Notwithstanding the injunction, the child started off with n

APPLES, RIPE AND ROSY, SIR,

AND OTHER STORIES,

FOR BOYS AND GIRLS,

MARY CATHERINE CRAWLEY,

REPRINTED FROM THE "AVE MARIA."

OFFICE OF THE "AVE MARIA:"

NOTRE DAME, IND.

COPYRIGHT:

D. E. HUDSON, C. S. C.

1893.

BECKTOLD & Co., Printers and Binders,

ST. Louis, Mo.

CONTENTS.

Apples, Ripe and Rosy, Sir

Better than Riches

Building a Boat

A May-Day Gift

Tilderee

A Little White Dress

A Miser's Gold

That Red Silk Frock

A Lesson with a Sequel

Uncle Tom's Story

Hanging May-Baskets

APPLES, RIPE AND ROSY, SIR.

"APPLES, RIPE AND ROSY, SIR."

I.

What a month of March it was! And after an unusually mild season, too.

Old Winter seemed to have hoarded up all his stock of snow and cold

weather, and left it as an inheritance to his wild and rollicking heir,

that was expending it with lavish extravagance.

March was a jolly good fellow though, in spite of his bluster and

boisterous ways. There was a wealth of sunshine in his honest heart,

and he evidently wanted to render everybody happy. He appeared to have

entered into a compact with Santa Claus to make it his business to see

that the boys and girls should not, in the end, be deprived of their

fair share of the season's merrymaking; that innumerable sleds and

toboggans and skates, which had laid idle since Christmas, and been the

objects of much sad contemplation, should have their day, after all.

And he was not really inconsiderate of the poor either; for though,

very frequently, in a spirit of mischief, he and his chum Jack frost

drew caricatures of spring flowers on their window-panes, knocked at

their doors only to run away in a trice, and played other pranks upon

them, they did not feel the same dread of all this that they would have

felt in December. He would make up for it by being on his best and

balmiest behavior for some days following; would promise that milder

weather, when the need and the price of coal would be less, was surely

coming; and that both the wild blossoms of the country fields, and the

stray dandelions which struggle into bloom in city yards, would be on

time, as usual.

On the special day with which we have to do, however, March was not in

"a melting mood." On the contrary, the temperature was sharp and

frosty, the ground white, the clouds heavy with snow. The storm of the

night before had only ceased temporarily; it would begin again

soon,--indeed a few flakes were already floating in the air. At four

o'clock in the afternoon the children commenced to troop out of the

schools. How pleasant to watch them!--to see the great doors swing

open and emit, now a throng of bright-eyed, chattering little girls, in

gay cloaks and hoods and mittens; or again a crowd of sturdy boys,--a

few vociferating and disputing, others trudging along discussing games

and sports, and others again indulging in a little random snowballing

of their comrades, by the way. Half an hour later the snow was falling

thick and fast. The boys were in their element. A number of them had

gathered in one of the parks or squares for which the garden-like city

of E------ is noted, and were busy completing a snow-fort. The jingle

of sleigh-bells became less frequent, however; people hurried home; it

was sure to be a disagreeable evening.

These indications were dolefully noted by one person in particular, to

whom they meant more than to others in general. This was the good old

Irishwoman who kept the apple and peanut stand at the street corner,

and was the centre of attraction to the children on their way to and

from school.

"Wisha, this is goin' to be a wild night, I'm thinkin'!" sighed she,

wrapping a faded and much-worn "broshay" shawl more securely about her,

and striving to protect both herself and her wares beneath the shelter

of a dilapidated umbrella, one of the ribs of which had parted company

with the cotton covering,--escaped from its moorings, as it were, and

stood out independently. "Glory be to God, but what bad luck I've had

the day!" she continued under her breath, from habit still scanning the

faces of the passers-by, though she had now faint hope that any would

pause to purchase. "An' it's a bigger lot than usual I laid in, too.

The peanuts is extry size; an' them Baldwins look so fine and rosy, I

thought it ud make anybody's mouth water to see them. I counted upon

the schoolb'ys to buy them up in a twinklin', by reason of me markin'

them down to two for a cent. An' so they would, but they're so taken

up with sportin' in the snow that they can think of nothin' else. An'

now that it's turned so raw, sure I'm afraid it's cold comfort any one

but a lad would think it, settin' his teeth on edge tryin' to eat them.

I'll tarry a bit longer; an' then, if no better fortune comes, I'll

take meself to me little room, even though I'll have to drink me tea

without a tint of milk or a dust of sugar the night, and be thankful

for that same."

Patiently she waited. The clock struck five. As no other customers

appeared, the old woman, who was known as Widow Barry, concluded that

she would be moving. "Though it is too bad," she murmured; "an' this

the best stand anywhere hereabouts."

In reality, the stand consisted of a large basket, a camp-seat, the

tiresome privilege of leaning against two feet of stone-wall, and the

aforesaid umbrella, which was intended to afford, not only a roof, but

an air of dignity to the concern, and was therefore always open, rain

or shine.

To "shut up shop," though it meant simply to lower the umbrella, gather

up the goods and depart, was to the apple-vender a momentous affair.

