Tis a shame!” said Mrs. Fogg, as she hurried away after the funeral of
Mrs. Grant, escaping from the poor, desolate room, where two children,
hardly more than babes, were sleeping, unconscious that they were
motherless. “’Tis a shame that nobody’ll take them.”
“Yes--a bitter shame!” replied a neighbor, who was also getting off as
fast as she could, so as to shift the responsibility onto some other
shoulders.
“There’s Mrs. Grove. She might take them as well as not. But they’ll go
to the poorhouse, for all she cares.”
“Well, somebody’ll have to answer for it,” said Mrs. Fogg. “As for me,
I’ve got young ones enough of my own.”
“We left Mrs. Cole in the room. She has only one child, and her husband
is well to do. I can’t believe she’ll have the heart to turn away from
them.”
“She’s got the heart for anything. But we’ll see.”
Mrs. Cole did turn away from the sleeping babes, sighing very loud,
that others might hear and give her credit for a sympathy and concern
she did not feel.
At last all were gone--all but a man named John Wheaton, and a poor
woman, not able to take care of herself.
“What’s to become of these children?” questioned Mr. Wheaton.
“Don’t know. Poorhouse, I s’pose,” answered the woman.
“Poorhouse?”
“Yes, nobody wants them, and there’s no other place for them.”
“Mamma! mamma!” cried a plaintive voice, and a flaxen-haired child, not
more than two year old, rose up in the bed and looked piteously about
the room. “I want my mamma!”
A great, choking sob came into the man’s throat. Then the other child
awoke:--
“Don’t cry, sissy--mamma’s gone away.” At this, the little one began
crying bitterly.
“I can’t stand this nohow!” exclaimed the man; and going to the bed, he
gathered the two children into his arms, hushing and comforting them
with soothing words....
“What on earth have you got there?” exclaimed Mrs. Wheaton as her
husband came striding into the room where she sat mending one of his
well-worn garments.
“Two babies!” he answered, in a voice so unusual that Mrs. Wheaton
dropped her work on the floor and rose up in amazement.
“What?”
[Illustration]
“Mrs. Grant’s two babies. I’ve been over to the funeral, and I tell
you, Jane, it wasn’t in me to see those two little things carted off
to the almshouse. There wasn’t a woman to look after them, no, not
one. Every soul sneaked off but Polly Jones, and she’s of no account
you know. Just look at their dear little faces!” And John Wheaton held
them up in his arms, and let their tender, tearful, half-frightened,
half-wondering eyes plead their own cause with his wife, and they did
not plead in vain.
Surprised as she was, and with an instant’s protest in her heart, Mrs.
Wheaton could not, in the presence of these motherless little ones,
utter a word of remonstrance.
She took the youngest one from the arms of her husband and spoke to it
tenderly. The child sobbed two or three times, and then laid its head
against her bosom.
There was an ocean of mother-love in the heart of this woman, who
had never been a mother, the instant her breast felt the pressure of
the baby’s head, and the arm that drew it closer with an involuntary
impulse, was moved by this new love.
Not many words passed between the husband and wife--at least, not
then--though thought was very busy with both of them.
Mrs. Wheaton’s manner toward the children was kind even to tenderness;
and this manner won their confidence and drew from them such little
expressions of satisfaction as touched her heart and filled it with
loving interest.
After nightfall when supper was over and the children asleep, Mr. and
Mrs. Wheaton sat down together, each showing a little reserve and
embarrassment. Mrs. Wheaton was the first to speak.
“What were you thinking about, John?” she said, almost sharply. “I
can’t have these children.”
John Wheaton did not lift his eyes or reply, but there was a certain
dogged and resolute air about him that his wife noticed as unusual.
“Somebody else must take them,” she continued.
“The county?” replied her husband, testily.
“Yes. There’s room for them at the almshouse, and no where else that I
know of, unless they stay here.
“Unless they stay here,” she repeated. Mrs. Wheaton’s voice rose a
little. “It’s easy enough to say that, but who is to care for them?”
“It’s a great undertaking, I know,” answered the husband, meekly, yet
with a new quality in his voice that did not escape the quick ear of
his wife, “and the burden must fall on you.”
“I wouldn’t mind that so much, but--”
She kept back the sentence that was on her tongue.
“But what?” asked her husband.
“John,” said Mrs. Wheaton, drawing herself up in a resolute manner, and
looking steadily in her husband’s face, “as things are going on--”
“Things shall go on differently,” interrupted Wheaton. “I’ve thought it
all over.”
“How differently, John?”
“Oh! in every way I’ll turn over a new leaf.”
John Wheaton saw a light flash into his wife’s face.
“First and foremost, I’m not going to lose any more days. Last month I
had six days docked from my wages.”
“Why, John!”
“It’s true--more’s the shame for me. That was eighteen dollars, you
see, not counting the money I fooled away with idle company--enough to
pay for all these babies would eat and wear, twice over.”
“Oh, John!” There was something eager and hopeful in his wife’s face as
she leaned toward him.
“I’m in downright earnest, Jane,” he answered. “If you’ll take the
babies, I’ll do my part. I’ll turn over a new leaf. There shall be no
more lost days; no more foolish wasting of money; no more spending of
evenings at McBride’s.”
“Oh, John!” In her surprise and delight she could only repeat the
exclamation. As she did so, she rose, and putting her hands on his
shoulders, bend and kissed him on the forehead.
[Illustration: “_OH, JOHN_”]
“You’ll take the babies?” said he.
“Yes, and twenty more, if you keep to this, and stay so,” answered
Jane, laughing through her tears.
“All right, then, it’s a bargain,” and John Wheaton caught his wife’s
hand and shook it by way of confirmation.
