impress of a character wider and sweeter and riper than her own.
Insensibly, an admiration of her stepmother grew upon her. She saw her
courted by strangers for her beauty and grace; she saw her become a sort
of queen among the young people of the town; but she also saw--she could
not help seeing--that no tinge of vanity ever marred her reception of
this regard, and that no duty was ever left undone, no kindness ever
neglected, because of the pressure of the pleasantness of life. And
then--for a girl cannot but enjoy being made the most of--she gradually
realized that Mrs. Flint, in spite of coldness and discouragement, cared
for her rights, protected her pleasures, was ready to take pains that
Patty should have her share and her chance, should be and appear at her
best. It was something she had missed always,--the supervision and
loving watchfulness of a mother. Now it was hers; and, though she fought
against the conviction, it was sent to her.
In less than a year Patty had yielded unconditionally to the new
_regime_. She was a generous child at heart, and, her opposition once
conquered, she became fonder of her stepmother than all the rest put
together. Simply and thoroughly she gave herself up to be re-moulded
into a new pattern. Her standards changed; her narrow world of motives
and ideas expanded and enlarged, till from its confines she saw the
illimitable width of the whole universe. Sunshine lightened all her dark
places, and set her dormant capacities to growing. Such is the result,
at times, of one gracious, informing nature upon others.
Before her eighteenth birthday, the date which she had set in her first
ignorant revolt of soul for escape from an imaginary tyranny, the
stepmother she had so dreaded was become her best and most intimate
friend. It was on that very day that she made for the first time a full
confession of her foolishness.
"What a goose!--what a silly, bad thing I was!" she said. "I hated the
idea of you, Mamma. I said I never would like you, whatever you did; and
then I just went and fell in love with you!"
"You hid the hatred tolerably well, but I am happy to say that you don't
hide the love," said Mrs. Flint, with a smile.
"Hide it? I don't want to! I wonder what did make me behave so? Oh, I
know,--it was that absurd book! I wish people wouldn't write such
things, Mamma. When I'm quite grown up I mean to write a book myself,
and just tell everybody how different it really is, and that the nicest,
dearest, best things in the world, and the greatest blessings,
are--stepmothers."
"Blessings in disguise," said Mrs. Flint. "Well, Patty, I am afraid I
was pretty thoroughly disguised in the beginning; but if you consider me
a blessing now, it's all right."
"Oh, it's all just as right as it can be!" said Patty, fervently.
A GRANTED WISH.
This is a story about princesses and beggar-girls, hovels and palaces,
sweet things and sad things, fullness and scarcity. It is a simple story
enough, and mostly true. And as it touches so many and such different
extremes of human condition and human experience, it ought by good
rights to interest almost everybody; don't you think so?
Effie Wallis's great wish was to have a doll of her own. This was not a
very unreasonable wish for any little girl to feel, one would think, yet
there seemed as little likelihood of its being granted as that the moon
should come down out of the sky and offer itself to her as a plaything;
for Effie and her parents belonged to the very poorest of the London
poor, and how deep a poverty that is, only London knows.
We have poor people enough, and sin and suffering enough in our own
large cities, but I don't think the poorest of them are quite so badly
off as London's worst. Effie and her father and mother and her little
sister and her three brothers all lived in a single cellar-like room, in
the most squalid quarter of St. Giles. There was almost no furniture in
the room; in winter it was often fireless, in summer hot always, and
full of evil smells. Food was scanty, and sometimes wanting altogether,
for gin cost less than bread, and Effie's father was continuously drunk,
her mother not infrequently so. It was a miserable home and a wretched
family. The parents fought, the children cried and quarrelled, and the
parents beat them. As the boys grew bigger, they made haste to escape
into the streets, where all manner of evil was taught them. Jack, the
eldest, who was but just twelve, had twice been arrested, and sentenced
to a term of imprisonment for picking pockets. They were growing up to
be little thieves, young ruffians, and what chance for better things was
there in the squalid cellar and the comfortless life, and how little
chance of a doll for Effie, you will easily see. Poor doll-less Effie!
She was only six years old, and really a sweet little child. The grime
on her cheeks did not reach to her heart, which was as simple and
ignorant and innocent as that of white-clad children, whose mothers kiss
them, and whose faces are washed every day.
In all her life Effie had only seen one doll. It was a battered object,
with one leg gone, and only half a nose, but, to Effie's eyes, it was a
beauty and a treasure. This doll was the property of a little girl to
whom Effie had never dared to speak, she seemed to her so happy and
privileged, so far above herself, as she strutted up and down the alley
with other children, bearing the one-legged doll in her arms. It was not
the alley in which the Wallises lived, but a somewhat wider one into
which that opened. One of Effie's few pleasures was to creep away when
she could, and, crouched behind a post at the alley's foot, watch the
children playing there. No one thought of or noticed her. Once, when the
owner of the doll threw her on the ground for a moment and ran away,
Effie ventured to steal out and touch the wonderful creature with her
finger. It was only a touch, for the other children soon returned, and
Effie fled back to her hiding-place; but she never forgot it. Oh, if
only she could have a doll like that for her own, what happiness it
would be, she thought; but she never dared to mention the doll to her
mother, or to put the wish into words.
