man than ever, taught her the alphabet. “A” she remembered from two
rivers and a brook across. “B” was a river with two little crooked
ones, and “C” stood for the cave. Every summer since they lived in the
city he had taken her thither and showed her where she used to live.
“Here is the place where you were, Waify; here the table where I put my
baby; here the old stove where I warmed your milk; here the green grass
where you played.”
“Pretty! pretty!” said Waify. “Kind papa to take care of me! Papa, when
Waify dies will you bury her here among the flowers, and make a big
‘C,’ for cave, on the stone?”
A hurried kiss was the answer, while a shock that seemed like a
premonition struck every nerve.
“Will you, papa? Will you?” pleaded the child. “Right here where the
double daisies grow?”
“The garden will be gone, Waify.”
“But won’t you keep it for me, and bring me here?”
“Yes, darling. Yes, little one!” and they went home, the one
light-hearted with the prospect of school again, the other saddened
with a thought that seemed a prophecy.
A few days of joyous life went by. The little school-girl seemed less
fond of play, more clinging to her adopted father, more thoughtful;
then a slow fever, that seemed to have been inherited rather than
the result of contagion, came on, and Waify, now scarcely out of her
babyhood, was going to sleep through a long night.
Giles Mortimer watched her by day and by night, speechless; brought
the toys she loved, and laid them beside her; brought the blocks of
letters, and she took the “C” and put it under her pillow.
“Papa, we’ve had nice times together. Who’ll be your little girl when
Waify goes? Everybody has little girls. Perhaps somebody’ll bring you
one.”
While he blessed God that she had been given to make him the man he
was, he asked for no other in her place.
“But you must stay, Waify. I couldn’t be happy without you.”
“No, papa, I must go to ask God about my mamma, and perhaps I’ll come
back and tell you.”
How little do children know of the land from whence there is no return!
The day looked for, dreaded, came.
“Where’s the ‘C,’ papa?”
Clasping this tightly with one hand and Mortimer’s with the other,
looking sadly at the tears upon his cheeks, then joyfully out into the
space, she said, “Kiss Waify!” and was dead.
Giles Mortimer’s heart was mangled. The only thing he loved was taken.
There was a quiet gathering, and then he, with the sexton, took the
little one to the cave, dug a grave under the daisies in the very
centre of the garden, put a little tablet above it, and upon it the
large marble “C” that stood for cave, and went back to his duties to
work faithfully because her memory was something like her presence. The
house was desolate, but sacred because Waify had been there. Business
was interesting because entered upon for her; life was blessed because
she had lived. Prosperity came to him. He loved other children, but
there was only one Waify.
She had done her work. Through her love a man had known and found his
manhood—had taken his true place in the world, in genial intercourse,
in business power, in Christian benevolence. He has grown in position
with the growth of a large city, but he still calls it home where a
heart is buried, by the cave in Oconomowoc.
Perchance God told Waify of her mother, or told the mother of her
child, for, weeks after her death, Giles Mortimer found upon the grave
a touching token of a mother’s love—a wreath of immortelles wrought
into the word “Mother.”
THE BLACK AND TAN.
MRS. HENSON sat with her three children at their frugal supper. The
house was neat, but very plain, and the dress of the children showed
that they were only a trifle above actual want.
James, a boy of ten, sold newspapers and earned a little. Helen,
between eight and nine, could help about the house when her mother
was absent cleaning or washing, and Mary, seven, was the baby of the
household, and the one for whom all the others sacrificed.
“Did you earn much this week, James?” said the mother, who had been
a widow for several years. “You know I have been sick, and we can’t
meet the rent this month, and we didn’t last month. I don’t know what
we shall do,” said Mrs. Henson, in a tone of confidence with James,
although she did not expect that her three small children could help
her solve the problem. She knew that work alone would solve it, and
this she was not always able to obtain, and had been too ill to labor
even if the work were before her.
