"She was a lovely little ladye,
With blue eyes beaming sunnily;
And loved to carry charity
To the abodes of misery."
There was a tiny bark floating down the flower-bordered river that wound
so gracefully through the beautiful village of Wimbledon, and a smiling
little lady, in a neat gingham sun-bonnet, sat coseyly in the stern,
beneath the shady wing of the snow-white sail. A noble-looking lad plied
the oar with graceful ease, chatting merrily the while with the little
girl, and laughing at her constant and matronly care of a large basket
which was placed beside her, neatly covered with a snowy napkin. "One
would think that there were diamonds in that basket, Nell, you guard it
so carefully," said he.
"No, only nice pies mother gave me leave to take to Aunt Dilly Danforth,
the poor washerwoman," returned the little miss, again smoothing the
napkin and adjusting the basket in a new position. "I wish you would row
as carefully as you can, Neddie, so as not to jostle them much."
"So I will, sis," returned he; "let's sing the Boatman's Song as we glide
along." And their voices rose on the calm summer air clear and sweet as
the morning song of birds. Now and then their light barge touched the
shore, and Ned plucked flowers to twine in Ellen's hair. O, that ever,
down life's uncertain tide, these innocent young spirits might float as
calmly, happily on to the broad ocean of eternity!
"Is that the old shanty where Dilly lives?" said the lad at length,
pointing to a low black house, just beyond a clump of brushwood, which
they were swiftly approaching.
"Yes," said Ellen, gathering up her basket.
"Here I must lose you, then," said Ned; "how I wish you would go fishing
with me down to the cove!"
Ellen smiled. "Are you going to be all alone, Neddie?" asked she.
"Nobody but Charlie Seaton will be with me. You like him."
"Yes, I like him well enough," said Ellen, innocently; "but I would not
care to go a-fishing with him."
"Why not, sis?" inquired Ned.
"Because it would not be pretty for a little girl to go fishing with
boys."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the lad; "what a prudent little sis I have got! for all
the world like Amy Seaton. But I like Jenny Andrews better, she is so
full of fun and frolic. Did you know how she and Charlie Seaton robbed
old Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, one night not long since?"
"O, no! robbed her? That was wrong, surely."
"O, no! You see she nearly starved them, so they helped themselves to her
sweetmeats without invitation. That's all; not very wicked, I'm thinking,
Nell."
"I think it was wicked for her not to give them enough food, and wicked
for them to take it without her knowledge," said Ellen, after a pause.
"But what did she say when she discovered her loss?"
"Not a word. What could she say?" asked Ned.
"I could not guess, and therefore inquired," said Ellen. "Will Jenny come
to school next term?"
"Yes, Jenny, Amy and Charlie, and board at Dea. Allen's. That will be a
good place; only I fancy the deacon's long prayers and sober phiz will
prove a sad trial to Jenny. Well, you must go, sis," said he, pushing his
boat high up on the green, grassy bank, by a few skilful strokes of his
oar. Then assisting her out and placing the precious basket safely in her
arms, he was soon gliding down the smooth current again. Ellen directed
her steps toward the dilapidated dwelling a few yards before her, turning
frequently to catch a glimpse of her brother's little bark as it came in
view through some opening in the shrubbery that grew on the river's side.
One timid rap brought Willie Danforth to the door. The poor boy looked
quite embarrassed to behold pretty, neat Ellen Williams standing there on
the miserable, dirty threshold. "Good day, Willie," said she, pleasantly;
"is your mother at home?"
"No, miss, she is scrubbing floors at Mr. Pimble's," said Willie,
awkwardly enough.
"O, I am sorry she is gone, for I wanted to see her very much. Will you
let me come in and leave this basket for her?"
"O, yes!" answered the poor lad, "or I will carry it in for you."
"I can carry it very well," said Ellen, "if you will only let me go in."
"I would let you come in, Miss Ellen," returned Willie, "only I am afraid
it would frighten you to see such a sad, dirty place;" and the ragged
little fellow blushed crimson, as he thus revealed his poverty and
destitution.
Ellen pitied his embarrassment, and said, "I should like to go in,
Willie, because, if I saw what you needed, I could tell mother, and she
would make you more comfortable, I know."
The boy lifted the wooden latch of the inner room. The door opened with a
dismal creak, and Ellen entered. There was one old, broken-backed chair,
which he offered her, and sat down himself on a rough bench, with a
sorrowful, embarrassed expression on his pale, interesting features.
Ellen, still noticing Willie's painful confusion, knew not what to do
after placing her basket on the rude, wooden table, and began to regret
that she so strongly pressed an entrance.
"I told you you would be frightened," said the boy at length, in a
choking tone.