If any one had come in just then and told Effie that one day she was to
own a doll far more beautiful than the shabby treasure she so coveted,
and that the person to give it her would be the future Queen of
England,--why, first it would have been needful to explain to her what
the words meant, and then she certainly wouldn't have believed them.
What a wide, wide distance there seemed from the wretched alley where
the little, half-clad child crouched behind the post, to the sunny
palace where the fair princess, England's darling, sat surrounded by her
bright-faced children,--a distance too wide to bridge, as it would
appear; yet it was bridged, and there was a half-way point where both
could meet, as you will see. That half-way point was called "The Great
Ormond Street Child's Hospital."
For one day a very sad thing happened to Effie. Sent by her mother to
buy a quartern of gin, she was coming back with the jug in her hand,
when a half-tipsy man, reeling against her, threw her down just where a
flight of steps led to a lower street. She was picked up and carried
home, where for some days she lay in great pain, before a kind woman who
went about to read the Bible to the poor, found her out, and sent the
dispensary doctor to see her. He shook his head gravely after he had
examined her, and said her leg was badly broken, and ought to have been
seen to long before, and that there was no use trying to cure her there,
and she must be carried to the hospital. Mrs. Wallis made a great outcry
over this, for mothers are mothers, even when they are poor and drunken
and ignorant, and do not like to have their children taken away from
them; but in the end the doctor prevailed.
Effie hardly knew when they moved her, for the doctor had given her
something which made her sleep heavily and long. It was like a dream
when she at last opened her eyes, and found herself in a place which she
had never seen before,--a long, wide, airy room, with a double row of
narrow, white beds like the one in which she herself was, and in most of
the beds sick children lying. Bright colored pictures and texts painted
gaily in red and blue hung on the walls above the beds; some of the
counterpanes had pretty verses printed on them. Effie could not read,
but she liked to look at the texts, they were so bright. There were
flowers in pots and jars on the window-sills, and on some of the little
tables that stood beside the beds, and tiny chairs with rockers, in
which pale little boys and girls sat swinging to and fro. A great many
of them were playing with toys, and they all looked happy. An air of
fresh, cheerful neatness was over all the place, and altogether it was
so pleasant that for a long time Effie lay staring about her, and
speaking not a word. At last, in a faint little voice, she half
whispered, "Where is this?"
Faint as was the voice, some one heard it, and came at once to the
bedside. This somebody was a nice, sweet-faced, motherly looking woman,
dressed in the uniform of Miss Nightingale's nurses. She smiled so
kindly at Effie that Effie smiled feebly back.
"Where is this?" she asked again.
"This is a nice place where they take care of little children who are
ill, and make them well again," answered the nurse, brightly.
"Do you live here?" said Effie, after a pause, during which her large
eyes seemed to grow larger.
"Yes. My name is Nurse Johnstone, and I am _your_ nurse. You've had a
long sleep, haven't you, dear? Now you've waked up, would you like some
nice milk to drink?"
"Y-es," replied Effie, doubtfully. But when the milk came, she liked it
very much, it was so cool and rich and sweet. It was brought in a little
blue cup, and Effie drank it through a glass tube, because she must not
lift her head. There was a bit of white bread to eat besides, but Effie
did not care for that. She was drowsy still, and fell asleep as soon as
the last mouthful of milk was swallowed.
When she next waked, Nurse Johnstone was there again, with such a good
little cupful of hot broth for Effie to eat, and another slice of bread.
Effie's head was clearer now, and she felt much more like talking and
questioning. The ward was dark and still, only a shaded lamp here and
there showed the little ones asleep in their cots.
"This is a nice place I think," said Effie, as she slowly sipped the
soup.
"I'm glad you like it," said the nurse, "almost all children do."
"I like you, too," said Effie, with a contented sigh, "and _that_,"
pointing to the broth. She had not once asked after her mother; the
nurse noticed, and she drew her own inferences.
"Now," she said, after she had smoothed the bed clothes and Effie's
hair, and given the pillow a touch or two to make it easier, "now, it
would be nice if you would say one little Bible verse for me, and then
go to sleep again."
"A verse?" said Effie.
"Yes, a little Bible verse."
"Bible?" repeated Effie, in a puzzled tone.
"Yes, dear,--a Bible verse. Don't you know one?"
"No."
"But you've seen a Bible, surely."