Every merchant who attempts, as the saying is, to carry his

establishment, finds it no easy task; yet this is what the widow was

obliged literally to do. To make her way, thus laden, in the midst of

a driving snowstorm was indeed a difficult matter. Half a dozen times

she faltered in discouragement. The street led over a steep hill; how

was she to reach the top? She struggled along; the wind blew through

her thin garments and drove her back; the umbrella bobbed wildly about;

her hands grew numb; now the basket, again the camp-seat, kept slipping

from her grasp. Several persons passed, but no one seemed to think of

stopping to assist her. A party of well-dressed boys were coasting

down the middle of the street; what cared they for the storm? Several,

who were standing awaiting their turn, glanced idly at the grotesque

figure.

"What a guy!" cried Ed Brown, with a laugh, sending a well-aimed

snowball straight against the umbrella, which it shook with a thud. He

was on the point of following up with another.

"Oh, come!" protested a carelessly good-natured companion. "That's no

fun. But here--look out for the other double-runner! Now we go,

hurray!"

And, presto, they whizzed by, without another thought of the aged

creature toiling up the ascent. No one appeared to have time to help

her.

Presently, however, she heard a firm, light step behind her. The next

moment a pair of merry brown eyes peered under the umbrella; a face as

round and ruddy as one of her best Baldwins beamed upon her with the

smile of old friendship, and a gay, youthful voice cried out:

"Good afternoon, Missis Barry! It's hard work getting on to-day, isn't

it?"

A singularly gentle expression lighted up the apple-woman's

weather-beaten features as she recognized the little fellow in the

handsome overcoat, who was evidently returning from an errand, as he

carried a milk can in one hand while drawing a sled with the other.

"Indade an' it is, Masther Tom!" she replied, pausing a second.

"Let us see if we can't manage differently," he went on, taking her

burden and setting it upon the sled. "There, that is better. Now give

me your hand."

She had watched him mechanically; but, thus recalled to herself, she

answered hastily:

"Oh, thank ye kindly, sir! It's too much for ye to be takin' this

trouble; but I can get along very well now, with only the umbrelly to

carry."

"No trouble at all," said he. "Look, then,--follow me; I'll pick out

the best places for you to walk in,--the snow is drifting so!"

He trudged on ahead, glancing back occasionally to see if the basket

and camp-seat were safe, or to direct her steps,--as if all this were

the most natural thing in the world for him to do, as in truth it was;

for, though he thought it a great joke that she should call him "sir,"

will not any one admit that he deserved the title which belongs to a

gentleman? He and Widow Barry had been good friends for some time.

"Sure, an' didn't he buy out me whole supply one day this last

January?" she would say. "His birthday it was, and the dear creature

was eleven years old. He spent the big silver dollar his grandfather

gave him like a prince, a treatin' all the b'ys of the neighborhood to

apples an' peanuts, an' sendin' me home to take me comfort."

Tom, moreover, was a regular patron of "the stand." He always declared

that "she knew what suited him to a T." During the selection he was

accustomed to discuss with her many weighty questions, especially Irish

politics, in which they both took a deep if not very well-informed

interest.

"Guess I'll have that dark-red one over there. Don't you think Mr.

Gladstone is the greatest statesman of the age, Missis Barry?--what?

That other one is bigger? Well!--and your father knew Daniel O'Connell

you say?--ah, I tell you that's a fine fellow!"

Whether he meant the patriot or the pippin it might be difficult to

determine. This, however, is but a specimen of their conversation.

Then in the end she would produce the ripest and rosiest of her

stock--which she had been keeping for him all the while,--and, leaving

a penny in her palm, he would hurry away in order to reach St. Francis'

School before the bell rang.

This particular afternoon, when he had helped her over the worst part

of the way, she glanced uneasily at the can which he carried, and said:

"Faith, Masther Tom, it's afraid I am that they'll be waitin' at home

for the milk ye were sent for. Sure I wouldn't want ye to be blamed

for not makin' haste, avick! An' all because of yer doin' a kindly

turn for a poor old woman."

"No fear of that, ma'am," answered Tom, confidently. "There is no

hurry; the milk won't be needed till supper time."

Then, noticing that she was tired and panting for breath, he took out

the stopper and held the can toward her, saying impulsively,

"Have a drink, Missis Barry,--yes, it will do you good."

A suspicious moisture dimmed the widow's faded eyes for a moment, and

her heart gave a throb of grateful surprise at the child's ingenuous

friendliness; but she drew back with a deprecating gesture, saying,

"Well, well, Masther Tom, ye're the thoughtfullest young gentleman that

ever I see! An' I'm sure I thank ye kindly. It isn't for the likes of

me to be tellin' ye what is right an' proper, but what would yer mother

say to yer not bringin' the milk home just as ye got it from the store,

an' to ye givin' a poor creature like me a drink out of the can?"

"Oh, she wouldn't care!" replied Tom. "Didn't she say you were welcome

at the house any time, to have a cup of tea and get warm by the kitchen

fire? Do you think she'd grudge you a sup of milk?"

"It isn't that; for I know she wouldn't, God bless her!" said the

apple-woman, heartily. "Still, asthore, take heed of what I say.

Never meddle with what's trusted to ye, but carry it safe an' whole to

the person it's meant for, or the place ye are told to fetch it to.

It's the best plan, dear."

"I suppose it is, Missis Barry, generally," agreed Tom. "I remember

once Ed Brown and I made away with half of a big package of raisins

that mother sent me for, and she scolded me about it. But that was

different, you know. Pshaw! I didn't mean to tell you it was Ed.

Here we are at your door, ma'am. I'll put your things inside--oh, no!

