Time and circumstances change men, some for good and some for ill. It is
an acknowledged fact that success often spoils the best natures,
although to those on whom Fortune seldom smiles, this is hard to
realise.
Thanks to Lord Eltonville's generosity and kind care, George Ermen had
become a great man. His wish had been gratified; he had earned money and
position.
Twenty years had passed since the geranium show. The ragged waif of that
day had owned a sweet, loving nature, which seemed lost in the great
musician of St. James's.
His father had died in prison. His mother's memory had scarcely
survived. He never spoke of his early days, and looked upon them as a
disgrace. Miss Brand's name seldom occurred to him, Father Francis was
forgotten, and Maggie Reed languished in poverty.
In a gorgeous mansion, replete with every luxury, the musician sat at
dinner with his young wife. The room was elegantly furnished; the walls
were hung with fine oil-paintings. The table was decorated with
hot-house flowers. Outside it was snowing, and the night was bitterly
cold.
There was a great hush in the house. In the morning they had buried
their only child. She had lived a year, and the first snow of winter had
covered her grave.
George Ermen's selfish heart had been deeply touched by the loss of the
little one, and somehow, when dinner was over, and he sat alone in his
study, the remembrance of his childhood came over him like a forgotten
strain of music.
The snow, every now and then, fell hissing into the fire which blazed
upon the hearth.
The musician sat down to the organ and sang a few snatches from his
Mass, which was to be given for the first time on Christmas Day.
"There is a poor woman at the door, dear," said his wife, coming in
silently and standing near him, a pathetic figure in her black dress.
"Oh, Mary, I can't see anybody to-day," he answered, placing his arm
round her with unwonted gentleness.
"Gordon tried to dismiss her, George; but she seemed so distressed, and
begged so hard to be allowed to speak with you, that he came to me, and
when I saw her----"
"I understand, dear, I know your tender heart. If I gave in to you we
shouldn't have a penny in the world----"
"We are so rich, George, we could give and give, and never feel it----"
"Well, well, don't cry, Mary. What is the woman's name?"
"Maggie Reed!"
Maggie Reed. The little face seemed to rise up before him as an angel's
among the squalid surroundings of his childhood.
"Let her come in, dear," he said, with a tenderness in his voice that
she had seldom heard of late.
Presently Maggie stood before him, ragged and wet, her pale face worn
with want and suffering. She must have been about twenty-eight; but she
looked ten years older.
"Maggie!" he cried, taking her hand, and placing her in a chair.
"Mr. Ermen. I came ter ask yer somethin, not ter beg. Don't think I've
come ter beg. I want yer ter let Father Francis say yer Mass. 'E's seen
all about it in the papers, how it's ter be sung on Christmas Day. 'E's
an old man, and he would never ask yer 'imself, but 'e always thinks of
yer, and prays for yer."
"And do you?" murmured George.
What a low cur he had been to let this poor girl suffer all her life!
And his other humble friends, too, whom he had vowed never to forsake!
"I hev' prayed for yer every night and morning since yer left us. I've
said, 'God bless him, and make him great.' Yer see, sir, women don't
forget."