THE BROKEN LEG.
A NEW life now dawned on our little hero,—a life so peaceful and
pleasant, so free from care, so abounding in love that the days glided
into weeks and the weeks into months almost without notice.
For Hepsah, also, a new life had begun. If it was true that she ruled
the house, it was also true, that Arthur ruled her, not by fear but by
love. The first time she indulged in anger in his presence, his mild
eyes were fixed upon her with such astonishment and sorrow, it brought
her to her senses like a flash of lightning.
She felt ashamed, and, for a day or two, watched her boy shyly to
see whether she had lost his respect. But he treated her even more
affectionately than before, trying to anticipate her wishes and prevent
any return of such a state.
"How bright the house seems, with a child in it," remarked Mr. Olmstead
one evening when Arthur had retired. "Our boy has such a pleasant
voice, and he seems so happy with us."
"I told Mrs. Irvington as we walked home from the asylum," said Mrs.
Olmstead, "that we never could thank her enough for sending Arthur
here, that he seemed cut out and made up in one sense expressly for
us,—so orderly and neat that even Hepsah can't complain—so thankful for
the least kindness, and so merry withal. Did I tell you what Hepsah
says now?"
"No, my dear."
"I found her making some gingerbread horses for his lunch, and when I
laughed at their immense tails, she burst out:
"'Oh, Mrs. Olmstead! Didn't I tell you right? Didn't I say you'd regret
it if you didn't open your heart to the orphan child? It's my opinion
the house wouldn't be worth much to live in if he wasn't in it.'"
"Pretty well for Hepsah."
Arthur was now a well-dressed boy, going to school every morning in
company with Willie Irvington, with his satchel under his arm. If it
were not for his memories of his mother, he would have cast the early
days of his childhood, with their poverty and want behind him, as an
ugly dream.
But there were some whom he occasionally met connected with the past.
One was Matilda, so changed and improved by a life congenial in
every respect, as to be scarcely recognizable. Once in a month, he
accompanied Mrs. Olmstead to the asylum where Matilda had been promoted
from nurse to matron, and well did she fulfil her duties. At recess,
the children hung around her, holding her hand or begging for caresses
as if she were their mother.
Another whom Arthur regarded with a kind of affection, was Joseph
Hickie, who was still at his old business of begging. Arthur met him
once on his way to school, and could not resist the desire to plead
with him to abandon this contemptible life.
Joseph replied by whining out the complaint that he was hungry and no
one could be good when his stomach was empty.
Arthur hastily searched his pockets for a sixpence left of his spending
money, and gave it to his old companion.
"How smart we are!" cried Jo, suddenly changing his tone. "Such a gent
with money in his pocket."
"You might have money too, if you would work and earn it. Oh, Joseph,
you used to like me! Why can't you leave off swearing and telling lies
and try to be good? You know God sees you all the time; and he is angry
with people who break his commands. If you would only go to Sabbath
school, you would learn all about it, and oh, you would be so much
happier!"
Jo began to laugh, putting his thumb to the side of his nose, but
seeing Arthur's eyes fill with tears, he exclaimed:
"Don't be a parson, Arty, and don't yer feel quite so stuck up, 'cause,
you'd ha' been nothing but a beggar if I hadn't given you a lift."
"I know it, Jo, I've never forgotten that; I pray for you most every
day."
At this moment, a lady came toward them, and the beggar instantly
assumed his most disconsolate face.
As Arthur walked away, his heart ached as he listened to the familiar
whine:
"Daddy's dead, mammy's blind, I'm most starved; I is."
"I wish, Hepsah, there was more work for me to do," Arthur said one
day, as he came into the kitchen with an old broom. "I've brushed the
snow all off the steps and the top of the shed, so you can hang out the
clothes without wetting your feet."
"La! You blessed child, you've done enough for one morning. Holidays
are made for boys to play in."
"But I shall have the whole day; and I want to help you now."
The woman glanced around the kitchen. "I don't think of anything," she
said, "unless you chop those apples I've put in the tray, and have
'em ready for the mince pies. Most boys would think sifting ashes and
chopping kindling was work enough, but you aren't like other boys."
One morning, Mr. Olmstead was going to market, when he slipped on the
ice and broke his leg. The first his family knew of the accident—a
carriage drove up to the door, and the driver, assisted by another man
brought the aged sufferer into the house.
When Arthur returned from school, every thing was in confusion.
A gentleman, a stranger to the boy, was directing Hepsah and Ann about
the making of a bed which had been brought from the chamber to the
library. Mr. Olmstead, looking very white and still, was lying on the
lounge, while his wife bent over him, occasionally kissing his forehead.
"What is it?" whispered Arthur, pulling Hepsah's dress to attract
attention. "Is he going to die?"
The child's words were overheard by the stranger who was the family
physician. And seeing by the blanched cheeks that the boy was really
suffering, he answered in a cheerful tone,—
"Oh, no, sonny! Not this time. Mr. Olmstead has broken his leg; he will
be better presently when we get it splintered up."
Arthur started forward, and, kneeling by the couch, pressed his lips on
the wrinkled hand, murmuring repeatedly,—
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I wish it had been my leg. But I'll run every
where for you."
"Good child!" was the low-spoken reply. These were his first words
since he was brought home.