PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.
It was one pleasant evening in April that Gerty, 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 bedewed with tears.
She was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, 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, Gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome,
when I've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening.
Mother and grandfather are gone out, and when I come to look for you,
you're crying so I can't see your face for tears. Come, come! _do_ leave
off; you don't know how you look!"
"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 Gerty.
"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?"
"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
Gerty; and everything that happens all the week, I think to myself--I
shall tell Gerty that."
"I shouldn't think you'd like me so well."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because you're so handsome, and I an't handsome a bit. I heard
Ellen Chase tell Lucretia Davis, the other day, that she thought Gerty
Flint was the worst-looking girl in the school."
"Then she ought to be ashamed of herself," said Willie, "I guess she
an't very good-looking. I should hate the looks of _her_ or any _other_
girl that said that."
"Oh, Willie!" exclaimed Gerty, "it's true."
"No, it an't _true_," said Willie. "To be sure, you haven't got long
curls, and a round face, and blue eyes, like Belle Clinton's, and
nobody'd think of setting you up for a beauty; but when you've been
running, and have rosy cheeks, and your great black eyes shine, and you
laugh so heartily, I often think you're the brightest-looking girl I
ever saw in my life: and I don't care what other folks think, as long as
I like your looks. I feel just as bad when you cry, or anything's the
matter with you, as if it were myself, and worse."
Such professions of affection by Willie were frequent, and always
responded to by a like declaration from Gerty. Nor were they mere
professions. The two children loved each other dearly. 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 Gerty did not forget her blind friend, she
passed a most happy summer, and made such progress in her studies at
school that, when Emily returned in October, she could hardly understand
how so much had been accomplished in so short a time.
Miss Graham's kindly feeling towards her little _protege_ had increased
by time and absence, and Gerty's visits to Emily became more frequent
than ever. The profit derived from these visits was not all on Gerty's
part. Emily had, during the previous winter, heard her read
occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency; now she had
discovered that the little girl had attained to a much greater degree of
excellence. She read understandingly, and her accent and intonations
were so admirable that Emily found rare pleasure in listening to her.
For the child's benefit, and for her own gratification, she proposed
that Gerty should come every day and read to her for an hour. Gerty was
only too happy to oblige her dear Miss Emily, who, in making the
proposal, represented it as a personal favour to herself, and a plan by
which Gerty's eyes could serve for them both. It was agreed that when
True started on his lamplighting expeditions he should take Gerty to Mr.
Graham's, and call for her on his return. Thus Gerty was 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 effected in six months,
if an hour is devoted to it each day. Emily, in her choice of books, did
not confine herself to such as came strictly within a child's
comprehension. She judged that a girl of such keen intelligence as Gerty
was naturally endowed with would be benefited by what was beyond her
comprehension; but that, in the 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 Gerty at an age
when most children's literary pursuits are confined to stories and
pictures. The child gave the preference to this comparatively solid
reading; and, aided by Emily's explanations, she stored up in her mind
much useful information.
From the time Gerty was first admitted until she was twelve years old,
she attended the public schools, and was rapidly 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 was very fond
of study, and was delighted at Gerty's participation in his favourite
pursuit. They were a great advantage to each other, for each found
encouragement in the other's sympathy and co-operation. After the first
year or two of their acquaintance, Willie was in his fifteenth year,
and beginning to look quite manly. But Gerty's eagerness for knowledge
had all the more influence upon him; for if the little girl of ten years
was patient and willing to labour at her books until after nine o'clock,
the youth of fifteen must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. When
they had reached these ages, they began to study French together.
Willie's former teacher continued to feel a kindly interest in the boy
who had long 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 labours previous to the public exhibition. Finding that
Willie had much spare time, he advised him to learn the French language,
which would prove useful to him--and offered 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
came into True's room, partly for the sake of quiet and partly for the
sake of being with Gerty, who was at the time occupied with her books.
Gerty had a strong desire to learn French too. Willie wished her to try,
but thought she would not persevere. But to his surprise, she discovered
a wonderful determination, and a decided talent for language; and as
Emily furnished her with books like 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 had always had a fine study-time
together, True would sit on his old settle watching Willie and Gerty
side by side, at the table, with their eyes bent on the page, which to
him seemed a labyrinth. Gerty looked out the words with great skill,
her bright eyes diving, as if by magic, into the dictionary, and
transfixing the right word at a glance, while Willie's province was to
make sense. Almost the only occasion when True disturbed them was when
he heard Willie talk about making sense. "Making sense, Willie!" said
the old man; "is that what ye're after? Well, you couldn't do a better
business. I'll warrant you a market for it; there's want enough on't in
the world!"
It was but natural that, 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 the 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 her self-imposed trust, her high
resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of the little
ignorant one? Has Gerty 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 turns aside, and, impatient of the narrow way, gives the rein
to her old irritability, she is yet but a child, and there is a
foundation for hopefulness in the sincerity of her good intentions, and
the depth of her contrition when wrong has had the mastery. Emily has
taught her where to place her strong reliance, and Gerty looks to higher
aid than Emily's, and she leans on a mightier arm.
How much Gerty 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 over-joyed, while Mrs. Sullivan, and even old Mr. Cooper, declared
she had improved wonderfully in her behaviour and her looks.