Never mind. I was glad to come. Really I oughtn't to take it. Well,

thank you. Good-bye!"

And Tom scampered off with an especially toothsome-looking apple, which

the woman forced into his hand.

"Ah, but he's the dear, blithe, generous-hearted b'y!" she exclaimed,

with a warmth of affectionate admiration, as she stood looking after

him. "There's not a bit of worldly pride or meanness about him. May

the Lord keep him so! The only thing I'd be afraid of is that, like

many such, he'd be easily led. There's that Ed Brown now,--Heaven

forgive me, but somehow I don't like that lad. Though he's the son of

the richest man in the neighborhood, an' his people live in grand

style, he's no fit companion for Masther Tom Norris, I'm thinkin'."

II.

Tom lost no time now in getting home. A little later he had entered a

spacious brick house on Florence Street, deposited the milk can on the

kitchen table, set the cook a laughing by some droll speech, and,

passing on, sought his mother in her cheerful sitting-room.

"Why, my son, what delayed you so long?" she inquired, folding away her

sewing; for it was becoming too dark to work.

"Oh, I went home with Missis Barry!" he answered, with the

matter-of-fact air with which he might have said that he had been

escorting some particular friend of the family.

Mrs. Norris smiled and drew nearer to the bright fire which burned in

the grate. Tom slipped into a seat beside her upon the wide,

old-fashioned sofa, which was just the place for one of those cosy

twilight chats with mother, which boys especially love so much, and the

memory of which gleams, star-like, through the mists of years, exerting

even far greater influence than she dreams of upon their lives. Tom

considered this quiet half hour the pleasantest of the day. Mrs.

Norris, with a gentle wisdom worthy of wider imitation, encouraged him

to talk to her about whatever interested him. She was seldom too tired

or too preoccupied at this time to hear of the mechanism of the

steam-engine, the mysteries of the printing-press, or the feats that

may be performed with a bicycle,--of which "taking a header," or the

method by which the rider learns to fly off the machine head foremost

into a ditch with impunity, appeared to be the most desirable. Her

patience in this respect was rewarded by that most precious possession

to a mother, a son's confidence.

Tom liked to tell her of various things that happened during the day;

to compare notes, and get her opinions of matters in general; at the

same time giving his own, which were often quaint and entertaining.

"Really, mother, Missis Barry knows a lot!" he now exclaimed, abruptly,

clasping his knee and staring at the fire in a meditative manner.

Mrs. Norris looked amused, but she did not venture to question the

apple-vender's wisdom. One or two kindly inquiries about the old

woman, however, prompted him to speak of her further,--of his meeting

her as she struggled along with her burden, his drawing it on the sled,

and last of her refusal of the drink he offered.

"You would not have minded, would you, mother?" he asked.

"No, not for the sake of the milk, certainly," responded Mrs. Norris,

laughing; "but--" then she hesitated. How could she hamper the mind of

this ingenuous little lad of hers with false and finical ideas of

refinement and delicacy! Why should she suggest to him that it is at

least not customary to go about giving the poor to drink out of our own

especial milk cans? There came to her mind the noble lines which but

frame as with jewels the simple Christian precept,--the words spoken to

Sir Launfal when, weary, poverty-stricken, and disheartened, the knight

returns from his fruitless search for the Holy Grail; when humbly he

shares his cup and crust with the leper at the gate,--the leper who

straightway stands before him glorified, a vision of Our Lord, and

tells him that true love of our neighbor consists in,

"Not what we give, but what we share;

For the gift without the giver is bare."

And then the mother's hands rested lovingly a moment upon Tom's head,

as again she repeated more softly: "No, certainly."

* * * * *

As Widow Barry had surmised, the keynote of Tom's nature was that he

was easily led, and therein rested the possibilities of great good or

evil. The little confidential chats with his mother were a strong

safeguard to him, and laid the foundation of the true principles by

which he should be guided; but, as he mingled more with other boys, he

was not always steadfast in acting up to his knowledge of what was

right, and was apt to be more influenced by his companions than his

best friends cared to see him. At present he was inclined to make a

chum of Ed Brown, who, though only a year older, was so precociously

shrewd, and what the world calls "smart," that, according to good Widow

Barry's opinion, "he could buy and sell Masther Tom any day."

The old woman had, indeed, many opportunities for observation; for is

not sometimes so simple a transaction as the buying of an apple a real

test of character? If a boy or man is tricky or mean or unjust in his

business dealings, is it likely that we shall find him upright and

honorable in other things? Though Mrs. Norris was not as well posted

as the apple-vender, one or two occurrences had caused her to

positively forbid Tom to have any more to do with Ed,--a command which

he grumbled a good deal about, and, alas! occasionally disobeyed.

But to continue our story. The following Saturday morning the skies

were blue, the sun shone bright, the gladness of spring was in the

air,--all promised a long, pleasant holiday. The apple stand at the

corner had a prosperous aspect. The umbrella, though shabbier and more

rakish-looking than ever, wore a cheery, hail-fellow-well-met

appearance. Widow Barry had, as she told a neighbor, "spruced up her

old bonnet a bit,"--an evidence of the approach of spring, which the

boys recognized and appreciated. Now she was engaged in polishing up

her apples, and arranging the peanuts as invitingly as possible; a

number of pennies already jingled in the small bag attached to her

apron-string, in which she kept her money.