"O, I am not frightened!" returned Ellen, glad to speak now that he had
opened the way for her; "I am only sorry to find people living so
forlornly in our pretty, happy village. I thought you had a good nice
house to live in, for Mrs. Pimble said so, and that her husband rented it
to you for almost nothing, and that your mother--but I won't say any
more," said Ellen, stopping short in her discourse.
"Yes," said Willie, "tell me all she said, and then I will tell you
something."
"Well, then, she said your mother only went out washing to make folks
think she was needy, so they would give her food and clothing. 'Twas
wicked for her to say it, surely."
Willie's face grew pale as death, and then flushed crimson to the
temples.
"Don't look so," said Ellen, approaching the bench and putting her little
hand on his hot cheeks. "O, Willie! you are sick and tired," she
continued, soothingly; "will you not lay your head down on my lap, and
tell me all about your troubles?"
Willie's full heart overflowed. Those accents of kindness, so strange to
his ears, what a magic power they had! He leaned his dear bright head on
her soft little palm, and his low voice told in broken accents a tale of
want and suffering. Ellen wept, for her young heart was full of
tenderness and sympathy. The hours sped on, while they thus held
converse, till a hand on the latch aroused them. 'Twas Dilly returned
from her day's work at Mr. Pimble's. Willie sprang up to meet her. "O,
mother!" said he, "a sweet angel has come since you left me, this
morning, crying because I was so hungry."
"Alas, my boy!" said the woman, "I fear you must still go hungry, for I
have brought you nothing. Mr. Pimble says my week's work must go for
rent."
Now was Ellen's moment of joy, as she bounded across the broken floor and
lifted the napkin from her basket. "No, no, Willie,--no, no, Aunt Dilly,
you shall not go hungry to bed to-night. Look what mother has sent you!
How thoughtless of me not to have remembered my basket before, when
Willie has been suffering from hunger all these long, long hours!"
"O, no! I have not thought of being hungry since you came," said the boy.
Mrs. Danforth approached the basket and gazed on its contents with
tearful eyes. She had not seen the like on her table for many a day, and,
dropping on her knees, she breathed a silent prayer to God for his
goodness in putting it into the hearts of his children to remember her in
her need! Willie brought forth a small bundle of sticks and lighted a
fire, while Ellen ran and filled a black, broken-nosed tea-kettle, and
hung it on a hook over the blaze. It soon began to sing merrily, and the
children laughed and said it had caught some of their happiness. Then
Ellen took some tea from the paper her mother had wrapped so nicely, put
it in a cracked blue bowl, and Willie fixed a bed of coals for her to set
it on. Dilly sat all the while gazing with tearful eyes on the two
beaming faces which were constantly turned up to hers, to see if she gave
her approval to their movements. At length the repast was prepared, and,
after partaking with them, as Mrs. Danforth insisted upon her doing,
Ellen set out for home, with Willie by her side. He hesitated some at
first, when his mother told him he must accompany her, for his jacket was
ragged and his shoes out at the toes. But when Ellen said so
reproachfully he was "too bad, too bad, to make her go all the way home
alone," he brightened, and said "he would be very glad to go with her if
she would not be ashamed of him." So they set out together, each holding
a handle of the basket; Ellen bidding Aunt Dilly a cordial good-by, and
promising to come soon again and bring her mother. They met Mr. Pimble on
their way, who scowled and passed by in silence.
Ellen found her mother anxiously waiting her return. She heard with
pleasure and interest her little daughter's animated description of her
visit; but when she said she had promised to visit Aunt Dilly soon again,
and take her mother with her, Mrs. Williams looked sad.
"What makes you look so, dear mamma?" said Ellen; "will you not go and
see poor Dilly?"
"I shall be very glad to do so, my dear child," answered the fond mother,
"if it is possible. You know your father has often wished to remove to a
place where his skill in architecture might be employed to better
advantage, and an excellent opportunity now offers for him to dispose of
his situation here, and remove to a large city, where his services will
be in constant demand."
"And I shall never see Willie Danforth again," said Ellen, bursting into
tears.
Childhood is so simple and unaffected, ever expressing with innocent
confidence its dearest thought, and claiming sympathy! Mrs. Williams
tried long to comfort her little daughter, and at length succeeded by
holding out a prospect that she might some time return and visit her
early associates. Ned was consoled by the same prospect. But then, we
never know, when we leave a place, what changes may occur ere we revisit
its now familiar scenes. Mrs. Williams felt this truth more vividly than
her children. But few changes had marked their sunny years, and it never
occurred to their youthful minds but what Wimbledon as she was to-night
would be exactly the same should they return five or ten years hence. The
mother did not disturb this pleasant illusion, "for experience comes
quite soon enough to young hearts," she said, "and I'll not force her
unwelcome lessons upon my happy children." So Ned and Ellen, when it was
decided they should leave on the morrow, almost forgot the pangs of
departure from their rich, beautiful home, so intently were they dwelling
on the joy of returning and meeting their schoolmates and companions
after a period of separation. O, gay, light-hearted youth! What is there
in all life's after years, its gaudy pomp, its feverish flame, or
short-lived honors, that can atone for the loss of thy buoyant hopes, and
simple, trusting faith?