“I tried hard,” said the brown-eyed, slender boy, “but I didn’t sell as
many papers as I do sometimes. I ran just as fast, but somehow I didn’t
get so many customers, and there weren’t so many extras. You know a
lady once in a while slips a nickel into your hand for a paper and
won’t wait for change, and that helps a fellow along. But I didn’t have
much of that last week. I didn’t spend anything for myself, either.”
“No, you wouldn’t do that. We all save for each other since father
died. We shall get over these hard places when you are a little older.”
“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?”
said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”
“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her.
One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”
“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the
black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”
“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to
you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats
very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house,
she is so frolicsome.”
“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to.
You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what
would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house,
and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be
contented and remember us, too.”
“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear
he would think it foolish.”
“I will take her,” said the child.
In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and
the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely
had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.
When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket
and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as
though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved
in the poor home.
“I’ve brought you my Blackie, sir, to sell her to you. Mamma needs
money for rent, and as you are rich I thought you would like to buy
her. She will love you very much, and kiss your face. She always sleeps
with me, and perhaps she would sleep with you.”
“And can you spare her?” said the millionaire. “I fear she would cry
for her former home. It seems to me that you have been crying.”
“Oh, yes, I did cry some when I kissed her the last time, and mamma and
Helen and James all cried, because, you see, Mr. Colebrook, she is all
we have to love!”
“Well, what do you ask for her?”
“I don’t know. Mamma owes ten dollars for rent for the two months. I
think, maybe, if you would pay that for her you could pay half now, and
the landlady might wait for the other half, because she would know
you would surely pay. I thought of selling Blackie to her, but Blackie
needs a very nice home. Mme. Wainwright gave her to me, so you see
Blackie comes from a good family, sir, and puts up with our poor home
because we all love her so.”
“Well, I will take her,” said Mr. Colebrook, “and if she cries I will
send for you to comfort her.”
All this time Blackie was laying her head close to the child, as much
as to say: “We will not be separated.” When the millionaire attempted
to take her she growled, and then looked plaintively toward her little
mistress.
“He’ll be very good to you, Blackie,” said the child, who could not
stop her tears. She wanted to sell the dog, and yet if she could only
have the money and Blackie too! But that was impossible.
“I have no little girl to pet the dog,” said the great man, “and I fear
she will be lonely. You must come and see her,” and he put the ten
dollars into the child’s hand, bade her good afternoon, and closed the
door on a very sad little heart. Blackie crouched down in her basket
as though the fine house were of no importance, and whined piteously
for the little girl who had left her.
Mary sobbed all the way home, but she clasped the ten dollars tightly,
and was thankful that they could all have a house over their heads for
a little longer.
“I’ve brought the ten dollars, mamma,” said the child, and she laid it
in her mother’s lap and stole away to weep alone over her sorrow.
Mrs. Henson was very sad over the matter. If she could earn but ten
extra dollars! But she could not. The dog was probably not worth over
a quarter of that sum, and the rich man had bought her just to help
the family. Well, Blackie would have a home of luxury, and that was a
comfort.
Hon. Mr. Colebrook had become interested in the child, and called at
the little home a few days later to see how the widow and her family
were prepared to meet the coming cold weather.
He asked for Mary. She was not well, the mother said, and had no
appetite. “I suppose she misses Blackie,” said Mrs. Henson, “though
she never speaks of her.”
“And the dog misses her, too, for she will neither eat nor play,” said
Mr. Colebrook. “I hope she will be better soon, for she is a winsome
little creature. We are already fond of her.”
“We are glad to have her in so good a home,” said Mrs. Henson.
“How do matters look for the winter?” said the man of means. “Is the
rent provided for, and the coal in the cellar?”
“I think we can get along now, since you kindly paid the rent for two
months. I am in better health, and James seems to be selling more
papers.”
When Mr. Colebrook had gone Mary stole out to ask about Blackie. She
could not go to see the dog,—that would give pain to two,—but she was
eager to hear about her mute little playmate.
“Mr. Colebrook says Blackie will not eat much and misses you greatly,”
said Mrs. Henson. A smile crept over the child’s face as she said: “I
thought Blackie really loved me. I would go to see her if she wouldn’t
feel bad when I came away, and I mustn’t make her heart ache.”