"Ah, here comes Masther Tom!" she exclaimed, presently. "An' right

glad I am; for he always brings me a good hansel."

"Hello, Missis Barry!" cried he. "How's trade to-day? Too early to

tell yet? Well, see if I can't boom it a little. Give me a dozen

apples, and one--yes, two quarts of nuts."

Pleased and flustered at this stroke of fortune, she busied herself in

getting out two of the largest of her paper bags, and filling the

munificent order. But Tom was not like himself this morning. He had

plenty to say, to be sure; but he talked away with a kind of reckless

gaiety that appeared a trifle forced, and he was eager to be off.

The old woman paused a second, as if suddenly impressed by the

difference in his manner; then, by a shake of the head, she strove to

banish the thought, which she reproached herself for as an unworthy

suspicion, and smiled as if to reassure herself. With a pleasant word

she put the well-filled bags into Tom's hands, and received the silver

he offered in payment--three bright new dimes. At that moment she

caught a glimpse of Ed Brown lurking in the area way of a house at the

other end of the block. The sight filled her with a vague misgiving

which she could not have explained. She glanced again at Tom; he was

nervous and excited.

"Wait a bit," said she, laying a restraining hand upon his arm.

"What is the matter? Didn't I give you just the price?" he inquired,

somewhat impatiently.

The old woman bent forward and peered anxiously into his face; her kind

but searching eyes seemed to look down into his very soul, as, in a

voice trembling with emotion, she replied: "Yes: but tell me, asthore,

where did ye get the money?"

Tom's countenance changed; he tried to put her off, saying, "Pshaw!

Why do you want to ask a fellow such a question? Haven't I bought more

than this of you before?"

"Troth an' ye have, dear; but not in this way, I'm thinkin'," she

answered.

"It's all right. Do let me go, Missis Barry!" cried he, vexed and

beginning to feel decidedly frightened.

"Hi, Tom, come on!" called Ed Brown, emerging from the area.

"Look here, Masther Tom, darlin'! You'll not move a step with them

things, an' I'll not put up that money till I know where it came from."

"Well, then," said Tom, doggedly, seeing that escape was impossible, "I

got it at home, off the mantel in the sitting-room."

"Oh, yes!" ejaculated Mrs. Barry, raising her eyes toward heaven, as if

praying for the pardon of the offence.

"Why, that's nothing!" he went on. "Ed Brown says lots of boys do it.

Some take the change out of their father's pockets even, if they get a

chance. His father don't mind a bit. He always has plenty of cash, Ed

has."

"Ah, yes, that ne'er-do-well, Ed Brown!" said the old woman, shaking

her fist at the distant Ed, who, realizing that Tom had got into

trouble, disappeared in a twinkling.

"An' his father don't mind! Then it's because he knows nothin' about

it. They'll come a day of reckonin' for him. An' you--"

"Oh, the folks at home won't care!" persisted Tom, thoroughly ashamed,

but still anxious to excuse himself. "Mother always says that

everything in the house is for the use of the family. If we children

should make a raid on the pantry, and carry off a pie or cake, she

might punish us for the disobedience, but she wouldn't call it

stealing." He blushed as he uttered the ugly word.

"Yes, but to take money is different, ye know," continued his

relentless mentor, whose heart, however, was sorrowing over him with

the tenderness of a mother for her child.

Tom was silent; he did know, had really known from the first, though

now his fault stood before him in its unsightliness; all the pretexts

by which he had attempted to palliate it fell from it like a veil, and

showed the hateful thing it was. He could not bring himself to

acknowledge it, however. Sullenly he set down the apples and peanuts,

murmuring, "I never did it before, anyhow!"

"No, nor never will again, I'm sure, avick! This'll be a lifelong

lesson to ye," returned the old woman, with agitation, as she put the

dimes back into his hand. "Go right home with them now, an' tell yer

father all about it."

"My father!" faltered Tom, doubtful of the consequences of such a

confession.

"Well, yer mother, then. She'll be gentle with ye, never fear, if ye

are really sorry."

"Indeed I am, Missis Barry," declared Tom, quite breaking down at last.

"I'm certain ye are, asthore!" continued the good creature, heartily.

"An', whisper, when ye get home go to yer own little room, an' there on

yer bended knees ask God to forgive ye. Make up yer mind to shun bad

company for the future; an' never, from this hour, will we speak

another word about this--either ye to me or I to ye,--save an' except

ye may come an' say: 'I've done as ye bid me, Missis Barry. It's all

hunkey dory!'"

The old woman smiled with grim humor as she found herself quoting the

boy's favorite slang expression.

Tom laughed in spite of himself, so droll did it sound from her lips;

but at the same time he drew his jacket sleeve across his eyes, which

had grown strangely dim, and said:

"I will, Missis Barry. You may trust me: I will."

And Tom did. From that day he and the honest old apple-woman were

better friends than ever. Meanwhile her trade improved so much that

before long she was able to set up a more pretentious establishment,--a

genuine stand, with an awning to replace the faithful umbrella, which

was forthwith honorably retired from service. Here she carried on a

thriving business for several years, Tom, though now a student at St.

Jerome's College, often bought apples and peanuts of her.

"You see that old woman?" said he to a comrade one day. "Don't look

much like an angel, does she?"

His friend, glancing at the queer figure and plain, ordinary features,

was amused at the comparison.

"And yet," continued Tom, earnestly, "she proved a second Guardian

Angel to me once, and I'll bless her all my life for it."

