Little Bessie Raeburn never got back her darling muff, nor any other
article of her stolen wardrobe. Her friend the good policeman, and
other officers, searched diligently for the dismal den of thieves to
which she had been led; but either they failed to find the exact spot,
or the wretched family had removed. When all search was abandoned,
Bessie was sadly disappointed, not because they had failed to recover
her pretty street dress, as her loss had been at once made up to her by
her kind parents, but that they had failed to find Molly Magee. For
ever since her adventure, Bessie had cherished a humane and romantic
desire to save and befriend that poor little mendicant, whose pity for
her, and vain intercession in her behalf, had touched her heart.
"She is so different from the others, mamma," she would say, "I do
believe she was changed in her cradle by some wicked nurse, if there
are not any such things as malignant fairies. O, I 'm so sorry I can't
believe in fairies any more, they were so convenient; we could account
for so many things that way; but it is n't sensible and religious to
believe in them, so I won't. But, mamma, what was I saying? O, I do
believe that some wicked nurse changed her in her cradle,--took her
from some beautiful mamma and a great fine house to Mrs. Magee's
dreadful homo, and took back a little Magee and put in her place. And
may be her name is n't Molly Magee after all, but Lilly Livingston, or
Isabella Van Rensselaer, or Gertrude Stuyvesant, and--"
"Stop, stop, my child! You are going on in your old romantic way. You
must not let your imagination gallop off with you in that manner. Take
care lest it carry you into the basement of a tenement-house again,"
Mrs. Raeburn would say. Then Bessie would blush and be silent; but she
could not help thinking of poor little Molly Magee; and she so
constantly looked for her on the street that it was hardly a pleasure
to her papa and mamma to walk or drive with her. But the winter went
by without her catching sight of the beggar-girl who had obtained so
strong a hold on her sympathies.
But one sunny day in the early spring her generous, faithful desire was
granted. She had been driving with her papa in the Park, and for a
little change and exercise they had left the carriage and were walking
beside one of the ponds, watching the swans, when all at once Bessie
exclaimed, "O papa, there's Molly Magee!" And surely, right before
them stood the beggar-girl! her face paler, thinner, and sadder than
before, while she wore a still more wretched garb than the one Bessie
had been compelled to take from her. Her head was covered, but
scarcely protected, by a large, dilapidated straw bonnet, through the
rents of which peeped rebellious curls of her soft brown hair. A faded
band of ribbon, half detached from the crown, fluttered like a tattered
pennon in the April wind.
On hearing Bessie's exclamation, the child stood as motionless as
though turned to stone. The next moment Mr. Raeburn's hand rested
firmly on her shoulder. She looked up in mute terror, then turned a
pleading glance on Bessie, who answered it by saying kindly, "Don't be
afraid; he is my papa, and he won't hurt you. We have been looking for
you ever so long. We want to do something for you, don't we, papa?"
"Yes, Molly," said Mr. Raeburn, gently, "we want to help you, if we
can. My little girl says you were better than the rest of your family.
Do your father and mother still get their living by robbing little
girls?"
"O, sir, _she_ is dead!" sobbed out Molly. "They sold all thim things,
and bought whiskey with the money, and drank and drank, and one morning
I myself found mother dead and cold. Father behaved a little better
for a while, but he is as bad as ever now, and keeps me and the boys
begging, and when we have bad luck, beats us till we are like to die."
"Poor, poor child!" said Mr. Raeburn, "you must come home with us, and
we will see what we can do for you."
Molly looked surprised, but passively allowed herself to be led to the
carriage and lifted on to the front seat, to the immense astonishment,
not to say horror, of the coachman, a very grand personage, with four
capes to his coat.
When they reached home, Mr. Raeburn took Molly at once to his wife's
room, and those two good people had a long talk with her. They
questioned her kindly but closely about her life, and her story was
such a sad one that tears soon fell from Mrs. Raeburn's eyes, while her
husband turned to the window to hide his.
A little later Molly found herself again stripped of her rags, and clad
(after a warm bath) in some of Bessie's clothes. Molly looked
intensely grateful, but was evidently too thoroughly bewildered to say
much. When she was taken to Mrs. Raeburn's parlor, she gazed about her
curiously,--not in admiration, but with a strange, perplexed look,
which struck Mrs. Raeburn. "What are you thinking of, my child?"
"Why, ma'am, it seems to me I remember _all_ these grand
things,--carpets and curtains and pictures,--or things just like them."