Sad was poor Dilly Danforth when she heard of the sudden departure of the
benevolent Williams family, and bitterly she exclaimed, "No good thing is
long vouchsafed the poor. Our poverty will only seem the darker now for
having been brightened for a transient hour."
Willie, who had returned from his walk with Ellen with severe pains in
his limbs and head, fell sick of a rheumatic fever, and suffered much for
the want of warm clothing, care and medical treatment. O, how often he
thought of Ellen! "If she were there he would not suffer thus. She would
be warmth, care, clothing and physician for him."
His mother was obliged to labor every day to procure fuel for the fire;
and to warm the great, cold room, where the piercing autumn blasts blew
through wide gaping cracks and chasms, and get a bottle of wormwood
occasionally, with which to bathe his aching limbs, was the utmost her
efforts could accomplish. With this insufficient care, 'twas no wonder
Willie grew rapidly worse. One bitter cold night Dilly sat down utterly
discouraged as she placed the last stick of wood on the fire. Her boy had
been so ill for several days she could not leave him to go to her
accustomed labor, and consequently the small pile of fuel was consumed.
What was she to do? Willie was already crying of cold, and she sat over
the expiring blaze crying because she had naught to render him
comfortable. After a while he grew silent, and, softly approaching, she
found he had sunk into a quiet slumber. Carefully covering him with the
thin, tattered blankets, she pinned a shawl over her head, and, softly
closing the door behind her, stole forth into the biting night air, and
directed a hasty tread toward Mr. Pimble's great brick mansion. A bright
light gleamed through the kitchen windows as she ascended the steps and
gave a hurried knock. Directly she heard a shuffling sound, and knew Mr.
Pimble, in his heelless slippers, was approaching. Fast beat her heart as
the door opened, and she beheld his gaunt form and unyielding features.
"What brings you here this bitter cold night, Dilly Danforth?" exclaimed
he, in a surly tone, as the furious blast rushed in his face, and nearly
extinguished the lamp he held in his skinny grasp.
She stepped inside, and he closed the door.
"'Tis the bitter cold night which brings me, Mr. Pimble," she said,
feeling she must speak quickly, for Willie was at home alone; "my boy is
sick and suffering from cold. For myself, I would not ask a favor, but
for him I entreat you to give me an armful of wood to keep him from
perishing."
"Why don't you work and buy your wood?" asked he, angered by this sudden
demand upon his charity.
"I worked as long as I could leave my child," answered Mrs. Danforth,
"and I thought maybe you would be willing to allow me something for my
work here."
"Allow you something, woman? Don't I give you the rent of that great
house for the few light chores you do for us, which really amount to
nothing? Your impudence is astonishing;" and Esq. Pimble's voice quivered
with rage, as he thus addressed the trembling woman.
Dilly stood irresolute, and Mr. Pimble was silent a few moments, when a
voice from the parlor called out, imperiously, "Pimble, I want you!"
The man roused himself and rushed to the door in such haste as to lose
both his slippers.
"What are you blabbing about out there?" Dilly heard Mrs. Pimble ask, in
an angry tone.
"Dilly Danforth has come for some wood," was the moody reply.
"And so you are giving wood to that lazy, foolish, stupid creature, are
you?"
"No, I am not. She says her boy is sick and she has no fire."
"A pretty tale, and I hope 'tis true. She'll learn by and by her sin and
folly. If she had asserted her own rights, as she should have done, and
left her drunken husband and moping boy years ago, she might have been
well off in the world by this time. But she chose like an idiot to live
with him and endure his abuses till he died, and since she has tied
herself to that foolish boy. O, I have no patience with such stupid
women! They are a disgrace to the true female race. Go and tell her to go
home and never enter my doors a-begging again."
Dilly did not wait to receive this unfeeling message, but pulled her thin
blanket around her, and stole out in the chill night air, and ran toward
home as swiftly as possible. She stumbled over something on the
threshold. It was a bundle of firewood. How came it there? She could not
tell, but seized it in her arms, ran hastily in, and approached Willie's
bed-side. He was still sleeping tranquilly, and that night a comfortable
fire, lighted by unknown generosity, blazed on the lowly hearth.