"BETTER THAN RICHES."

I.

"Cash! Cash! here!" cried an attendant at the stationery counter of

one of New York's great shopping emporiums. At the summons a

delicate-looking little girl came wearily up, and held out a small

wicker basket for the goods and the money. "Be quick now: the lady's

in a hurry."

Notwithstanding the injunction, the child started off with no special

attempt at haste. The same words were dinned into her ears a hundred

times a day. She did not see why ladies should be in a hurry. The

ladies of her world seemed to have nothing to do but to wear pretty

clothes, and to shop, which meant principally the buying of more pretty

clothes. It was all very well to make an extra effort to oblige one

occasionally; but if she did it every time she was exhorted to, surely

her tired feet would give out before the end of the day.

"Cash is so poky!" complained the salesgirl to her companion behind the

counter.

"Hie you, Cash! Hustle I say!" called the floor-walker peremptorily,

as he passed.

Thus warned, the child skurried away, and reappeared after a very brief

interval. As she rushed up with the parcel, an awkward accident

occurred. The lady heedlessly stepped backward. Cash dodged; but,

alas! before she could stop herself, she had dashed into a pyramid of

note-paper that stood upon the end of the counter, and sent the boxes

scattering over the floor in dire confusion.

"Oh!--oh, my!" exclaimed the salesgirl, distressed, as she contemplated

the wreck of the architectural display.

The disturbance at once brought the floor-walker to the spot.

"Stupid!" he muttered, taking poor Cash by the shoulder. "Why don't

you look where you're going? If you can't mind what you're about, we

have no use for you here; remember that!"

"Please do not blame the child," interposed the lady who had

unwittingly caused the trouble. "It was my fault: I carelessly got in

her way. I am very sorry."

"Don't mention it, Mrs. M----. It is not of the slightest

consequence," said the floor-walker, with a bland smile and a bow.

(Mrs. M---- was a desirable customer, and he would have said the same

thing if she had happened to tip the show-case over.) "We have to keep

our employees up to the mark, you know," he added in a low tone, by way

of apology for his brusqueness. "The best of them become careless.

But Cash has found a friend this time, so we'll let it pass."

Cash, who was busily picking up the boxes, made a little grimace to

herself at his change of manner. The lady politely inclined her head

by way of acknowledgment, and the floor-walker left abruptly, having

suddenly discovered that something required his immediate attention in

another part of the store.

When he had disappeared, the little girl looked up and faltered

gratefully: "Thank you, ma'am!"

Mrs. M---- now for the first time took notice of the individual to whom

she had just rendered a service. She glanced down upon a freckled face

of the complexion described as pasty, a pair of greyish-blue eyes, and

a tangle of reddish curls just long enough to admit of being tied back

with the bit of crumpled ribbon which kept them tidy. Cash was not of

prepossessing appearance; yet perhaps because, the grateful glance

touched a chord common to humanity in the heart of the stranger, or

because one naturally warms to any creature whom one has befriended, or

perhaps simply from the sweet womanliness which finds all childhood

attractive,--whatever the motive, upon the impulse of the moment the

lady did a very graceful thing. Taking a rose from the bunch of

jacqueminots she wore, she fastened it to the breast of the child's

black apron, and was gone before the latter could recover from her

astonishment.

It was only a little incident, but it changed the whole aspect of

Cash's day. The beautiful flower glowed against the dark uniform, like

a bit of joy vouchsafed to a sombre life.

"How lovely!" exclaimed the salesgirl. "Aren't you lucky, Cash! Don't

you want to exchange with me? I'll give you a delicious orange I

brought with my lunch for that posie."

Cash shook her head. As soon as she could, she stole away to the room

where the girls kept their cloaks and hats. Here, after a furtive look

around to see that ho one was by who might snatch, it away, she

unpinned the rose and slipped it into a small card-board box, having

first carefully wrapped the stem in a piece of well moistened paper.

Then she tucked the box into the pocket of her jacket, and ran

downstairs to the store again.

For the next two or three hours it happened that Cash was kept running

to and fro almost without intermission; but she did not mind it now.

The kindly word spoken in her behalf by the truly gracious lady, the

simple gift of a flower, had given her new spirit. Her heart, like a

little bird, kept singing a cheery song to itself; while, as she

journeyed hither and thither, her feet seemed to keep time to its

gladness.

"Why, Cash, you're getting smart! What has waked you up?" said the

salesgirl, when, well on in the afternoon, the child sat down by the

counter for a few seconds. Then, without waiting for a reply, she

continued: "Now, aren't you sorry you did not exchange with me? See,

you've lost your rose!"

"Oh, 'taint losted," answered the girl.

"You did not give it to any one after I made the first bid?" (The

inquiry was in a sharper tone.)

"No: I'm keeping it for Ellie."

"Oh, sure enough! Poor Ellie! how is she? Cash, you're a good little

thing to remember her so kindly. Here, I have the orange still; take

it to her, too."

The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure as the salesgirl put the golden

ball into her hand. "Ellie'll be awful pleased. I'll tell her you

sent it, Julia," she said.

Cash had, of course, another name: it was Katy Connors. Katy lived way

over on the east side of the city, in a house which was once a handsome

dwelling, but had long since been divided into tenements and given up

to ruin. The Connors were known among their neighbors as a

respectable, hard-working family. The father was a day-laborer; the

mother went out washing; Joe, a boy of fourteen, was in the district

messenger service; after him came Katy, who was employed in

McNaughton's store; and then Ellie, the little invalid. Two younger

children had died in infancy.