“Oh, I think she’ll forget about us all soon, and enjoy her new home
very much!” said Helen.
“I think not,” said Mary. “Blackie never forgets. She never did.”
It was late in the autumn, and Mrs. Henson was too busy with work to
think much more about a dog. James was up early and home late, and
Helen’s little hands were more than filled with work too hard for a
child.
Christmas was near at hand, and the rich and the poor were planning
according to their means for a merry time. Mrs. Henson’s presents must
necessarily be small, and along the line of the absolutely necessary.
James must have boots, Helen a simple dress, and Mary some mittens,
with a bag of parched corn, a little candy, and a few nuts.
Mr. Colebrook did not forget the widow’s family. He sent coal, a barrel
of flour, some money for rent, and some articles of clothing for the
children. There was one quite large package for Mary. What was in it
nobody could imagine, though Mrs. Henson was in the secret. Finally
a low whining was heard; the box was hastily opened, and out sprang
Blackie into Mary’s lap, and kissed her over and over again. The child
cried, and Blackie nestled her face against Mary’s neck and cried also.
She was home again as a Christmas present, and she liked the plain home
better than the grand one.
“Did you really want to come back, Blackie,” said Mary, “and sleep with
me again, and not be rich and great any more?” and Blackie wagged her
tail and whined approvingly, as though it were the happiest Christmas
of her life.
THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER.
“THIS IS Mr. Graham, a leader in our church work,” said Miss Ward, as
she introduced the fine-looking young man to her friend Miss Warburton.
“Oh, yes!” said the person addressed. “I remember seeing you at the
lakes last summer. What a pleasant company we had at the hotel!”
“Yes, but I went especially for the shooting. Such fine game up there!
Birds of many kinds, ducks, and now and then a deer. I went just for
sport, though I didn’t care much about the things after they were shot.
We went fishing one day, and the fish were so small we let a quantity
die in the bottom of the boat rather than carry them home. We had quite
an excitement one day when we found we had killed a robin and her
youngsters were in a nest close by with open mouths.”
“What did you do with the little birds?” said Miss Warburton.
“Oh, they had to starve, of course!”
“And did you bring home the mother bird?”
“No, she was pretty badly hurt, and couldn’t live long. We had so many
ducks and other things that we couldn’t carry all of them.”
“Don’t you feel badly to leave a wounded robin or duck to die slowly?”
“Oh, we men haven’t women’s hearts, Miss Warburton, or we shouldn’t
shoot at all, I fear!”
“I never could see how a Christian man could find pleasure in giving
pain. I know some of our professing Christians have hunted buffaloes
on the American plains, and left them to die, just for the sport of
killing, as some of the English hunters do in South Africa. And I
suppose some who hunt foxes, and find pleasure in seeing dogs catch and
tear them to pieces, profess Christianity.”
“Well, you ladies are eager to ride fast and get the brush.”
“I should not be. I would not take the tail of the fox after the poor
thing had been frightened nearly to death before capture. We think
bull-fights in Spain, where animals are killed for sport, brutal and
wicked; but we seem to think that where foxes are killed for sport
it is only a pleasant and exhilarating pastime. Does the size of the
animal make the difference?”
“I think, Miss Warburton, you would deprive us of all pleasure. Nothing
is more bracing than the eager run with the dogs over fields and
fences, and the rivalry in reaching the game first is very exciting.”
“And the next day or the next week you come back and lead a prayer
meeting, and urge us to be gentle and tender, and trust in Him who
lets not even a sparrow fall to the ground without his notice! I think
Cowper was right when he said—
“‘I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility), the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.’”
“But, Miss Warburton, you must remember that animals are killed for
food for you and me, and for others.”
“That should be done as humanely as possible, Mr. Graham. Our
stock-yards and places for killing animals should all be under the
most careful city or State supervision. We can easily brutalize people.