"Perhaps your mother has taken you to such houses, or you went by
yourself, sometime?"
"No, lady, _she_ never took me with her; and the servants of grand
houses never let the likes of me come farther than the alley gate or
the kitchen door. No, it must be I _dreamed_ it all. Many is the
lovely things I see in my dreams, ma'am. I see blue water, with
vessels sailing softly by, like the great white swans in the Park, and
mountains and trees, and flowers that smell like fine ladies'
handkerchiefs on Broadway; and many's the time, when I am tired and
footsore, I seem to sleep, as I tramp, and dream of a good, kind
gentleman, who takes me up in his arms and carries me. And sometimes
at night, when I am cold and hungry, I dream of a sweet lady, who parts
my hair, and pats me, and kisses me, and hugs me up warm. I call those
my _dream_ father and mother."
As Mrs. Raeburn sat reflecting on the words of the child, Bessie
brought a story-book to her young friend. Molly turned over its leaves
sadly, saying, "I don't know how to read, miss."
"Nor write?" asked Bessie.
"No, miss."
"Nor cipher, nor find places on the map?"
"No, miss."
"Dear me! Do you know any hymns?"
"No, miss. What are they, thin?"
"Hymns? Why hymns are a sort of singing prayers."
"O, thin, miss, I do know one. I say it every night; and when I 've
had to tell a great many lies I say it over and over _hard_:--
'Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.'"
"Who taught you that?" asked Mrs. Raeburn.
"I don't know, ma'am. It seems to me my dream-mother taught it to me."
Bessie soon grew very fond of her protégée (a French word, meaning one
whom you protect); and her romantic mind rushed at once to the
conclusion that she was to have an adopted sister. But her parents had
other plans for Molly. They felt that it would be much better for the
child, if she could be wholly removed from the city, in which she had
lived so unhappy and discreditable a life, and where it was to be
feared she would always be subject to the degrading influence or
annoying interference of her father.
Following Molly's directions, Mr. Raeburn, accompanied by Mr. Blair,
the good policeman, sought out Patrick Magee, and by sternly
threatening him with arrest and a long term in prison, for his share in
the robbery of little Bessie, made him sign away all claim to the
persons or services of his children. For when Mr. Raeburn came to see
the three little boys, he was so touched by their worse than heathenish
condition that he resolved to try to do something towards saving them,
as well as their more interesting sister.
Then he called at the office of the noble _Children's Aid Society_, and
placed the poor little street waifs under the protection of its
excellent officers, pledging himself for their clothing, instruction,
and support, till proper homes should be found for them.
I am glad to say, that, under kind Christian care, the poor little lads
improved rapidly, grew healthy and happy, and showed quite an eager
desire to learn. Before a year had passed, comfortable homes were
found for them in the West, where I believe they still are.
To return to Molly. The account of her dream-home and parents so
impressed Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn, that they put an advertisement in the
daily papers, stating that they had taken in a little street wanderer,
who had evidently been born in a happier and higher condition, and
begging any parents who may have had a little girl stolen from them,
eight or nine years before, to call, with the hope of identifying her.
But weeks, months went by, and no answer came, and Molly was not
claimed, except by a hideous old German organ-grinder, who could n't
prove property, so could n't take her away,--but took herself off,
scolding in very low Dutch.
That advertisement met many thousands of careless eyes, but not the
sad, yearning eyes to which it would have come like the message of
angels,--"Glad tidings of great joy." Those eyes were then gazing on
strange tropical scenes, on orange-groves and jessamine bowers, and on
the purple sea that washes the lovely shores of Florida.
All hope of finding Molly's _dream_-home being abandoned, her good
friends set about finding a _real_ home for her. At last, through the
Reverend C---- B----, the Chief Shepherd of the Lord's lost lambs in
the great wicked city, they succeeded. A farmer and his wife, good,
kindly, intelligent people, living pleasantly and comfortably near a
village among the hills of Berkshire, Massachusetts, offered to take
her to their home and hearts,--to adopt her as their own, for they were
childless.
Bessie was grieved at the prospect of being parted from her friend,
whom she really loved, but was comforted by the promise of an annual
visit to her, in Berkshire.
Poor little Molly wept much when she left her good friends. They had
not only taught her what human kindness and affection were, but had
taught her much about her Heavenly Father,--had led her straight to the
arms of His infinite love. So her tears were not all of sadness, but
of tenderest gratitude, as she went from their door with kindly Farmer
Morton.