Poor Ellie was fast becoming helpless. How different it had been a few

months before! What a sturdy, active, child she was, when one morning

she set out in gay spirits "to earn money for mother!" Like Katy, she

had obtained a position as cashgirl in McNaughton's. And how quick and

smart she was about her duties! The floor-walker commended her twice

during the week, and said he would speak for an increase in her wages.

How proud she felt when Saturday came, and she knew she would have two

dollars and a half to take home! Unfortunately, it was to be dearly

gained.

Saturday afternoon it happened that the store was unusually crowded;

everything was stir and confusion. Little Ellie and her companions

dashed now here, now there, in response to the unceasing cry of "Cash!

Cash!" In the midst of the hurry, the floor-walker gave Ellie a

message to deliver to one of the clerks in the basement. "Don't

delay!" he called after her. Eager to please, the child made her way

through the throng, and was on the point of darting down the stairs,

when, alas! her foot caught, she tripped, gave a little scream, and was

precipitated down the entire flight. In an instant several employees

from the neighboring counters rushed to pick her up; but, to their

alarm, though she strove to be brave, when they attempted to move her

she could not repress a low moan of anguish. The superintendent sent

at once for a doctor, who discovered that she had sustained a severe

injury, having struck against the edge of one of the iron steps.

Where was now the proud home-coming? Ellie was taken to the hospital,

whither frightened Mrs. Connors was summoned. Upon one of the cots in

the accident ward lay the child, her small face wan with pain, and in

her eyes the startled expression noticeable in those of a person who

has had a serious fall. In one feverish hand she held something

tightly clasped--something for which she had asked before being carried

from the store. When the doctor turned aside she beckoned to her

mother, and, with a pathetic little smile, folded into the palm of the

weeping woman a small yellow envelope. The next moment she fainted

away, Mrs. Connors' tears flowed faster as she beheld the precious

offering--Ellie's first wages, and the last which she was likely ever

to earn.

The firm of McNaughton & Co. investigated the accident, to see if they

could by any means be liable to an action for damages brought by an

employee. But there was no loose nail in the stairway, not the least

obstruction. The proprietors were not to blame; it was simply the

child's heedlessness, they said. In fact, the fault was with Ellie's

shoes: the sole of one, being broken, caught on the top step and caused

her fall.

And she was to have had a new pair that very evening. Mrs. Connors had

quietly determined that her first earnings should be expended in this

way. Poor Ellie! she would not need shoes now: the doctors feared she

would never walk again. The firm sent a twenty-dollar bill to the

child's mother, another "Cash" was engaged to take Ellie's place, and

the matter was speedily forgotten.

II.

Not growing better at the hospital, Ellie begged to be taken home.

Rather than live apart from those she loved, she strove to be content

to remain alone day after day, propped up by an inverted chair upon a

wretched bed. Or, when she felt stronger, with the aid of a pair of

rude crutches, she would drag herself to the window to watch patiently

for the return of the dear bread-winners, whose toil she would so

willingly have shared.

There, in a little stuffy room, upon the top floor of the old house,

she spent the long, sultry summer; there she remained when autumn came;

there the approaching Christmas holidays were likely to find her.

How was it, then, that Ellie was generally cheery and blithe? Perhaps

her mother's prayer each morning, as she bade her good-bye to go to

work, had most to do with it. "May Jesus and His Blessed Mother watch

over you, mavourneen!" the good woman would say, with a sigh at the

necessity for leaving her.

Frequently, when the child could have wept for loneliness, the words

would keep echoing in her heart. She was a well-disposed little

creature, and those hours spent alone often brought serious thoughts,

which molded and beautified her character. But Ellie was a thoroughly

natural child: there was none of the story-book goodness about her.

She was keenly interested in everything that went on. She thought

there was no one like mother, but it was Katy who represented the world

to her,--the world of McNaughton's store, with its brightness and

beautiful wares, and its ever-changing crowd of handsomely costumed

ladies intent upon the pleasures of shopping. Any scrap of news which

one fagged out little cashgirl brought home at the close of the day was

eagerly listened to by the other; who found her enforced idleness so

irksome.

Katy had a great deal to narrate at the close of the day upon which our

story opened. Sitting upon the foot of Ellie's bed, she told how she

upset the pyramid of note-paper; and what trouble she would have been

in, but for the kind lady who so promptly came to the rescue. To

Ellie's quick imagination the story had all the charm of a fairy tale.

And when, at the close, her sister placed in her hands the orange and

the tiny box wherein lay the rose, still quite fresh and fragrant, her

face beamed with delight; and Katy went to bed very happy, feeling

herself more than repaid for having treasured them so carefully.

The next morning, when Katy reached the store, she found everybody in a

state of pleasurable excitement over the opening of the holiday goods;

for it wanted but three weeks to Christmas. At the end of the

stationery counter, where the pyramid of note-paper had been, an

immense stack of dolls was now attractively displayed. The little

cashgirl stood before it, lost in admiration. There were little dolls

and big ones; dolls with blue eyes, and others with brown; some with

light hair, and some with dark; _bebee Jumeau_ and _bebee Brue_; rubber

dolls, and rag dolls with _papier-mache_ faces.