Effie shook her head. "I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Why, you poor lamb," cried Nurse Johnstone, "I do believe you haven't!
Well, and in a Christian country, too! If that ain't too bad. I'll tell
you a verse this minute, you poor little thing, and to-morrow we'll see
if you can't learn it." Then, very slowly and reverently, she repeated,
"Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for
of such is the kingdom of Heaven." Twice she repeated the text, Effie
listening attentively to the strange, beautiful words; then she kissed
her for good-night, and moved away. Effie lay awake awhile saying the
verse over to herself. She had a good memory, and when she waked next
morning she found that she was able to say it quite perfectly.
That happened to be a Thursday, and Thursday was always a special day in
Great Ormond Street, because it was that on which the Princess of Wales
made her weekly visit to the hospital. Effie had never heard of a
princess, and had no idea what all the happy bustle meant, as nurses and
patients made ready for the coming guest. Nothing could be cleaner than
the ward in its every-day condition, but all little possible touches
were given to make it look its very best. Fresh flowers were put into
the jars, the little ones able to sit up, were made very neat, each
white bed was duly smoothed, and every face had a look as though
something pleasant was going to happen. Children easily catch the
contagion of cheerfulness, and Effie was insensibly cheered by seeing
other people so. She lay on her pillow, observing everything, and
faintly smiling, when the door opened, and in came a slender, beautiful
lady, wrapped in soft silks and laces, with two or three children beside
her. All the nurses began to courtesy, and the children to dimple and
twinkle at the sight of her. She walked straight to the middle of the
ward, then, lifting something up that all might see it, she said in a
clear sweet voice: "Isn't there some one of these little girls who can
say a pretty Bible verse for me? If there is, she shall have this."
What do you think "this" was? No other than a doll! A large, beautiful
creature of wax, with curly brown hair, blue eyes which could open and
shut, the reddest lips and pinkest cheeks ever seen, and a place,
somewhere about her middle, which, when pinched, made her utter a
squeaky sound like "Mama." This delightful doll had on a pretty blue
dress with a scarlet sash, and a pair of brown kid boots with real
buttons. She wore a little blue hat on top of her curly head, and
sported an actual pocket-handkerchief, three inches square, or so, on
which was written her name, "Dolly Varden." All the little ones stared
at her with dazzled eyes, but for a moment no one spoke. I suppose they
really were too surprised to speak, till suddenly a little hand went up,
and a small voice was heard from the far corner. The voice came from
Effie, too, and it was Effie herself who spoke.
"I can say a verse," said the small voice.
"Can you? That is nice. Say it, then," said the princess, turning toward
her.
Then the small, piping voice repeated, very slowly and distinctly, this
text: "Suffer the little children to come unto--_Nurse Johnstone_--and
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven!"
What a laugh rang through the ward then! The nurses laughed, the little
ones laughed too, though they did not distinctly understand at what.
Nurse Johnstone cried as well as laughed, and the princess was almost as
bad, for her eyes were dewy, though a smile was on her sweet lips as she
stepped forward and laid the doll in Effie's hands. Nurse Johnstone
eagerly explained: "I said 'Come unto Me,' and she thought it meant
_me_, poor little lamb, and it's a shame there should be such ignorance
in a Christian land!" All this time Effie was hugging her dolly in a
silent rapture. Her wish was granted, and wasn't it strange that it
should have been granted just _so_?
[Illustration: She stepped forward and laid the doll in Effie's
hands.--PAGE 282.]
Do you want to know more about little Effie? There isn't much more to
tell. All the kindness and care which she received in Great Ormond
Street could not make her well again. She had no constitution, the
doctors said, and no strength. She lived a good many weeks, however,
and they were the happiest weeks of her life, I think. Dolly Varden
was always beside her, and Dolly was clasped tight in her arms when
she finally fell asleep to waken up no more. Nurse Johnstone, who had
learned to love the little girl dearly, wanted to lay the doll in the
small coffin; but the other nurses said it would be a pity to do so.
There are so few dolls and so many children in the world, you know; so
in the end Dolly Varden was given to another little sick girl, who took
as much pleasure in her as Effie had done.
So Effie's wish was granted, though only for a little while. It is very
often so with wishes which we make in this world. But I am very sure
that Effie doesn't miss the dolly or anything else in the happy world
to which she has gone, and that the wishes granted there are granted
fully and forever, and more freely and abundantly than we who stay
behind can even guess.
THE END.
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Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation, spelling, hyphenation and language has been retained as
it appears in the original publication except as follows:
Page 8
the shoulder of his off horse _changed to_
the shoulder of his horse
Page 194
a "a boat;" men pulled off _changed to_
"a boat;" men pulled off
Page 270
it summer hot always, _changed to_
in summer hot always,
Page 283
dolly was clasped tight in her arms _changed to_
Dolly was clasped tight in her arms