From that time Mr. Wheaton turned over a new leaf. Neighbors expressed
surprise when it was known that John and Jane Wheaton had adopted
the two orphan children. Fellow workmen taunted John, calling him a
soft-hearted fool, for “taking other men’s brats.”
One said to him, “Are four mouths easier to fill than two?” Another,
“You’ll be sick of this before the year’s out.” Another, “I’ll see you
sold out by the constable in less than six months.”
But John had little to say in reply, only maintaining an air of quiet
good humor and showing more interest in his work.
For three weeks John Wheaton had not lost a day--something very
unusual; and not one evening during that time had he spent at McBride’s
saloon.
His poor little house, which had come to have a neglected look, was
putting on a new appearance. The gate that for months had hobbled on
one hinge, now swung smoothly, and the mended latch held it shut. Rank
weeds no longer filled the dooryard. The broken steps were mended, and
clean panes of glass filled many places in the sash where had been
unsightly rags and sheets of paper.
Within, pleasant changes were also apparent. Various new but
inexpensive pieces of furniture were to be found. Old things were
mended, polished up, and wonderfully improved. With all of this,
marvellous to relate, Wheaton’s earnings had not only been equal to the
increased expenditures, but there was an actual surplus of ten dollars
in hand.
“I never would have believed it,” said John, as he and his wife sat one
evening talking over their improved condition, after the babies--loved
now almost as if their own--were asleep.
“It’s just as old Brown used to say, ‘Waste takes more than want.’ I
declare I’ve got heart in me again. I thought we should have to let the
place go; that I’d never be able to pay off the mortgage. But here we
are, ten dollars ahead in less than a month; and going on at this rate,
we’ll have the home clear in about eighteen months.
[Illustration: _Beautifying the Home_]
“By the way, Jane, have you noticed how that pretty running rose, that
we have trained over the doorway,--the one that used to look so forlorn
and neglected,--is already beginning to push out its young leaves and
buds? It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Oh, I’m so glad we shall be able to
keep the old home!”
Next day a fellow workman said to John Wheaton, half in banter, “Didn’t
I see the constable down your way yesterday?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Wheaton, with more gravity of manner than
his questioner had expected.
“I thought I saw him looking around after things, and counting his fees
on his fingers.”
“Likely as not,” replied Mr. Wheaton. “I know of a good many rents
not paid up last quarter. Money gone to McBride’s instead of the
landlord--eh?”
The man winced a little.
“How are the babies?” he asked.
“First rate,” Mr. Wheaton answered, with a smile so real that his
fellow workman could not continue his banter.
Time went on, and to the surprise of all, John Wheaton’s circumstances
kept improving. The babies had brought a blessing to his home. In less
than eighteen months, he had paid off the mortgage that for years had
rested on his little home; and not only this, he had improved it in
various ways, even to putting up a small addition, so as to give them a
neat breakfast room.
The children grew finely,--there were three of them now,--for their
hearts and home had opened to another orphan baby. The three little
ones were carefully trained by Mrs. Wheaton, and had become the light
and joy of the household.
* * * * *
Five years have passed away. John Wheaton is a master workman and
employs ten men. He has enlarged his house, and made it one of the
neatest in the village.
[Illustration: “_I guess we’ll have to take a baby or two._”]
Among his men is the very one who bantered him the most about the
children and prophesied that he would soon be sold out by the
constable. Poor man! it was not long before the constable had him in
charge. He had wasted his money at McBride’s, instead of paying it to
the landlord.
Walking home one evening after his work was done, John Wheaton and his
journeyman took the same way. They were silent until they came near the
former’s pretty dwelling, when the journeyman said, half in jest, yet
with undisguised bitterness, “I guess we’ll have to take a baby or two.”
“Why?”
“For good luck,” the other one replied.
“Oh!”
“You’ve had nothing but good luck ever since you took Mrs. Grant’s
orphan children.”
“Only such good luck as any one may have, if he will,” answered Wheaton.
“I can’t see it,” returned the other somewhat bitterly. “Your wages
were no better than mine. I had one child, and you saddled yourself
with two, and not long afterward added a third. And how is it to-day?
You have a nice house, and your wife and children are well dressed,
while I have never been able to make ends meet, and my boy looks like a
ragamuffin half the time.”
“Do you see that house over there--the largest and handsomest in the
place?” asked Wheaton.
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
“Jimmy McBride.”
“How much did you pay toward the building of it?”
“Me?” in surprise.
“Yes, you. How much did you pay toward the building of it?”
“Why, nothing. Why should I help pay for his house?”
“Sure enough! Why should your hard earnings go to build and furnish an
elegant house for a man who would rather sell liquor, and so ruin his
neighbors, body and soul, than support himself in a useful calling, as
you and I are trying to do?”
“I can’t see what you’re driving at,” replied his companion.
“How much do you spend at McBride’s saloon every week?”
The man stood still with a blank look on his face.
“A dollar a week?” asked Mr. Wheaton.
“Yes.”
“Say a dollar and a half?”
“Well, say as much.”
“Do you know what that amounts to in a year?”
“Never counted it up.”
“Seventy-eight dollars.”
“No!”
“Yes, to a dollar. So, in five years, at this rate, you have
contributed nearly four hundred dollars toward McBride’s handsome
house, without getting anything but harm in return, and haven’t a
shingle over your head that you can call your own.
“Now it’s my advice, in a friendly way, that you stop helping McBride
and begin to help yourself. He’s comfortable enough, and can do
without your dollar and a half a week. Take a baby, for good luck, as
you call it, if you will. You’ll find one over at the poorhouse; it
won’t cost you half as much as helping McBride, and I don’t think he
needs your aid any longer. But here we are at home, and I see my wife
and children waiting for me. Come in, won’t you?”
[Illustration]
“No, thank you. I’ll go home and talk to Ellen about taking a baby for
good luck.”