"How lovely they are!" she murmured to herself, including even the

plainest and least among them in her appreciation of the gorgeous

company. "Don't I wish Ellie could see them!" she continued. "I'll

have to count them, so as to tell her how many there are; for I don't

believe that by herself she could imagine such a lot of dolls together."

Katy and Ellie had never had a doll in their lives,--that is, a real

_boughten_ one, as they called those not of home manufacture.

The kind salesgirl who had sent the orange to Ellie, from her post

behind the counter, noticed the child's wonderment.

"Will you look at Cash!" she said to a companion. Katy was oblivious

of them, however. After watching her a few moments, Julia called out:

"Well, Cash, which do you like best?"

The little girl looked the dolls over again with much deliberation; and

finally, pointing to a good-sized one, with golden hair and large eyes,

said:

"This."

"Oh, one of those ninety-seven cent dolls!" responded Julia. "They

_are_ handsome for the price. Sawdust bodies, to be sure; but what

fine heads?--red cheeks, splendid eyes, and hair that will comb out as

well as that of some costlier ones, I'll be bound."

"Ninety-seven cents!" repeated Katy, with a sigh. It was an

unattainable sum, as far as she was concerned. The salesgirl remarked

the sigh.

"Say, Cash, why don't you buy it?" she urged. "Your mother'll let you

keep part of your wages for yourself Christmas week, won't she? And

you wouldn't get such another bargain in a doll if you hunted a year

and a day. You'd better speak for it quick, though; for when the rush

of trade comes, there's no knowing how long the lot will last."

Katy shook her head. "I wouldn't want to buy a Christmas present for

myself," she answered. "But I was wishing--only there is really no use

in wishing; still, just supposing there was--I was thinking if I could

only get that doll for Ellie, how happy she would be. You know she has

to be alone so much, and she gets awful blue sometimes; though she

won't let on, 'cause it would fret mother. But the doll would be great

company for her. We've neither of us ever had one."

She continued to gaze longingly at the rosy beauty, while the salesgirl

meditatively dusted the show-case.

"Stop! I'll tell you how you can manage to get it," Julia said,

suddenly. "It's the rule of this store that on Christmas Eve, after

all the customers are gone, each employee may choose as a present from

the firm some article worth a quarter of his or her wages for the week.

Let's see: you're paid three dollars, aren't you?"

Katy nodded.

"That would count for seventy-five cents on the doll; then all you

would have to put to it would be twenty-two cents. Couldn't you do

that somehow?"

"Yes!" cried Katy, delighted. "Sometimes I run errands for a

dressmaker who lives in the block below us, and she gives me pennies,

or once in a while a nickel. And when my aunt's husband comes to see

us--he's a widder man and sorter rich; he drives a truck,--well, when

he comes 'casionally, he gives each of us children as much as ten

cents; and I guess he'll be round about Christmas time. Oh, yes, I'm

almost sure I can make up the twenty-two cents!"

"But, then, when the doll is yours, won't you hate to give it away?"

queried Julia; for Katy already began to assume an air of possession.

"Oh, not to Ellie! And, you know, she'll be sure to let me hold it

sometimes" was the ingenuous reply.

The quick tears sprang to the salesgirl's eyes, and she turned abruptly

away, to arrange some dolls upon the shelves behind her.

"After all, love is better than riches," she reflected, as the picture

of the crippled child in the humble home arose in her mind, and she

gave a sidelong glance at Katy's thin face and shabby dress.

"You will be sure to save this very doll for me, won't you?" pleaded

the child.

"I can't put it aside for you," she explained, "because the

floor-walker would not allow that; but I'll arrange so you will have

one of the lot, never fear."

"But I want this one," declared Katy.

"My goodness gracious, you foolish midget! They're all as much alike

as rows of peas in a pod," exclaimed her friend, a trifle impatiently.

"No," insisted the little girl. "All the others have red painted

buckles on their shoes, but this doll has blue buckles; and I'm sure

Ellie would prefer blue buckles, 'cause we've often talked about it

when we played choosing what we'd like best."

"Well, well!" laughed Julia. "All right, Katy: I'll save it, if I can."

Satisfied by this promise, the child ran away; for customers began to

come in, and to loiter would be to lessen her chance of gaining the

treasure which to herself she already called Ellie's.

McNaughton & Co. did a great business within the next two weeks; the

employees were "fearfully rushed," as they expressed it. Katy had no

opportunity for further conversation with the sociable attendant at the

end of the stationery counter, now given over to toys, upon the subject

oftenest in her thoughts. She had been transferred to another

department; but every day she took occasion to go around and look at

the doll, to make sure that it was still there; and the kindly

salesgirl always found time to give her an encouraging nod and a smile.

One afternoon, however, a few days before Christmas, when Julia

returned from her lunch she met Katy, who was crying bitterly. The

cause of her distress was soon told. A new girl had been put at the

counter that morning; she knew nothing about Katy's doll, and now, as

luck would have it, was just in the act of selling it to a big,

bluff-looking man, who said he wanted it for his little daughter.

Julia rushed to her post. The man was upon the point of paying for the

doll, and had decided that he would take the parcel with him.

"Have you seen the brown-eyed dolls?" she interposed, pleasantly. The

other girl scowled at the interference with 'her sale,' but she

persisted. "The brown-eyed ones are considered the most desirable."

