled the length of the road, and reached the
Home for the Friendless. They found little Chloe very glad to see them,
much delighted with the new clothes, and still more with a large linen
doll which the girls had covered and painted over, till it was as good
as new, or better.
Chloe had been found by some kind ladies in an alley in one of the
worst parts of the city, not seeming to belong to anybody, but handed
about from one to another among the wretched people who lived there,
sometimes getting something to eat, and sometimes not, as it happened,
often cold and hungry, and always miserable. They took her to the Home,
where she was washed and dressed, and tended as carefully as any lady's
child, but it was too late to save her. Her constitution was destroyed
by the hardships she had undergone, and all they could do for her was
to make the last hours of her short life as happy as possible. And very
happy poor Chloe was. She could not play much herself, but she liked to
watch the frolics of the other children, and as she never cried or was
cross, she was a pet and favourite with every one in the Institution.
Even Ella and Marian, inexperienced though they were, could see a great
alteration in their little friend's appearance since they had last
visited her, and it was with rather saddened hearts that they bade her
good-bye, thinking that they might very possibly never see her again.
They turned down the street which led to Mr. Bond's, and walked on
almost in silence, till they found themselves perplexed, not being
quite sure about the number of the house.
"This is a nice-looking place," said Ella as they passed a neat and
somewhat ornamented dwelling. "Perhaps the people will know where the
Bonds live. Let us ring and ask."
Mrs. Cox herself came to the door, and immediately recognised the
children, whom she had often seen in church with their parents. Ella
politely asked her if she could tell them where Mr. Bond lived.
"Mr. Bond!" repeated Mrs. Cox in surprise. "You don't mean Bond the
policeman, do you?"
"Yes, ma'am, he is a policeman. Does he live near here?"
"He lives in that white house just across the street," replied Mrs.
Cox. "Did your mother send you there?"
Ella felt the impertinence of the question, and coloured a little, but
she answered politely, "Yes, ma'am; we never go anywhere she does not
let us."
And before Mrs. Cox could frame another question, the little girls were
gone.
"Well, if that isn't curious," said Mrs. Cox to herself. "I should like
to know their mother's object in sending them to Mrs. Bond's. Something
about poor people, I daresay."
She stood and watched them as they crossed the street, and to her
amazement, she saw Sarah Anne run out to meet the sisters, kiss them,
and draw them into the house, with every sign of affectionate and
long-standing acquaintance.
"Well, if ever! I should like to see Sarah Bond kiss one of 'my'
children like that. It is all very well to be kind to poor people, but
I must say I think something is due to one's social position. I don't
believe in being so friendly with everybody, just because one happens
to go to church with them. I daresay it was all Mrs. Merriam's doings
that Mrs. Bond was made a society visitor. But I am determined to find
out what those children are after, some way or other." With which
praiseworthy resolution she turned into the house, finding it too cold
to stand at the door with the thermometer at zero, even when engaged in
the engrossing pursuit of watching her neighbours and their visitors.
Meantime, the children had been hospitably received and seated by
the fire, and their furs and overshoes taken off, lest, as Mrs. Bond
expressed it, they should not feel the benefit of them when they went
out.
A pale and poorly dressed girl was sitting in the corner, whom the
sisters did not recognise till Mrs. Bond said: "Don't you know Polly
Webster? I believe she is in your class at Sunday-school."
"Why, Polly," said Ella, at once getting up to kiss her, "how odd that
we should not know you! But we are used to seeing you with your bonnet
on. I suppose that must be the reason."
Poor Polly well knew what was the reason. She had never seen the
sisters except when she was "dressed up," as her mother called it,
in a silk or merino frock, and a handsome and expensive bonnet and
cloak, and now she was dressed in the same old and faded blue dress in
which she was first introduced to our readers, and which her mother
had thought good enough to run in to see Sarah Bond, as long as she
went the back way so that Mrs. Cox did not see her. She was too much
mortified to finish her visit, but soon slipped out, and went home more
annoyed and out of patience than ever.
The girls looked eagerly around the room, but no kitten was to be seen.
"Your father told us he had found a tortoise-shell kitten," said Ella
to Sarah, speaking as usual both for herself and her sister; "and as we
have lost one, mother said we might come and see if it was the same."
"To be sure," said Mrs. Bond. "I shouldn't wonder if it was. You go and
get her, Sarah. Our old cat quarrelled with her," she explained, as
Sarah went upstairs, "and so the girls shut her up in their room till
we found out about her, for Mr. Bond said you were coming down to see
her some time to-day. Be quick, Sarah!"
But Sarah had no need to hurry. Tabby had heard the well-known voices,
and was mewing and scratching at the door in an agony of impatience.
No sooner was it opened than she made almost one leap from the top of
the stairs to the bottom, and was in Ella's lap before Sarah could come
down again. No words could have more plainly expressed her joy than did
Tabby's movements. She went from one to the other, purring, rubbing her
head, and rolling over, and doing everything that a cat could do, to
express her delight at seeing them again.
"It is our very own dear little kitty," said Ella, examining her all
over, as if to make sure of the fact, and almost crying for joy. "O you
dear little naughty Tabby! How glad I am to see you again, and how glad
your mother will be!"
"She is just as much pleased to see you," remarked Mrs. Bond, enjoying
the delight of the little girls. "She is a real pretty kitten, and as
cunning as ever I saw one. I don't wonder you were sorry to lose her.
Do you want to carry her home yourselves, or shall I send Tom up with
her? I am sure he will go cheerfully."
Tom at once professed his willingness, but the little girls declared
they would not, upon any account, lose the pleasure of taking her home.
So Mrs. Bond provided a snug basket with a cover and handle, which they
could conveniently carry between them.
"But you must not go just yet," she said, as she saw them look round
for their capes. "Stay and rest a little." She went into the pantry as
she spoke, and presently returned with a plate of bread and butter, and
another containing a beautiful piece of white honeycomb. "You must eat
some bread and honey before you go," said she. "The honey is from our
own bees, and I am sure your walk has made you hungry."
The girls were in a great hurry to get home, but they thought it would
not be polite to refuse what Mrs. Bond had taken so much pains to
provide for them. So they sat down to the table, and found, as Mrs.
Bond had said, that the walk had given them an appetite. Tabby, who
kept close to her mistress, was also provided with a saucer of milk,
that she might not go away hungry. They had a very pleasant little
visit, and after inviting Sarah Anne to come and see them, and thanking
her for her care of the kitten, they took their leave.
Mrs. Cox, watching from her dining-room window, saw them issue from
the policeman's gate, bearing a covered basket between them, and now
and then stopping to peep through the chinks of the basket, as though
highly delighted with the contents. But with the nature of its contents
Mrs. Cox was destined never to become acquainted. Mrs. Webster, to whom
she looked for a solution of the mystery, was taken severely ill that
afternoon and continued so for several weeks, and by the time she was
well enough to talk, Mrs. Cox was so much occupied with her own and her
neighbour's house-cleaning and papering that the affair of the basket
passed out of her mind, and so it chanced that she never found out
after all what it was that took Mrs. Merriam's girls to Mrs. Bond's,
nor what they carried away with them.