MRS. GREY’S SUSPICION.
Dr. John was met at the door on his return by little Mary who had
been sitting at the window an hour or more, watching for him to come.
She had worked off a little of her enthusiasm in packing the basket
of provisions, but was still full of eager curiosity and sympathy.
Grandmamma, too, was very anxious to hear more of the little sufferer
at the hospital, and the helpless children of whom little Mary had
told her. So Dr. John was obliged to go over the whole story of
Berty’s injuries, and her patient endurance of the painful operation
and dressing,—of her anxiety for her little ones,—of Tim’s touching
account of the helpless family, given during their drive,—and, last
of all, he was made to describe Mrs. Flanagan’s house, and the room
in the attic, and the poor little orphans themselves.
“But there is one thing,” said Dr. John when he had finished his
story, and answered every question Mary could think of,—“there is
one thing for which I cannot account. The child was talking to you,
Polly, when the stage stopped; was she not? What could have possessed
her to dart into the street in such a frantic way, I cannot tell; and
the boy seemed quite as much at a loss to account for it as I. What
were you saying to her, Polly?”
“I don’t remember,” answered Mary, thoughtfully,—“Oh, yes, I do, too!
She had been telling me about the children, you know, and I offered
to help her, and then I remembered that I hadn’t my purse; and then
I saw you, and I asked if you had found your pocket-book, because I
wanted to borrow some money; and then she ran. I know now I thought
it was because she didn’t want to take it; and then came the accident
and put everything out of my head.”
“But about the pocket-book, John,” said Mrs. Grey, “I have not heard
you say. Did you find it, or get any trace of it?”
“Not the least. I sent an advertisement to the ‘Herald’ and another
to the ‘Times,’ and stopped the drafts at the bank, and left the
description, with the numbers of the checks and a few of the larger
notes, at the police-office. I don’t see that I can do any more. It
is a large sum, more than I can well afford to lose; but if it is
gone I cannot help it. So you need not look so doleful, Polly. I
shall get along without it somehow.”
“If you would only let me give you some of mine, cousin John. I have
so much more than I know what to do with.”
“Have you? Well, I shall know where to come, then, when I get hard
up.”
“I wouldn’t lend him any, if I were you, Polly,” said Mrs. Grey,
smiling. “He’ll be sure to lose it, such a careless fellow. I always
told you what would come of it, John, sticking your purse in such
out-of-the-way places.”
“It was in my breeches-pocket this time, Grandma,—just where you
taught me to keep it when I was a boy.”
“As if you were anything else now!” said Mrs. Grey, shaking her head
at him; “and I don’t believe you know in the least where it was.”
“Yes, I do,” insisted Dr. John, “because I remember it was in the way
when I wanted a dime from the bottom of that same pocket for a poor
little girl at the crossing, and I took it out—”
“And never put it back again,” interrupted his grandmother. “There,
I knew just how it was. You’re not fit to be trusted with a purse at
all. You must leave it at home next time with Polly and I. We know
better than to lay a stuffed pocket-book down upon a stage-seat, as
if it was a paper parcel.”
Dr. John appeared to pay very little attention to the old lady’s
raillery. He was thinking too intently,—trying to remember something,
if one might judge by his knitted brows. “Yes,” he said, at length,
as if he had gotten at it at last,—“yes; I am sure of it. The child
at the crossing and this little Berty are the same. I thought I had
seen her somewhere. And what is more,” he added, interrupting Mary’s
wondering exclamation,—“what is more, I saw her again at that same
crossing when I went down town this morning; and I was feeling for a
dime when she dropped her broom and ran off up the street as if the
sight of me had frightened her out of her wits. Look at me, Polly. Am
I so very ugly? Do I look like an ogre to frighten little girls?”
“You are not a bit like an ogre, cousin John,” said Polly, patting
lovingly the comely face, which bent down to hers. “You are very
handsome, and you know it. Nobody could be frightened at you, and I’m
sure Berty wasn’t; but it is very strange.”
“It is more than strange,” said Mrs. Grey, thoughtfully. “I don’t
like the look of it at all. Is it possible, John, that the child has
your purse?”
“My purse!” cried Dr. John, astonished. “Surely not; how can you
think so?”
“Oh, Grandmamma!” said Polly, indignantly; “that good, poor, innocent
little Berty! How can you say such cruel things?”
“Think a moment, John,” pursued the old lady, giving little heed to
Mary’s remonstrance. “You are certain you have not seen it since you
took it out to give this child the dime?”
“I certainly have not. I missed it when I put my hand in again to get
my fare.”
“And you are sure you had it then?”
“As certain as I can be of anything; for I remember thinking how
much trouble you gave me by insisting upon my keeping it in such an
inconvenient place.”
“And this child has run away from you twice now in the most
unaccountable manner,” the old lady went on; “and if it had been
all right, after getting a dime from you once, she would have been
certain to wait for another. It is not like these street-children,
whatever Polly may think, to refuse what is offered to them. It is
very sad. I am quite as unwilling to believe it as Mary can be;
but, if you are certain you had it, and there were no pickpockets
in the car, I’m afraid this little Berty knows something about the
pocket-book. John, I’m very much afraid it’s not all right.”
Dr. John started out of another fit of musing as his grandmother
ceased speaking, and glanced at Mary, who was by this time weeping
bitterly over what seemed to her these cruel suspicions of her little
favorite. “Well, Grandma,” said he, with a meaning look at the old
lady, “I can’t be at all sure about the pickpockets. I may have had
one for my next neighbor, for aught I know; or I may have laid the
purse down on the seat, as you said. It would be just like me, I dare
say; so we won’t suspect anybody,—we’ll wait and see; and meantime
we’ll put the whole matter out of our heads.”
“And you don’t think it’s Berty, cousin John?” said Mary, drying her
tears; “so I may use some of my money for her and for the little
ones, and I may hope it is like doing it for Him?”
“Certainly, Polly; how can you doubt it?”
“I was afraid,” said Polly, timidly, “if Berty was a thief, you know
she would not be one of his brethren. Do you think it would be the
same?”
“Just the same, if it is done for his sake.”
“Then, cousin John, will you tell me how to help them most?”
“I don’t think you can do much for Berty now,” said Dr. John; “you
will have to leave her to the tender mercy of Mrs. Gantz and myself;
but those little people down there are sadly in need of clothing.
They are the oddest-looking little mortals; the girls’ dresses are
like patchwork quilts, and as for the boy,—well, I shouldn’t care to
have Berty for my tailor, poor child. I think the best thing you can
do is to get Grandma to go with you there in the morning, and find
out what they need. I dare say you’ll get rid of all your superfluous
cash. I shouldn’t wonder if you had none left by the time I come to
want, and then we shall both have to fall back upon Grandma.”
So Polly soon lost the sad suspicions in a vision of coats and frocks
and shoes; but Dr. John, through all his kind plans, was tormented by
an uncomfortable remembrance of that little package which Mrs. Gantz
had taken from Berty’s bosom, and of the telegram which had passed
between his little patient and Tim. I say uncomfortable; for, though
Dr. John would have been very glad to find his purse, he would rather
have found it anywhere else than in Berty’s or Tim’s possession.
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