At first, most men and women shrink from inflicting pain or shedding
blood, but even those high in church or State can become callous to
cruelty.”
“I fear you wouldn’t approve of letting ministers and presidents have a
little fun from shooting.”
“No, not if that ‘fun’ took even birds away from their young, and
helpless creatures were shot for the mere pleasure of shooting. The
Princess of Wales, thanks to her womanly heart, has helped to put an
end to pigeon-shooting for sport, and balls are found to answer the
purpose.”
“This is getting personal. I fear you will not enjoy having me lead our
meetings and asking sinners to become converted.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Graham. Some persons may not feel as I do,
but for myself it greatly lessens the force of your words or prayers.
I have spoken plainly because I believe your killing for sport has a
bad influence over others. To me it does not seem consistent with your
profession of kindness and love to all of God’s creatures. I hope you
are not offended.”
“Oh, no, far from it! You have set me thinking. It has been
thoughtlessness on my part, for as a leader in Christian things I want
to do what is right.”
LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.
“I THINK George Thomas is fond of Edith, for he comes to the house
often, and always gives her a delicate deference which shows his
appreciation of woman.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Sinclair in reply to his wife, “Thomas is a good
fellow, a hard worker, economical, and worthy of any girl, though of
course he isn’t rich. That doesn’t matter, however, for I have enough
for Edith. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t offer himself.”
“I can’t imagine,” replied his wife, “except that he does not earn
enough to support Edith in the way she has been accustomed to live.
Young men are unduly sensitive about that, when often the young woman
would value a true affection more than a fine house and surroundings.
I am sure Edith is fond of him, for although she says nothing her face
and manner show it.”
“I don’t see how we can help matters, wife. Probably time will settle
it.”
But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained
reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her
nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving
one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression,
uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally
culminated in her illness.
A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the
family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world.
One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think
something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help
you, perhaps?”
“There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears
came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful
home, but I don’t care for it.”
“But what would make you happy—to go away for a time and have change
of air and scenery?”
“No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.”
“Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr.
Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.”
“I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.
“But why have you never let him see that you liked him?”
“I couldn’t do that, doctor. He knows that we are good friends.”
“Has he ever spoken of marriage?”
“No.”
“Would you marry him if he asked you?”
“If he loved me—never without.”
“What if I should find out his feelings for you?”
“Oh, not for the world, doctor! Let that come of his own free will if
at all.”
“But you are ill, child, and you are letting the matter prey upon your
strength and health. Mr. Thomas is a noble young man, and I believe is
fond of you.”
“We must wait, doctor. I shall be better soon.”
Mr. Thomas called a few days later, but Edith was too ill to see him,
and he left his regrets with her parents. He went home sadly to think
of his future. He loved Edith, he was happy in her refined society, but
his salary was not large, and he could not support her as he desired.
She would tire of the home he could give her, and be unhappy, he
thought. He called again, but as before was unable to see Edith.
He finally resolved to talk with her parents and tell them of his love
for her, and why he had waited until he was better able to provide for
her; but she was an only child, and he hesitated to commit himself.
Others liked her, and he loved her too well to take her into privation.
Besides, the parents, while they liked him, might not be at all willing
to give him their daughter. He would talk with her physician, and she,
a woman, would know whether Edith were really interested in him.
He called upon Dr. Mary Armstrong as soon as possible.
“I have come to ask about my friend, Miss Sinclair,” he said, as he sat
in the physician’s parlor. “Is she better?”
“No, she does not mend at all. There seems to be some weight upon her
heart or life that is breaking her down.”
The blood came to the young man’s face, but how could he know that
“the weight” upon her heart meant love for him! Perhaps he was too
presuming. After an awkward silence he said, “Doctor, I must confide
in you. I love Miss Sinclair, but I have never had the means to marry
her. I have had a mother and sister to make a home for, and I could not
ask another to share my poverty. I do not know that Edith returns my
affection, though we have had a delightful friendship together.”
“She loves you, I feel sure,” said her doctor, “and I think your
mistake has been that you and she have not had an understanding sooner.