"Are they?" the man hesitated. "Well, I believe I'll take one, then,

instead of this. My little maid likes brown eyes."

Katy's doll was saved. The child, in a fever of suspense, had watched

the transaction from behind a pile of dry-goods. Now she turned toward

her friend a face bright with gratitude, as she hurried away in

response to the imperative call of "Cash."

When Julia recovered from her flurry, she explained matters to her

associate. The girl's ill-humor quickly vanished once she understood

the situation, and she willingly agreed to help retain the doll if

possible.

III

On the morning of the day before Christmas, Katy appeared at the

counter and offered the twenty-two cents which she had succeeded in

getting together--the balance to be paid on her present.

"Can't I take the doll now, please?" she begged.

"You will have to ask the floor-walker," replied Julia.

She did so, but he said she must wait until evening; he could not make

any exceptions. So she was obliged to control her impatience.

Scarcely five minutes afterward a crash was heard. The equilibrium of

the rack of dolls had been disturbed, and the whole collection was

dashed to the floor. Fortunately, only three or four of the dolls were

broken; but, alas! among them was the one Katy had set her heart upon

giving to her sick sister.

The commotion brought her to the scene at once. Poor Katy! She did

not burst out crying, as Julia expected; but just clasped her hands and

stood looking at the wreck of the doll, with an expression of hopeless

disappointment, which would have seemed ludicrous, considering the

cause, had it not been so pathetic. It aroused the ready sympathy of

Julia.

"Don't feel so bad, midget!" she whispered, picking up the pieces.

"See: only the head is spoiled. There's another with the feet knocked

off. I'll get permission to take the two dolls up to the toy-mender's

room, and have the head of the other put on your doll; that will make

it as good as new."

When order was restored, she made her request of the floor-walker.

"All right," he answered. "It will cut down the loss by ninety-seven

cents; so you may have it done, if they can spare the time upstairs.

That is an awkward corner, anyhow; it will have to be left free in

future."

At noon Julia snatched a few moments from the short interval allowed

her to get her lunch, and hurried up to the toy-mender's quarters. She

prevailed upon him to have the doll repaired in the course of an hour

or two; he promised to do so, and it was sent back to her early in the

afternoon.

That day Katy's duties, fortunately for her peace of mind, brought her

frequently into the vicinity of the doll counter. Now she hastened to

it, in a quiver of excitement, to witness the success of the process.

When the cover was taken off the box, her cheeks crimsoned with

indignation and her eyes blazed, as she turned inquiringly to Julia.

"Indeed, Katy, it is none of my doings," protested the salesgirl;

though the result of the experiment was so funny she had not the heart

to laugh. The doll with the beautiful blue buckles on her shoes had

now a mop of darky wool, and a face as black as the ace of spades.

Julia's quick wit at once jumped at the correct conclusion regarding

the apparent blunder. The toy-mender's two thoughtless apprentices had

played a joke upon the little cashgirl.

"It is only the nonsense of those rogues upstairs. I'll take the doll

back and tell them they must fix it to-night, or I'll complain of them

for their fooling at this busy time," she announced, energetically; for

she noted the twitching around the corners of Katy's mouth,

notwithstanding the child's brave effort at self-control.

Katy went off partially comforted.

"It's mean to tease a child in that way," added Julia, in an audible

aside, as she laid the doll on the shelf behind, and wished that the

lady to whom she was showing some very handsome dolls would finish her

choice, so that she might get a free minute to run up to the mending

room again. But the interest of the customer had been awakened by the

little drama enacted before her.

"What is the matter?" she inquired, cordially.

Julia looked disconcerted; but the lady had such a sweet and noble

face, and her manner was so winning, that the girl found herself

telling briefly not only the history of Katy's doll, but of Katy and

Ellie too. It was not a waste of time either; for while she talked the

purchaser made one or two additional selections, and then, after giving

directions concerning them, passed on.

"Do you know who that was?" asked Katy, rushing up as the lady turned

into another aisle of the store.

"Yes: Mrs. M----, of 34th Street. Of course she left her address for

the parcels," replied Julia.

"It's my Rose-lady, as I call her,--don't you remember the one who gave

me the pretty flower?" cried the child.

"Why, so it is!" rejoined Julia. "Well, she's a lovely lady certainly.

She happened to ask what the trouble was about the doll; and was so

interested I couldn't help telling how you had saved and planned to get

it for Ellie, and all about it."

"Mercy! did you?" answered the child, in confusion. "My, but you're

the talker, Julia! What would the likes of her care to hear about

that!"

The store kept open till half-past eleven Christmas Eve; but at length

the last customer was gone, and the employees were allowed to choose

their presents. Katy skipped around with joy when the doll was put

into her arms. After a moment, however, Julia whisked it away again,

and sent it to be packed in a box. The box proved to be large and

clumsy, but this was accounted for upon the plea of haste.

"Well, good-night and merry Christmas, Julia!" said the little

cashgirl, gratefully. "I don't know how to thank you enough for being

so good, and helping me so much,--indeed I don't!"

"Never mind trying," answered Julia, brightly, but with an earnestness

unusual to her. "Isn't this Christmas Eve, and didn't the Infant Jesus

come to help us, and teach us to do what we can for one another? Just

say a prayer for me at Mass to-morrow; that is all I ask."

"You may be sure I will," Katy responded, heartily.

"Good-night! Merry Christmas to you all, and especially to Ellie!"

added Julia, hurrying away.