but I would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as
when I went away. The days which followed were sad and evil. My soul
rose in revolt. I asked why I, of all others, should be so set apart by
sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. For a whole week I had been
thus mutinous. I had seen in my God no Father, but an Avenger. All
the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. I passed through the
very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil
did battle for my soul; until at last I slept, one night, and dreamed
of mother, for the first time since she died. In the dream she seemed
beside me, but not as of old. A spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a
blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her
voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "I think, darling, the Father
will send you a comforter."
I woke refreshed, as I had not been before by any slumber. The voice of
my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to.
I began to have faith. I remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter
was to come. But when and where should I find some one more desolate
than myself to help? At any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe,
an idler in the vineyard. I must go to work.
I put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. If I could get my old
work from the trimming stores, I could earn enough now to take care of
myself, and keep what money I had left as surety against the proverbial
rainy day. I made my way first to Richmond's. As I went in I noticed a
little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. One sees such
objects of charity often enough in New York. I doubt if this one would
have attracted me but for her singular beauty. She had the fairest skin
I ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. It
was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness.
I noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while I stood a
few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop
a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. I followed the universal
example as I went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush
crimsoned the sensitive little face.
I made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out,
and down the street to La Pierre's. When I came back, half an hour
later, the child was still sitting there; and I looked at her again,
wondering anew at her delicate beauty. Then a thrill of compassion
warmed my heart for the poor little waif. It was a cold day in the
autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon
the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself,
even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her
occupation. I went up to her and spoke to her.
"What is your name?"
"Jennie Green."
"Whose little girl are you?"
"Nobody's, ma'am."
Oh, perhaps I should not have understood the wail of sadness in those
words if I, too, had not been nobody's girl.
"Have you no friends?" I asked, putting my question in a new form.
"No, ma'am. Mother died last spring, and I've had no friends since."
"But you live somewhere?"
"Oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took
me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she
takes the money I get to pay for my keeping."
"Do you like to live with her?" I pursued, getting strangely interested.
A quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,--
"Oh, no, no!"
A sudden impulse moved me. I beckoned to a policeman who stood near by
watching us.
"Do you know any thing of this child?" I inquired.
"Not much. She seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. A woman brings
her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back
after her toward night. I've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes."
"That woman is no relation to her," I said, "only a person in the
house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her,
I suppose. Would it be against any law if I took her home with me,
without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her?
Could that woman claim her again?"
The policeman whistled, by which token proving himself Yankee born, and
considered a moment. Then he answered, deliberately,--
"No, it ain't agin no law, as I knows of. I don't think the woman would
dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb
you. All I'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks
like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?"
"I have no folks," I said, with the old sadness rising up and choking
me. "Will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?"
I had given my direction without at all consulting the child. When he
was gone for the hack I went up to her and asked her if she would go
home with me, and have it for her home.
"Do you mean me to leave Mrs. McGuire?" she cried, with wide eyes.
"Yes, if you want to."
"And not--not come out for money any more?"
"Not, please God, while I have strength to work for us both."
"Oh, I do want to go, I do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. And then
she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and
stood there waiting.
"Oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "It's almost
time for Mrs. McGuire." Just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk,
and I carried my poor little foundling home.
* * * * *
Yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and I lived
over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. I laid my head
on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation
which swept over me. And as I lay there crying I heard gentle
footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,--
"Oh, can't I comfort you, Miss Bessie? Can't I do any thing for you,
now you've made my life all new and bright?"
And I opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed,
bright-haired girl, and realized that God indeed had sent me my
comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when I
forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate.
I should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring
the child home, had I been less utterly alone in the world. But I have
never regretted it. I found that her parents had brought her up in
the fear of God, and all the rude and rough associations, which had
worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled
her innate purity. My care and tenderness have made of her all I hoped.
Dr. West's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a
crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. She helps
me at my tasks, and for her sake I have recalled my old pencil craft,
and here I foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and
some day I fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by
a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my
comforter.
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.
_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._
BED-TIME STORIES.
BY
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.
Square 16mo. Price $1.50.
"Mrs. Moulton's 'Bed-time Stories' are tender and loving, as
the last thoughts of the day should be. They are told simply
and sweetly. All of them teach unselfishness, faithfulness, and
courage. 'What Jess Cotrell did,' and 'Paying off Jane,' are
perhaps the best; although 'Mr. Turk, and what became of him,'
is such a sympathetic revelation of a bit of child life, that we
are half inclined to give it the first place. The stories are not
for very young children, but for those old enough to think for
themselves; and the influence they exert will be pure, gentle, and
decidedly religious. The dedication is very graceful."--_Boston
Daily Advertiser._
"It is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read
these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted
with some of the young heroes and heroines of Mrs. Moulton's
coinage, and have wept sweet tears with others, just as, we have
no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and
secures this delightful budget of stories out of their first
savings. Parents, who appreciate the difficulty of providing
suitable reading for young people when they are at the doubtful
age which Burns describes as being ''twixt a man and a boy,'
will find Mrs. Moulton one of the most graceful and thoughtful
purveyors of an elevated literature, especially adapted to the
wants and tastes of their bright-eyed and quick-witted sons and
daughters."--_Christian Intelligencer._
"Very delicately and prettily are these stories for children
told.... Children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will
willingly read them too. And not on the other side of the Atlantic
only, but on this, and in every land where the English language
is spoken. Real stories these for real children, not namby-pamby,
teachy-teachy little tales, but regular stories, full of life,
told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_The
London Bookseller._
_In Preparation._
MORE BED-TIME STORIES.
_Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers_,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
WHAT KATY DID.
BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.
Author of "The New Year's Bargain." With Illustrations, by ADDIE
LEDYARD. One vol. Square 16mo. Cloth. Price $1.50.
_From the Lady's Book._
"The New Years Bargain" was one of our pleasantest juvenile books
for the last holidays. Now we have by the same author a story
of child-life so natural and so charming that the authoress has
fairly earned a foremost place among her class. It takes a great
deal to write a good story for children. Women who think it easy,
and sit down with a stock of platitudes and worn-out incidents,
always fail miserably. This book tells "What Katy Did" in a way
that will make all its readers long to hear about her again.
_From the Christian Register._
It must have been with a smile of rare complacency that Roberts
Brothers sent forth such a brace of volumes as Susan Coolidge's
"What Katy Did" and Miss Alcott's "Shawl-Straps." Not only will
the children "cry for them," but the grown-up people will laugh
over them until they too shall have tears in their eyes. Two books
so bright, wise, and every way delightful, are seldom given to the
public at once by a single firm.
_From the Woman's Journal._
Since "Little Women" we have not seen a more charming book than
this for children. It possesses the crowning merit of all story
books,--that of being perfectly natural without becoming tedious.
The author has the happy gift of knowing what to leave out; and
describes the amusing or sorrowful incidents of child-life in the
pleasantest manner, while unobtrusively instilling lessons of
courtesy, patience, and kindness. Illustrations by Addie Ledyard
add to the attractions of the story.
_From the Buffalo Courier._
None who take it up will want it to leave their hands until they
reach the last page. As to the author, she is one of the few lucky
mortals who know how to write for the little ones,--and that is
saying a great deal.
_From Hearth and Home._
The author of that delightful book, "The New Year's Bargain," has
prepared another rare treat for her young friends. It is a story
of child-life; and is so perfect in its delineations, so sweet and
tender at times, and again so irresistibly funny, that it starts
both tears and laughter.
_Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers_,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
End of Project Gutenberg's More Bed-Time Stories, by Louise Chandler Moulton