Edith is a sensitive, lovely girl, delicately reared, and almost too
careful of the conventionalities of life, or she would have shown her
love for you.”
“Do you think the time has come to tell her that I love her?”
“Perhaps not just yet. I will tell her of our conversation and make her
ready for the meeting.”
Young Thomas went away with a lighter heart than he had had for
months. At last Edith would know all and wait for him, if she loved him.
Dr. Armstrong came every day to the Sinclair home, but the sick girl
grew no better. Soon after this talk with Mr. Thomas the doctor said to
Edith, “I have had a visit from your friend, and, just as I expected,
he loves you, but has never asked your hand in marriage because he has
so many cares at home and a small salary.”
The white face grew eager and flushed with color. “I told him,” Dr.
Armstrong continued, “that he had made a mistake in not having an
understanding with you, and then both could wait for marriage if
circumstances made such waiting wise. Do you want to see him, Edith?”
“Yes, as soon as I am a little stronger. I feel too weak to-day.”
Several days passed, and strength did not return rapidly, but a new
peace had come into Edith’s life, for she loved and was beloved, and
then there was a happy meeting of the two lovers, but a quiet one of
few words and promises.
Weeks and months went by, during which time hope and love worked the
same miracle that has been wrought thousands of times since the world
began.
Edith walked in the sunshine of a new day and a new life of restored
health and vigor. The autumn leaves took on their color, and red showed
itself again in the young girl’s cheeks.
When Christmas day came, that precious day of giving and receiving,
George Thomas and Edith Sinclair gave themselves to each other for
life.
AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL.
“THE SUNSET is so lovely we might take a row on the ocean,” said Mr.
Farneaux to the young lady who was walking beside him.
“I don’t quite like to go on Sunday evening,” said the girl. “But we
wouldn’t stay long, would we?”
“Oh, no, only till the sun went down! And we have just come from
church, so where’s the harm?”
So a little rowboat was engaged for an hour, and two happy persons
pushed off the Jersey Island coast. They chatted merrily as the red and
yellow of the clouds played on the waters, and let the boat half drift
toward the sunset.
Suddenly the young man dropped one of the oars. A shade of fear passed
over Louise Arnot’s face.
“Can you reach it?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, yes, don’t fear!” and he took the other oar and guided the boat
toward the missing paddle.
The breeze was blowing off the land, and increasing. The boat was not
easily managed with one oar, and the cheery face of young Farneaux grew
a little troubled as the oar drifted faster than the boat.
Anxiety does not give a steady hand, and before he knew it the other
oar had slipped from his grasp.
Miss Arnot’s face grew white. “What shall we do? We are drifting out to
sea. Would they see us if we were to signal to the shore? Ours is the
only boat out. Oh! why did we start at all?”
“Accidents will happen. I must jump for the oars. I am a good swimmer.
Don’t get frightened and let the boat tip and fill with water. I’ll
soon be back.”
“But you may be drowned,” said the frightened girl. “I wish I could
swim, and so help you.”
“No, no! Keep the boat steady as I jump, and I’ll have them in hand
soon. I must throw off this coat, so I can swim.” He rose, put his hand
on the side, and gave a leap into the ocean.
Her heart sank within her as he went, but there was nothing else
possible to be done.
The boat, lightened of its freight, glided on further and further
from shore. She wished she were heavier to hold it down. She wished
she could reach one oar while he obtained the other, as both had now
floated far apart. She watched him breathlessly as he swam away.
Impeded somewhat by his clothes, he yet swam hastily and caught one
oar, holding it up to Louise’s delighted eyes.
He did not see that the boat was drifting fast away from him. But he
must have the other oar. Both persons were helpless without it, so he
redoubled his efforts. He felt the breeze stiffening. What if he could
not reach the oar? What if he could not reach the boat with its fair
owner? What if Louise were to drift out to sea and be drowned, and
her death be laid at his door? No, that should not be; and he put his
whole strength against the waves. He gained in speed, and soon held the
coveted oar in his grasp.